Blogs | Roads Unknown

Starting in India: Food

2011-10-27T21:44:00.001-06:00

I love India food. The flavors, the spices, the smells. Nann bread, lamb masala, tandoori chicken. I have rarely ever been disappointed by an Indian meal. India was about to change that...

Everyone tells you its impossible to get out of India without getting sick. Too true. Not only ourselves, but everyone we met before and after had a story or three to tell about it.

In Central and South America, its called Montezuma's Revenge, but I never really had any issues with him. I've always considered myself to have a strong stomach. India proved me wrong. I've always enjoyed eating in the streets. Indian street food never did I touch.

Even sticking to the boring hotel restaurants and overpriced tourist joints, did not help our stomachs cope with the misery of eating India food three not-so-square meals a day. And that is more than half the problem. Our westernized bodies just simply cannot handle thaaaat much Indian. I propose even a few Indians suffer from chronic gastrointestinal nightmares.

During my travels I have a few rules about food. Number 1 on the list: No McDonald's. (Except Breakfast) I caved into Andrea's demands after less than a week. It was not the break she was looking for, everything on the menu was Indian rated S for spicy. However, on the plus side, the prices were reasonable unlike many foreign Mickey D's.

#2, No Subway. I caved again. We'd tried calling for delivery once or twice, never a driver available. One day, we decided to pick it up ourselves. In even the most remote places, the dirtiest truck stops, the worst parts of Detroit, you can find a Subway today and always they are clean, polished, bright, cheerful, speedy. McDonald's, Burger King, KFC all vary, but Subway is...Fresh! By this time we were not surprise, only disappointed now that Subway in New Delhi takes the crown for the worst run of 33,000 franchises. That a big feat, congratulations guys. Disgustingly dirty tables, nasty nappy produce, stupidly slow workers...definitely not sandwich artists.

We did however have a few randomly good meals. Typically this happened when we spent more than ten dollars per meal, a fortune by Indian society. The food still caused distress on the way out, despite tasting good on the way down.

If We Did It Again...

There isn't another way. It's simply too much India food for anyone not born in India. I look forward to the day when Andrea allows us again eat Indian food, American style. Until that day, enjoy your garlic cheesy nann and chicken tikka masala for me, we're on the wagon.

Starting in India: Transportation

2011-10-27T20:20:00.001-06:00

This isn't Europe. We didn't expect it to be, but we also didn't expect it to be...so degraded.

How We Did It...

Trains

The first train station, if you can call it that, we stepped into was a couple of platforms, with very few signs in any of the countless languages spoken. On the furthest track, grouped together around campfire stoves, makeshift tents, shredded blankets, was our first wow encounter with the extreme poverty that plagues India.

Trying to ignore all the mess that was around us, we sat down in expectation of our train to arrive in the next half hour. Looking around however, there really was no indication that a train had come in ages nor would be coming to whisk us away to the glorious India outside of New Delhi that awaited us. We were heading to Rajasthan, one of the most visited area of the country.

Already nervous, as I've become accustomed to on travel days, I decided to attempt to ask around. An unofficial looking man told me the worst words I wanted to hear. "Train cancelled, train cancelled!" as he pointed at a time schedule board that hadn't been updated in decades. Refusing to believe him, I checked the status via SMS. "On-time" was the reply back. Phew. Another ten minutes later, I asked again. This time I was escorted to the head train master of this mockery of a station on the edges of New Delhi. Again, cancelled. "Who says?" I ask this time. He has no idea. No one of the five guys crowding around has an idea. Finally, after idling for another few minutes as my stomach turns upside down, I get a hold of an English speaking operator. A protest a hundred miles down the track in a remote little village town has blocked the use of the tracks. All trains going this direction, cancelled. What luck!

We'd heard from Indians and foreigners alike that trains were reliable. Our hopes faded and fears enlarged. How could we trust the next train we'd pay for would actually come? What does this do to our carefully planned schedule? Why cannot we just jump on any train and go anywhere? There are hundreds of trains leaving every day, in many directions. We'd figured we'd just show up, like we always do, jump on a train and go. Turns out, trains get booked (and overbooked) weeks, months in advance. Unless you are willing to settle for the worst of the worst seats, a.k.a benches (yes, like you see in the movies), you must plan your trips and hope nothing goes awry.

It took three months for the cancelled train money to get refunded to my account. Another train we booked promised seats, but upon booking gave us only one confirmed. That took three calls to customer service and another three months for refund as well.

The rest of our train experiences went about as normal as expected. We only booked first class, paying double to quadruple. Even first class varies in quality, cleanliness. You get more space, a bed with clean-ish sheets, but it's still India. Trains leave at all hours of the night. Fortunately, our 3am departure from Jaipur, our first successful ride, came on time, but not without another shocking revelation. Thousands of Indians slept outside and inside the station. In taxis, in tuk-tuks, in rickshaws, in the grass, in the dirt, in the lobby. Laid out, curled up, one by one by one for hundreds of square meters on end.

Taxis

After our first train was cancelled, we decided to either fly or drive. The flight left in a matter of hours, so it would have been tough to get to the airport, but possible. Shalu, who had welcomed us back for another night while we sorted out the change in plans, recommended we book a taxi. The drive was only five hours and so long as we only had to pay one-way, it was half the price of flying. She negotiated the deal, confirming one-way pricing per kilometer plus tolls plus tip.

We took off the next morning, wondering why we were going the opposite direction, but ended up on the right road eventually. Tired from the night before, we tried to sleep, but it was impossible. David and I had unanimously agreed the drivers in Cairo were the worst. This day and forever more, New Delhi stole the title. Andrea says she thought we were going to die the whole time. I tried to enjoy what I could of the rollercoaster adventure, but my patience was fading fast.

Even with the erratic driving behaviors, poor roads, and getting lost in Jaipur, we arrived on time. As agreed upon, I calculated the expenses for the taxi at around US$ 70. The driver then proceeded to write x 2, asking for double to cover the drive back. Oooh no no no. That was not the deal. One-way only. The hotel manager and staff did not want to get involved. We didn't even bother arguing ourselves. I called up Shalu and heard her in a not-so-very-nice voice explain the arrangements. Period. We paid one-way and the driver finally left disappointed.

Had karma caught up with us in India? My faith in the upside of this trip was fading fast, if not already gone.

If We Did It Again...

Take one train. Sit/sleep first class. Short trip. Expect delays or cancellations. Be ready for anything. Get the experience. Hire a personal driver and vehicle for the rest of your adventure. Be sure its a nice minivan/utility vehicle with plenty of suspension, excellent A/C, and lots of room. Just as with the hotels, there is enough ambiguity in India you won't miss out on the striking poverty nor cultural differences. Those exist everywhere, no matter how you get around. If your driver speaks fluent English and/or is a reputable tour guide, even better. If you wish to cover both sides of the country, the north and the south, fly.

Starting in India: Lodging

2011-10-26T09:54:00.000-06:00

When traveling to areas of the globe at the bottom echelons of tourism civilization, the hotel prices increase exponentially while quality decreases in tandem. The Lonely Planet normally breaks down hotels by Budget, Midrange, and Top End. There ought to be a "Shithole" category for India. In no other travel guide have I read about any city's lodging so many terrible things. Originally (and still primarily) a tool for "backpackers", the editors of the Lonely Planet usually have decent things to say about the budget accommodations. Not true for New Delhi.

How We Did It...

After hours upon hours of research to find the best hotel price to quality ratio, I convinced Andrea to try CouchSurfing. I'd had great success in Brazil and South Africa, why not India. Save more than a few bucks and get a local introduction to Indian society from the start. After a number of email conversations with a local woman, who had a few kids and a husband priest, I thought I'd found the perfect match for Andrea's first surfing experience. Though invited to stay our very first night, we opted for a hotel offering free taxi transportation from the far away airport after arriving just before midnight. It was at best average for US$65/night. In Cairo, Egypt, another expensive, dusty, dirty capital city, a cleaner place ran about half.

The following day, around noon as agreed, I gave our couch a ring. She was running out, but could wait for us if we came now. We packed up quickly, dodged our way through the dodgy part of town to the impossible to find metro station, and arrived within an hour to another unknowingly dodgy part of town. As we would come to find out, all areas of New Delhi are dodgy with a minor exception for embassy row. Another call and we're told she isn't available now to pick us up, but her cousin will. Over an hour later, he shows up. Friendly enough and with no other real options and in keeping an open mind, we followed him down the dirt path and alley ways to his apartment where we'll stay until his aunt arrives home in a couple hours.

Cousins apartment is below basic. There are four dirty single three inch mattresses in two dirty rooms. The toilet is outside on the balcony, no running water, cat-hole style. We'd watched an episode of An Idiot Abroad about India before the trip, this was worse. On the plus side, about 6 other backpackers had stuff strewn about so I figured (Andrea no) it safe enough. Just to be sure, we left last and kept a key ourselves.
The idea was to get lunch, but we nearly got lost instead. And then it happened. Andrea fell hard, tripping over one of the countless objects littered in the dirt street. Her knee bled and the first tears were shed.

Back at the apartment, our couch friend never came. Never called. Never apologized. Never emailed. Never nothing. We stayed up all night, surfing the internet on a super slow (supposed to be fast) broadband modem, looking for another place to stay. It was still all expensive, poorly reviewed places. Then by chance or miracle, we found a bed and breakfast far from the center of town, but easily accessed by the only modern amenity in New Delhi, the metro rail. As soon as the sun came up we "got the fuck out of there" and found our way to Shalu's.

We eventually survived 10 days of traveling through four different towns. The hotel prices improved, the cleanliness not so much.

If We Did It Again...

Save up those miles, points and book the best. India is trashed enough to worry about coming back to your hotel after long day in the hot sun to a dirty shower, filthy sheets, and mediocre service. Poor hotel experiences will not contribute to your understanding of India.

Starting in India: Introduction

2011-10-25T18:52:00.000-06:00

Starting the third and final continent of the journey in India was probably not my best idea ever. Andrea and I traveled South America together, her native language mas o menos. We traveled Europe together, a sophisticated place of old and new first world. And then, we decided to travel Asia together...

India however is the epitome of a foreign land of foreign lands. Maybe not the best place to experience your first trip, entirely alone, as a recently engaged couple? Andrea actually claims India is another planet. The number of cultures and peoples mashed into this behemoth of a nation really would be enough to populate another earth.

As you read through the next few blogs, you will learn about just a few of the "experiences" we encountered. Most of it unfortunately will sound negative, but there are many wonderful things about India if you can dig deep, look past the aggravations of their society. Most of these positive experiences you will not find in our writings, rather in our photos. India bares countless monuments, ancient fortresses, immense temples, thousands of artworks and tapestries, but most importantly it bleeds history everywhere.

A visit to India is a once in a lifetime experience for most, but if you survive, perhaps you will desire to make it a twice. Do your research, on-line and in-person, of those who've traveled before you, with like mindedness. For many it is a magical, time forgotten place. For others it is a disruption. Understand who you are and what you expect. You will most surely will be surprised and enlightened, whether you ultimately demonize or delight the experience.

Home

2011-04-23T21:05:00.002-06:00

I realize the blog is several months late, but better late than never.

For those unaware, I departed Roads Unknown this past November and returned home to the States to begin college. I will be documenting that..."experience" in a new blog. But for my Roads farewell blog, I'd like to summerize a few thoughts I wrote down, shortly after returning home, after fifteen continuous months on the road.

The first few weeks after returning were pretty...surreal. There's really no other word for it. I kept expecting and hoping that I'd close my eyes, wake up in another country, and find that I was still on the road. But it didn't happen. It still doesn't now.

It's funny the little habits of travel that have stuck with me. A couple days after I first got home, as I was unloading my laundry from the dryer, I had already rolled up half my clothes to be packed into a backpack before I realized what I was doing. Fifteen months and I had forgotten about hangers. The opposite also happened, and it's odd what came back right away, like finding I still remembered how many steps it is from my bedroom to the bathroom and where the light switches are at night in the dark.

Almost immediately after I got home, I instantly felt weighed down by all the things, all the objects I own, with an almost claustrophobic feeling. I had a taste of this when I came home after Guatemala, when I realized I didn't need nearly so many clothes and cleared out half my closet. My second trip I took even less with me, and by the end of it had widdled my travel belongings down to two small backpacks. The day after I got home this time, I eliminated my wardrobe by about half again, and continued the process of decluttering my life to some degree over the next few weeks. After other people, I think it's "things" that tie people down more than anything, and that tied-down feeling is one I've been resisting as best I can.

I am not the same person that left, and I haven't been able to fall back exactly into my old life. Not that I'd want to or expect to, it's simply that adjustments have had to be made. For now, I continue on in a stasis till the new unknown comes my way via college this fall.

I miss the road a great deal, and it's odd how travel became familiarity. I found myself considering how I wouldn't think twice about hopping a plane to some random country, but the thought of entering a Walmart horrified me. "Home" is different things to different people, and for the me, the road felt like home. So while you can't stay home forever, you do often find your way back. And I'm sure I will.

Then and Now

2010-11-23T19:30:00.001-07:00

If you'd asked anyone 26 months ago where I would be today, Colombia it would not be. If you had asked me 2 years and 2 months ago where I would be today, Asia, would be the best guess. In October 2008, I would not be able to tell you much about where I was going to be, who I had become, what I was going to do next. But, I would be able to tell you to not be surprised, anything really could happen, right?

That is life...I would say. Just see where the road takes me...I would say. Who knows, anything can happen...I would say. Maybe I'll be engaged...I would not say. Despite a categorical denial of the later, it does fit within the lack of confines of the formers. Life takes to you amazing unknown places, roads travelled invite you into the lives of many, anything really can happen.

And so it is today, for those of you still watching, still reading, still listening, still following me down these unknown roads, we announce officially our engagement and invite you to continue the journey with us through whatever lies ahead.

Wait? What? Who? Followed by...Congratulations! In advance, thank you for those warm thoughts. For those out of the loop, the "who" is Andrea and Brendon. The "what" was just explained. And the "wait" well...its okay to be surprised. The next question is typically...How?

Its two parts actually...how did the engagement go down? Usually asked by girls. And, how did you meet? Usually asked by everyone. A few days ago while in New York our friend Mark asked if it was in a bar. Perhaps many of you assume the same. Andrea the other day told me if she had met me in a bar or a club, we would not be together today. I'll give her that, its quite doubtful for many reasons and oh, I agree.

So here goes, I'll try to tell the short version. Tom, a sort of friend from spanish school, was visiting us in Bogotá last year October. Sort of, because I threw him in front of a car once in Guatemala and for some reason he held that against me. But David never did that so he was visiting David and I was...there. After we worked out the insurance details, we went out on a Friday night to celebrate his arrival and celebrate we did. Before memories were lost, we took Tom to our favorite bar where everyone knew our name. Unsurprisingly, if you know Tom, he already knew a girl there. Coffee date was setup for tomorrow and we went on our merry merry way, meeting more and more girls throughout the night. Tom that is. He ended up with no less than 3 dates for the weekend.

Arriving home at 5am in the morning typically means once you wake up and the world stops moving, you order pizza delivery, drink a gallon of water, soda, anything except what you had the night before. You don't move, you don't go on dates, you watch television you Tivo-ed specifically for this hungover occasion. Not Tom. He comes over about 11 am to let you know you have been invited to join him on a double-half blind date. Noooooo is your first response. Come back in a few hours is your second. Once you realize who Tom is and that you know the girl a little and her friends too, you start to feel pre-sorry for her.

Why? Tom is a character, lets just leave it at that. He does also have character, but that's another story too. Begrudgingly I force myself into attendance for the sake of keeping up our reputation where everyone knows our names and we arrive a less-than-comfortable 45 minutes late. Andrea is beautiful, I look like shit. Somehow it all works out.

This is getting long but you can tough it out because I know you still want to know the last part of the story and answer for yourself whether Brendon is a romantic or not. To be decided...

Fontana di Trevi, Rome, Italy. I asked Andrea to repeat to me all the ways we've learned to how say I Love You over the past few months. Ich Liebe Dich in Germany, Ti Amo in Italian, I Love You in English, Te Amo in Espanish. After fumbling in my pocket for what seemed like forever while she repeats these, I finally have it in my hand. No knee, no need, I am sitting on the rocks, she is starring at the make your wish come true fountain. Poor practice planning or practically great memory, I next repeat the following line I'd Googled only a few hours earlier: "Vas a pasar todo el tiempo de tu vida conmigo?" Will you spend the rest of your life with me? as I open my hand for the ring and myself to breathe. "Whaaaaat?" are literally the first words out of her mouth so I assume my translation failed. "Will you marry me?" in recovery mode is followed by "Of cooooourse!" She was just surprised she says later in excuse for the what?! and that I did ask correctly.

Later we arrived at dinner with her family. Earlier we'd celebrated a nice vow renewal ceremony at a Catholic Church in Rome for her parents who were in Europe for their 25th wedding anniversary. After the kind and thankful words of her parents for the wonderful ceremony, travel arrangements, and etc., and a quick chug of the first glass of wine, I made my own little speech announcing the "big news". Mom cried of course, Dad and Brother were proud and congratulatory. We were...relieved.

So that's it. Yes there are always some details left out, but you get the gist. For the final question, the plan non-official until the spaces are reserved, is to wed in May 2012, Memorial Day Week/End, in Cartagena, Colombia. Stay in touch for all the fun, exciting details of what we have in store. It will be the biggest party I, err...I mean WE have ever planned!

Nine down, Ninety-one to go

2010-08-23T09:17:00.001-06:00

Earlier today, I came across an article on the Matador travel blog titled 100 Things to Experience Before You Die. Just for kicks, I decided to tally up how many I've done so far. I think I'm off to a decent start, but there's a great deal left I still wish to do:

13. Trek the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu.
I opted for the Salkantay route to get to Machu, but I'm still going to count this one.

28. Learn to scuba dive in the Red Sea.
Did this one this week, and as of today got my Open Water diving certification. Boom. Done. Next?

29. Discover your own Machu Picchu in Peru.
Choquequirao? Really? We were less than impressed with this one, and I don't think it belongs on the list, but whatever, we did it.

30. Hitchhike around South Africa.
It was only for five minutes, but as it was with a South African, Kiwi, Slovaks, and a bottle of rum, I'm checking this one too.

58. Live or study abroad for a while.
I think seven months of Spanish lessons and ten months total in Guatemala counts for sure, as does six months living in Colombia.

60. Watch the World Cup.
It was insane. More need not be said. Check.

71. Learn to dance Tango in Buenos Aires.
Much to my surprise, I actually enjoyed this. Or maybe it was just the fedora...

92. Get off the beaten path in Colombia.
I'm not sure how far off we went, but I think we did to a degree.

93. Drink litre steins of beer and eat pork knuckles at Oktoberfest.
This one's coming up in just a short while.

Durban

2010-08-20T14:20:00.004-06:00

I can’t begin to describe the impact staying in Durban, South Africa has had on me and my trip. My month there is undoubtedly a major highlight of the trip overall. The countless people I met and friends I made, the seemingly non-stop insanity and the quiet days, the deep discussions and the silly inebriated conversations, all reminded me on a daily basis “This why I travel”.

The days in Durban, (just over a month; not many in some regards, quite a while in others) have had a profound effect on me. They changed the way I think about many things, and leave me thinking now about a great deal more. I can’t convey the experiences because they are simply that: Experiences. To be fully understood, they can only be experienced.

I could recount the many forever memorable stories I have now:

The madness that was the World Cup, fan parks, and football passion.
The historical clash of cultures and ethnicities that still remained prevalent in largely Indian Durban as well as the rest of South Africa.
The disappointment and somewhat culture shock of encountering racism.
The instant friendships made with locals as well as foreigners from across the globe.
The hilarity and randomness of riding in the back of a pickup with eight other people (half strangers) at god knows what hour of the morning chanting “Deutschland!”
The local gas station where cars gathered to blast their stereos and show off their rides like something out of a movie.
Suji (our CouchSurfing host) shared the local life in nearly all aspects, be it eating delicious Indian food at 2 am, hitting local bars and clubs where I was the only white guy, or going to work with his DJ friend (and now mine as well) Koogan at a high-school prom in the Indian township Phoenix and then a wedding in a predominantly white upper-class neighborhood.

I could spend several blogs telling these and many others. But sometimes it feels that in the retelling of a story it loses something, perhaps because they can rarely be done justice, a la the previously mentioned “experiences”.

So I won’t even try. I’ll just leave the cliffs notes above as they are. Fill in the gaps as desired

The Mozambican Visa Expedition: Part 2

2010-08-14T13:43:00.001-06:00

Visa in hand, all that remained was to buy my bus tickets. It was far less painful and time consuming. I was good to go, bus for that night, now to try and get a minibus taxi home. I was unable to find the taxis to my neighborhood. Again, three people (two of them taxi drivers) send me to the wrong place. Apparently there is a South African law against admitting you don’t know where a place is.

All the while a kid who looks to be my age is following me around asking me for money. “Two-rand-two-rand-two-rand, come-on-bru-just-two, two-rand, please-bru-two-rand”. The kid overhears me ask the third or fourth time and says he knows where the taxis to Woodview are. The place he describes is exactly where my CouchSurfing host said, so I say "ok". It's a busy place, and he’s being super friendly and helpful. I'm not gonna walk down a dark alley to follow him, but if he gets me there I'll give him whatever change i got in my pocket.

He gets me there (only a block away), I say “thanks a lot” many times and give him eight rand or so, all my change except for taxi fare. The kid’s tone then gets hostile and he starts cussing me out:

Kid: "You made me walk all this way fucker. Just 1 rand more. Give me some fucking money."
Shocked, I reply: “You offered to help me! You were asking for two, I gave you all I got.”
Kid: "I walked all this way you mother fucker."
Me: "You walked a fucking block!"

This exchange continues back and forth till I reach some taxis. While he's chewing me out I try to determine how to get to home and jump in the nearest taxi even though the driver is kinda vague on where he'll drop me off because I want to get away from the kid.

The taxi drops me in a place I don't recognize at all and tells me to walk just down the road. I’m hesitant to get out in place I don’t know, but I do recognize enough to know the direction they're going is even further away. I ask the first guy I find on the street..."Woodview? Woodview...eish, that's far away, what are you doing here?" Two or three kilometers walking later, asking several more people along the way, I am home. The actual trip to Maputo was far less eventful. Aside from waking up on an empty bus at one point.

Yes, I fell asleep, and nobody bothered to wake me at the border crossing. Luckily I woke before the bus had crossed, though I had to run around and figure out which of the five different lines I was supposed to get into on my own, as the rest of the passengers on the bus were long gone towards the Mozambique side. Helpful strangers lead me on my way. At the Mozam side three British guys from my bus are getting their visas. At the border. Which I could have done. And missed all the fun of this story.

The Mozambican Visa Expedition: Part 1

2010-08-11T11:42:00.001-06:00

Probably the most difficult (logistically) trip I have ever had to arrange was a seemingly simple one: to get from Durban, South Africa to Maputo, Mozambique. LP says there’s a direct bus. Nice, considering I didn’t want to go through Joburg.

So I call the company that’s supposed to run the route. “This number has been disconnected.” Hrm. Three other numbers produce a similar result. Another connects…to Standard Bank. Well, best to just go to the office then at the bus station. I catch a ride in to town, and soon find the office. Or rather, the empty building where the office used to be. In the window is a sign stating the obvious: They don’t operate in Durban any more. There is also a piece of paper in the window, listing prices for the trip effective July. It’s the end of July. So it seems this was a recent liquidation of the Durban branch. Damn luck.

After a couple days of research, I finally came to realize there were no direct buses, taxis, or friends-of-friends-of-friends-headed-that-way. Alrighty then. Greyhound South Africa (which unlike Greyhound USA is actually quite good) has a night bus from Durban and then a connecting bus from Joburg to Maputo in the morning a couple hours after you arrive. Less time in Joburg bus station = Good. It’s a longer trip overall, but still easier than the mess Brendon went through.

But wait, there’s a catch. You have to obtain a visa beforehand instead of at the border. This is a new concept to me, but whatever, a bit of research online and I find there’s a Mozambican consulate in Durban. Armed with an address, directions, and instructions, I hopped in a minibus taxi to town.

The taxi drops me off not where expected. I wander a seven block radius for approximately an hour, getting mixed directions from I don’t know how many people on the street. By the time I set foot in the building, I had unknowingly walked back and forth past the entrance four times. Grr.

The address listed everywhere on the internet is 5th floor, Room 520. I find it without too much trouble. However, Room 520 is now a driving school office. I ask if they know where the consulate is, to which the response is “What?”. I wander the floor above and two bellow, hoping to stumble on it. I don’t. I do however end up wandering the halls of several completely deserted floors that seem to belong in a post-apocalyptic movie. Luckily, there are no zombies to be found.

Descending to the bottom floor I find an empty information center. My years of reading Sherlock Holmes pays off and through sound deductive reasoning, the thick coat of dust covering the desk, and lack of anything “informative” I conclude it’s been empty for a good while. I make a last ditch effort and call the number I have for the embassy, which I had called a dozen times earlier and only rang endlessly. By some stroke of luck, I get an answer. I ask where they are. It’s the same building. Yes, I know, what floor? The thick accent is difficult to understand. It sounds like…27th? I thank him and proceed to the elevator, which has buttons from 1-15. Ok, maybe he said 7th? More empty offices. Ok, 11th? Nope.

After walking ten floors in vain, I call again, lightning strikes twice, and they answer again. Different guy, more difficult accent. I swear he’s saying 27th. WTF? Wandering the ground floor behind a corner here and around a bend there, I somehow find another elevator, 16-30. Score!

Listed Location: 5th floor, Room 520
Actual Location: 27th floor, Room 2719.
Time to find the office: 2.5 hours
Time to actually get visa: 5 minutes

A Special Report on ZA: Part 3

2010-08-07T21:11:00.000-06:00

Experiences. The acquisition of, good and bad, are what this adventure, as are most, is ultimately about. With experience you have the opportunity to gain knowledge, insight, wisdom into the lives of others as well as yourself. South Africa came with more than expected. Different than expected. Better than expected. Experiences.
On Violence
Having never heard stories first hand about the lack of appreciation for human life, South Africa become my first. Violence, sometimes out of retribution, other times not, has rifled this country for decades, centuries, millennium? Its sad. While often times you can find an instigator, a reason, an explanation for an inhumane act, many times you cannot. You try and try to understand why individuals, parties, families, tribes, cultures behave, but you cannot. Perhaps it is our western way of thought that prevents us from fully understanding and therefore, unable to progress the lives of those living by ethical and moral standards we find appalling. Talk to most modern South Africans and they boil it down to one issue: lack of ability to reason.

When I am asked to compare crime in South Africa to South America, both developing worlds striving to become noticed in the push for globalization, I often use one simple story to explain. In Colombia I was mugged by a homeless man using a sharp piece of broken glass he found in the alley. While no doubt it could have done damage, it wasn't the firearm I would have been shown South Africa. Tricky to dodge a knife wielding thief, nearly impossible a trigger happy bugler. And the biggest difference between South Africa and the United States, the keywords being "trigger happy". Blame it on the proliferation of weapons or parenting. Your pick.

On Racism
Living in Phoenix was not considered "safe". I think its one of the best decision we've made on this journey. Talk to any "white" on the street and they will return one of the following reactions: Surprise. Disgust. Interest. Those in disgust quickly leave the conversation. Not change the topic, not question why, simply leave. Is it for lingering racist mentality? Or based upon class status? Or a little of both? Often difficult to tell, other times not. The minority we hope, but quite a surprise and disgust to us. We were appalled at said actions as were they with ours.

Surprise. Those who never visited Phoenix, ever. Not a big surprise to us, as many have never visited the Bronx of New York City, Five Points of Denver, or Compton of Los Angeles, despite living in these cities all our lives.

Interest. In experiencing for themselves? None.

On Death
Over 43 persons a day die in road accidents in South Africa. The next closest country halves that number. Most westerns divide by 4. They say driving is more dangerous than flying. In South Africa, my nerves finally agreed. Riding in the back of pickup trucks, swerving around corners in taxis, and seeing the conditions of rural roads sent me longing for the prick cops of the US of A, high fuel taxes, and un-bribablep pain-in-your-ass DMV.

Talk to just about anyone and you will find less than 6 degrees of car accident and death separation. Whether it be one-vehicle accidents or the 70+ car pile up we nearly avoided ourselves that took lives of 4 individuals. Our couch surfing host in Rustenburg shared stories of losing her brother, her father, several friends or friends of friends to death. Either via sudden accidents, premature illnesses, or violent robberies. She didn't lament or show any surprise in retelling.

In South Africa, death happens. Violence happens. Racism happens. More frequently than I was willing to accept, but a part of normal life for citizens.

These are a handful experiences I created or stories listened to in earnest about South Africa. While the above does not "paint a pretty picture", it is by no means "the whole picture". I struggled whether to write this blog, how to write it, and how it would be perceived. South Africa is a wonderful country, with wonderful people, with wonderful scenery, with wonderful food, and with a wonderful, unique, culture. I hope I was able to convey that in Parts 1 and 2. Tormented by a past most of us have never truly experienced and just like any country, it is not without problems, trials, and tribulations. I have great hope, but I fear many do not, both foreigners and locals alike. Only time will tell which way goes South Africa, but that time may be sooner than everyone expects. I pray for the nation to truly become united, to truly become the rainbow nation of Tutu and Mandela.

If you have read this far, but missed reading the article from the Economist, and wish to know more about South Africa, please read the real "A Special Report on South Africa". You will not disappointed. You will be enlightened.

A Special Report on ZA: Part 2

2010-07-31T07:58:00.001-06:00

Brazil v. Portugal was up next and with almost week out on the farm without television, we were feeling left out of the World Cup madness. Little did we know when we set out at 4 in the morning, sleeping in the back of the "bucky" on a mattress for an 8 hour journey across the country, what type of madness we would be encountering.

On Durban
Durban: "The Warmest Place To Be For 2010". The slogan was fitting, we'd left the cold shivers, the wrapping up in coats and blankets, of Koster and Rustenburg and replaced them with sunny sunny 80 degree Durban. While they say the waters are warm enough to swim in, even though its technically winter, I challenge the comfortability of that statement.

The next two weeks were a blur. FIFA Fan Fest, bars, beaches, malls, sleeping, partying, eating, eating, and more ensued. Before we knew it the World Cup was almost over. Suji, our couch surfing host, Koogen, Nishan, Roderick, Pun, and many may many more, became our new family, our Indian family. Durban, most do not know, houses the largest neighborhood of Indians, outside of India, in the entire world: Phoenix.

We ate curries, with more spices than I'd ever had in my life. We ate roti rolls, the Indian version of a burrito. We ate bunny chows, a loaf of bread hollowed out and filled with sugar beans or lamb or chicken curries. No fork included, tear off a piece of bread and grab the food spilling out. I finally understood why the Christophers and Magellans back in the day went searching half way around the world for a more direct trade route to India. If not for its quest for spices, the Americas may not have been discovered for many more centuries to come. Many thank yous to India for your spice!

The matches kept on. Brasil went out. USA went out. My only favorite left was Germany. Assuming, of all games if any to be sold out, the semi-finals must. Not true, more on that in "A Letter to FIFA" later. Not only were we Americans surfing in Little India Durban, so were three Germans, two Canadians, one French, and three Argentinians over the course of our stay. One of the Germans determined to find tickets to the Germany v. Spain semi-final, left early in the day to sit out around the stadium beachfront and scour for tickets. We wished him luck and thought no more. Merely an hour before the match was to begin we received a call: he had exactly 1. A Category I ticket at face value is $600, I paid $150. Score.

Unfortunately Germany did not, but I had checked off one of my previously believed to be inconceivable goals for World Cup 2010. The night was ripe with partying and I enjoyed my share of the festivities, speaking in Spanish for the first time in many weeks.

I wish I could now continue to inform on how it all ended. A big bash, an explosion of football fun, a crazy beach party, but alas I cannot. With family obligations looming, I set off on detour. Home. Temporarily...of course.

A Special Report on ZA: Part 1

2010-07-27T09:00:00.014-06:00

Africa is lost in many respects to the world. For many, literally they get lost looking for it on a map. For others, its a continent doomed to demise. For few, its the next new thing. I couldn't even begin to write an deserving blog of Africa, specifically South Africa, our home for nearly the past 2 months. While we have traveled very little in terms of places, we've experienced much more in terms of culture: life, death, happiness, sadness, hope, fear.

My attempt at this point will not be to continue down this road of political histories and futures, but rather point you in the direction of a very well written article published by the Economist just before the start of the World Cup. More than a primer for tourists, its an in-depth look at current situations in South Africa, positives and negatives both included: "A Special Report on South Africa" - Economist, 3rd June 2010.

On Cape Town
Arriving in Cape Town we enjoyed our first real British-style pub in many moons within the first few hours. We saw amazing views of the oceans from atop Table Mountain. Down on Long we drank with the best of 'em. From coffee shops to pubs to shopping malls, it was the closest I had been to home since I left. I could imagine a life here in a beautiful city with great weather, wonderful beaches, friendly people and all the other things from the western world.

But you could be fooled. We still gripped our pockets in fear of grubbing hands, we walked faster down roads at night staying only in lit areas, we got goosebumps when passing suspicious characters day or night. Told stories of this and that, despite the modernization and look, it all still lacked the sense of security.

On The Garden Route
The next few towns visited were small coastal villages along the infamous Garden Route. As the public transportation is a wash in South Africa compared to South America and Europe, we rented a car for a day and I learned how to drive on the left side of the road from the right seat of the car. Keep in mind I had not driven in over 18 months. It is just like riding a bicycle minus the changes in position in the car and road. We lived.

A highlight of my trip was visiting Monkeyland just outside of Plettenberg Bay. If you know me, nothing more really needs to be said, but imagine a giant fenced in jungle where the monkeys run around freely. Rescued from poor homes, zoos, etc. they are given food and shelter from the wild while nursed back to health. Just before spending our time here in the new with a great view, friendly and familiar Plett Backpackers (Ben: I promised I would plug you!), we visited Nysna, touring an old gold mine closed down many years ago. Our tour guide was phenomenal sharing both the history of our surroundings as well as the mining culture.

We made it by 4am bus to Port Elizabeth, arriving at 7am for a flight that wouldn't take off until 7pm. Just a heads up for any future travelers to ZA: rent a car. The public transportation is virtually non-existent compared to Europe, Asia or South America. With twelve hours to wait it out, we ventured over to the Boardwalk. From everyone we talked to before and after, its about all there is to do here anyway. We kicked it in a cafe once everything opened and watched a movie in the cinema to pass the rest of it.

The flight was quick and prompt to Jo'burg, but we arrived in a mess of confusion, as expected on the day before the opening match, the night of the opening ceremony. Instead of watching Shakira perform her Colombian magic on the crowd, we instead were treated to triple the normal price cab ride to the other side of town were had a place to crash for the night with family of friends back home. Miscommunication had ensued hours before, but we brushed it all aside with a good braai and beer thanks to Rein and Sue Marie.

On Rustenburg
Next day was up and at it early for our ride to Rustenburg, where England v. USA would play the following day. Last minute (see miscommunication above) we found a place to couch surf with an amazing family, in an amazing home just outside the town, on a pig farm. Kickoff in the FIFA Fan Fest, South Africa v. Mexico carried on exactly as expected that night! The World Cup festivities began in full swing, with full excitement. A big night of celebration, post-game partying, etc. ensued.

Having lost our bid (and hope) for game tickets many months before, we set our expectations on the Fan Fest that night, not realizing the bigger party was actually outside the stadium. However in a last ditch effort, we went to the ticket office hearing rumors that unsold tickets remained. Waiting in line, they ran out. Again, hopes shattered, we waited a little while longer as the rest of the unhappies fled the scene. Upon our eventual exit, there still remained an English tour operator trying to sell off the extra tickets he had. Price?! Face Value!? What?! Awesome!! Unfortunately, the game was a draw.

We returned to the farm, happy for a tie, but leaving much desired still for the World Cup. Already 3+ draws, where is the beautiful game boys?

The next few days were spent laying around the house, catching up on work, eating great homemade food, and just chilling out. My family's friends' parents were back a few days later and we took a ride out to the game farm where they stay as caretakers of the land with a small farm of corn and cabbage. Zebras lived just around the corner. How cool is that? Once again we were treated to wonderful home-cooked, South African meals, but now three-times a day! Ian and Ana were amazing hosts, with many many stories to share, happy and sad.

We talked for days on end when not eating or sleeping or working...Being in the middle of nowhere, the cellular signal does not always cooperate and I found myself freezing outside in the pickup, windows rolled up, jackets (plural) on, until my battery died on several occasions. A few days later we found an extension cord and worked in the afternoon sunlight until the freeze of the night came upon us. Hot chocolate would be waiting for us inside beside more conversation on life, education, security, war in South Africa...

I Returned

2010-07-25T03:50:00.001-06:00

I boarded a plane with an expected 20 combined hours of flight travel. I spent 8 hours in airports, 6 in the Johannesburg bus station fearing for my pockets, 12 in a train to the Mozambique border, 4 in taxis waiting to leave, cross, and arrive in Maputo. I spent the next 3 walking lost around a new city, a new country.

I figure at best, Maputo is a form of Rio de Janeiro 30 years ago. I think perhaps it is the common language of Portuguese, the feelings of the ocean airs, or the comparable 1970s architecture, but still, making these comparisons is a bash to A Cidade Maravilhosa.

I arrived in Maputo, dropped near an unknown taxi rank. I didn't want any help really, but many offered. I indulged for a few minutes until more and more "helpers", i.e. taxi drivers came over. I said "I will just walk." and was replied "No its too far to walk." I'd heard this all before telling myself "its never too far to walk".

I quickly found my bearings and started my journey across town. I first found a park, always a good landmark, and I entered it freely without suspicion. I should have paid attention to the metal gates surround the park, keeping everyone out at night, it was one of those places. I felt a little uneasy even with the daylight. I quickly exited and continued walking forgetting to check the map again. I ventured down towards the oceanfront instead of up I later realized. I still had an upbeat in my step, my bag not yet wearing on my shoulders as it would an hour from now. I did not dare climbing the hill back to the "upper" side of town. I assumed upper before just meant richer, not a big hillside, it actually meant both.

I opted to walk around rather than retreat, I hate going backwards. I read later in the guidebook my decision wise to not hike up the hill, one of the three areas of town told to forcibly avoid. I underestimated how round about I had to walk though, but I made it up, almost stepping inside the no-go zone in front of the Department of Defense. I quickly excused myself before the armed guard did it for me.

I turned on a random road again forgetting to double check the map, but I eventually ended up at my destination. I gave in to finding a room at the hostel on the map, as the original choice had no "x marks the spot". I was told it was full, as was the other map-listed backpacker hangout. I was given a map and a direction, but no road, no additional details. I was told I could find a tuk tuk taxi for around 100 local currency, however by the time I found one 30 minutes walking later, I was laughed at. I kept walking.

I had needed to pee for a little over 3 hours and passed boy after man pissing randomly, indiscreetly on the sides of roads, buildings, etc. yet I still could not bring myself to let it hang out so publicly. I bought a grape soda in the supermarket and walked 2k with an empty can refusing to throw it into the streets with the others, but unable to find a public waste bin. I asked in broken Portuguese slash English every few blocks to confirm I was in the right direction. I was told "just down that way" followed by "very very far, taxi here" 10 minutes later.

I continued my trek across the city. I was joined on the road by a kid my age looking to make a buck off of escorting me to wherever I was going, no English was spoken, but I understood enough: "...give me something, I will accompany you there...". I knew he had no idea where I was actually going. I had had the same problem with everyone else. "I can give you a ride there...", but "You just told me you don't even know where it is...". I kindly refused all offers, thus I am still walking.

I eventually tossed the can and peed on a fence. I needed more liquids another 45 minutes later where I asked again for directions, believing this time to be almost there. I was wrong, another 4-5k. I finally succumbed and jumped in a minibus-taxi and 10 cents, 3 kilometers later was dropped off just outside my original destination. I first asked where was the shower. I'd none for the past 3 days of traveling. I found my bed hard, not the desired comfortable, soft. I hoped before arrival in Maputo for more. I was disappointed, but here, with a beach at my doorstep, a temporary place to rest. I ate my first sit down meal in many days and I returned to the hostel where I fell asleep around 7.

I am exhausted.

An American in Lima

2010-04-06T10:38:00.003-06:00

Contrary to common practices, this past weekend turned into an culinary exploration of America in Lima, Peru. Culinary is absolutely the wrong word, but I do like the more distinguished sound of it.

It first started with Andrea wanting a wrap. After reviewing 10s of menus between the two main parks in downtown Lima, down the tourist laden pedestrian zones, the odd streets where the locals figured I was lost, over a 15 block stretch, we found nothing of the sort. Every restaurant, one after the other had a collection of daily lunch menus, every one containing exactly the same thing, just the typical Peruvian dishes: lomo saltado, ceviche, and poor man's steak.

Until we came upon the cluckingly popular KFC. I rarely ate pollo from here in The States, but it is wildly popular in Ecuador and Peru. Odd because there is a guy selling fried chicken for half the price just down the street out of the back of his car. They must love the buckets. As customary in almost every fast-food American chain gang restaurant these days, something is offered wrapped in a tortilla. And Andrea, who never eats more than half of my standard meal, ordered the largest wrap possible. I followed suit and so began the tour of American food in Lima.

A cup of joe, American-style. Starbucks. A big coffee fan, who isn't from Colombia, Andrea had never tasted the over-priced, found-on-every-street-corner, cup of coffee from the-one-and-only Starbucks. Well we had already started our downward spiral, why not continue it. Her only comment: the size of the small was 3x of that in Colombia. My white chocolate thing tasted just like back home.

The last time I remember going to a T.G.I. Friday's I was 12 or something. With 2 down, we figured we'd make a day of it so I could write this blog. Plus, I wanted a gigantic real-American hamburger. American-sized portions were enjoyed tremendously while I explained the "flair" on the red and white striped overall uniforms to Andrea using Office Space as a reference.

Basking in the influence of American food and drink culture for a day reminded me of why American culinary institutions are so successful. As I eat out 99.9% of my meals these days, I truly miss not the American-food, not the American-selection, not the American-portions, not the American-cleanliness...the most. But the service...with a smile :)

Free Weed!

2010-03-17T16:19:00.002-06:00

We’ve been in Cusco a little over a week now. The greatest annoyance (and it is very annoying) is the countless women offering cheap massages, shady dudes offering drugs, and restaurant owners shoving their menus in your face. The level of hassle here greatly surpasses that of any other touristy town I’ve been in.

It’s gotten to the point where we walk an extra two or three blocks the long way around to avoid getting bombarded by offers for things we don’t want. Whatever tactic we try, nothing seems to work. Everything from ignoring them and walking by in silence, saying a polite “no gracias”, saying a less polite “no gracias”, to Brendon’s idea of muttering obscenities as we pass, all have failed.

Their persistence is quite remarkable. The other day we spotted (or I should say, we were spotted) by one of the infinite massage girls down the street. They are actually massage girls, not hookers, not most at least. We detoured around a large group of people, and in her attempt to follow us, she nearly crashed into them. No more than twenty feet down the same street, after dodging that bullet, a little girl selling gum walked right in front of Brendon and stopped, nearly tripping him.

We’ve come to the conclusion that Machu Picchu being closed is partially to blame. That means less gringos, and that means fighting desperately over those of us who are here. It’s understandable, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying.

You gotta give points for creativity though, and yesterday’s walk to lunch found just that. As we passed a couple waiters showing off their menus (which by the way, are the same as almost everyone else's) and ignored their calls of “Hey friends, good food, lunch, friends, hey, friends, hey...” one shouted just before we left hearing range, “Free weed!”

I wonder how that works…

This is Bogotá

2010-03-14T16:51:00.004-06:00

For the past 6 months I experienced the joys and nots of living in Bogotá. A tribute to what this trip has become, Bogotá was an expected series of changes, coincidences: life.

Bogotá is modern life meets yesterday. A horse-drawn wagon waits in traffic behind a bright yellow cab. A steam train moves slowly down the tracks parallel to a freshly paved autobahn. A street vendor flips arepas for a quarter each out front a fine dining establishment pouring wine at $25 a glass. The presidential palace, combing with elites and politicians, is surrounded by a barrio full of beggars and thieves. A human phone booth wears 5 mobiles off his jacket while businessmen stroll by on Blackberries.

I prefer modern. The "center of economics and politics" in el gran país of Colombia, Bogotá at over 8 million inhabitants is a genuine metropolis on the edge of a few booms:

Technological
Hundreds of vendors selling every piece of computer hardware, made in China, Taiwan, Japan, and the United States, fill stories of edificios on Calle 15 between Carrera 75 a 80. The street corners in front are lined with too-many-to-count independent software salesmen, pirated and not, I typically crossed the street before being bombarded with offers. It gets annoying after the zeroth time.

Cellular phone and data services are as common here as everywhere else in the developed world as does banda-ancha internet. While internet cafes exist, not in the numbers they do in less developed cities, a sign of in-home, always-on access. WIFI is catching on just about every upscale establishment, over 25 open signals can be found sitting on a bench in Parque 93. I had a $20, likely stolen 10-year old Nokia, but then again, I only ever called 1 of 5 people in the book.

Walk along Calle 100 east of the TransMilenio stop and you will find brand new environmentally efficient, technologically loaded office buildings and condominiums rising every few blocks within the chic neighborhood of Chicó. Someone please buy me one.

Gastronomical
Parque 93, a green pasture of nappers, ballers, and doggers, is surrounded by European-American styled, but Colombian influenced cervesarias, restaurants, bars, and nightclubs cluster to garner the patronage of Rolos and a small handful of "first worlders". I love food and people watching, there may not be a better place in Bogotá if you do too.

Just 10 blocks south resides Zona T, part of the larger Zona Rosa. A beautifully-lit during Christmas, pedestrian-only 3 blocks of even more pubs and eateries. Whether its Irish, English, Mexican, French, Spanish, or Colombian you desire, it all exists here, however there was no way I had ever enough money to try every place recommended. Pick one, then pick another, until you find your favorite (or her's).

When I arrived in Colombia I was not a daily-cup-of-joe type of a person, but when I left, I nearly was. Ridiculously famous around the world, Colombian coffee is everything it's hyped. Bring in 21st-century marketing and you have a chain of cafes to rival Starbucks. Bogotá has one on every corner.

Turistical
Around Zona Rosa you will find within 3 blocks of each other, 3 modern shopping malls, all bustling with activity found in only in world class cities. While I am not a traveler-shopper, I did find myself taking long walks through the air-conditioned goodness of these centro comercials (8 out of the 20+) or catching Avatar 3D at one of the many theaters inside, all a few steps above any cinema I've wasted money on in The States with coffee shops, affordable candies, free refills on soda, and premium Lazy-Boy-Seating.

Situated in the middle of the country, we expected to explore other parts of Colombia on the weekends. Until those weekends turned into outing-on-the-town (see above), but we did manage to visit the Catedral de Sal and Villa de Leyva a mere hour-to-hours outside.

So why isn't Colombia over-ridden with tourists already? Someones tell me its "bad publicity". It's no lie, there is a ton of cocaine in Colombia, a tourist industry in-and-of itself. It's cheap, easily accessible, and overlooked. The para-politics-military culture also contributes and yes, it is still a struggle for the locals and their culture, but improvements are being seen and rarely does a turista ever feel the impact. And Bogotá, unbeknownst to many, is the numero uno destino en Colombia.

So how did I get to Colombia? And why did I stay so long? Jason and I first arrived months late in January 2009 after blowing off gobs of time and braincells in Central America, with just enough time to get our visas for Brasil before Carnaval started. After a week in the city, we were sad to leave and pledged to return. While Jason disappeared to start a new life, I found myself still desiring to visit the off-FARC-mentioned country of Colombia and figured why not Bogotá as a starting point?

An initial idea of working diligently for 2 months turned into a guestimated 4 finding no short terms leases. An early December departure turned into a late January forced departure when visas expired after 6. An unexpected reunion with Tom turned into an unexpected relationship with Andrea. A diminishing grasp of the Spanish language turned into a moderately conversational speaker.

And so while I travel the rest of the Spanish-speaking continent of South America, I will look back to my days, months in Bogotá with fond memories of all, despite the boredoms, the bads, and the bettys, but if I am to remeninse about anything, it will be the culture itself, the passion of the people, something I have not explained, nor feel like I ever am able. Cultura must be experienced for one's self. But what I can tell you, is that this es Bogotá, and Colombia, es pasión...

5 Tips to Poorly Run Your Latin American Hostel

2010-03-09T11:02:00.003-07:00

These five tips are all too commonly applied in Latin American budget hostels. Follow all of them and you’ll still probably get plenty of guests if your prices are cheap enough and you're in the right location.

1) Don’t give your guests a tour.

Sure, many hostels aren’t that big and you can find everything without much trouble. But I can’t count the number of times I’ve found a TV room or an extra kitchen or bathroom I didn’t know existed after living in a hostel for a week. At the very least, tell your guests what extra services you offer.

And if you don’t give me a tour, then you can’t get mad at me when I use the unmarked ladies bathroom instead of the unmarked men’s (not that that’s happened…twice).

2) Don’t provide purified water.

It’s early morning. Your head is pounding from last night’s bender as you wake up ready to drink an ocean of agua, your mouth bone dry. You walk to the kitchen hoping there’s a self-service fridge of water bottles for sale or maybe even a water cooler. No dice. It’s too early for stores to be open, but even if they were, you’re in no condition to stray more than 50 feet from the comfort of your bed. You glance at that the tap and think, “How many parasites can the Guatemalan tap water really have?” It looks so clear, so refreshing.

Five months later and twenty pounds lighter your doctor is pulling 12 feet of tapeworm out of your stomach. On the plus side it worked better than a diet.

3) Offer 24 hour access, but be sure to hire a night watchman who can sleep through the detonation of an atomic bomb.

“Come on dude. It’s 4:30 in the morning, I had to walk an hour and a half back here after my wallet got jacked downtown and I couldn’t pay for a cab, and now the drunk guy on the corner who looks awful shady is watching me. Wake. The. Hell. Up.” You continue to plead, pounding on the door and ringing the buzzer but the night watchman’s snores are the only response. Fifteen minutes of knocking later, his dreams of being a ruthless drug-cartel jefe (boss) on a Mexican soap-opera are finally interrupted by you, and he makes his displeasure all too clear in his expression as he lets you in.

“Forgive me for coming back at one of the hours not included in your 24 HOUR ACCESS,” you say, but he’s already snoring, back in the Spanish version of One Life to Live as he finds out the police officer that arrested him is actually his half-twin-brother Raul who was thought to be dead*.

4) Have dogs/cats in the house that are not house trained, and/or birds that squawk earsplittingly loud at every bump in the night.

I generally like animals. But when I can’t sleep because Pedro the Parrot is on crack and feels the need to alert the entire building that a fly has entered the room, my head becomes filled with murderous thoughts of feathers strewn across the floor.

I’d have the cat do the dirty work for me, if I wasn’t already planning his demise after I stepped in something that belongs in a litter box or outside.

5) Use the bacteria infested closet in the back as a kitchen.

Of the many false claims hostels frequently make, the kitchen is almost always one of the greatest disappointments to me, as someone who likes to cook. A Coleman stove with one working burner, pots and pans warped beyond recognition, and three forks missing half the prongs does not qualify as a “fully equipped” kitchen. And that’s not even taking into account the general filth and grime that most budget hostel kitchens share that kills your appetite after glancing at it.

*There is no Spanish version of One Life to Live (that I know of). But if there was, I’m sure it’d have a ruthless drug-cartel jefe who gets arrested by his presumed-dead-half-twin-brother Raul.

context is everything

2010-02-08T14:26:00.002-07:00

There are times when as soon as the words are out of your mouth, you realize that out of context, they would sound truly hilarious, ridiculous, perverted, or just plain weird. When traveling, these situations occur most frequently...Here are a few to get started, more later.

“Me and the rock had a love making fest out on the jetty.” - Brendon
We can’t remember for sure why the hell these words were spoken anymore, but they come from an accident Brendon had on the jetty in Santa Marta, Colombia. The rocks on the jetty were not as close together in some places as they could have been, which led to a fall, resulting in a broken sandal, some nasty cuts and scrapes, and the above quote.

“You’re the lesbian love child of Monica and Phoebe.” - Brendon
This little gem is taken from a lengthy discussion on which Friends character each of us is. It was fueled by alcohol and initiated by a dream Brendon had in which he argued with dream-people over whether or not he was Joey. We eventually came to realize that nobody is just one character, but rather a combination of traits/characteristics of at least two of the six “friends”.

“The guy who just offered us drugs is doing a line in the bathroom.” - Brendon
One of the many joys of traveling through Latin America is the countless offers for narcotics from guys on street corners, in bars, or my personal favorite, by church security guards just outside the church. This line comes from one night in a bar in Ecuador. Apparently after we turned him down, he decided not to let his coke go to waste.

“Why don’t you take a lesson from field of dreams? ‘If you build it, they will drink it.’” - Brendon
In one of our many discussions about bars, and how to start and manage one, we talked about how “you have to spend money, to make money”, and the importance of the initial investment in your bar. Somehow we landed on Field of Dreams from there. If you don’t build it, they won’t come.

“That'll help him when he's trying to hide out in the strawberry patch.” - Brendon
This one doesn’t have as much of a story behind it. The following picture, taken at Mitad del Mundo (“Middle of the World”) in Ecuador, pretty much sums up this last quote regarding this guy’s camo.

Sick in Santa

2010-02-05T15:00:00.005-07:00

Andrea's parents told me a story before they left about how Dad took ill one trip to Cartagena after indulging in unknowingly tainted foods. I didn't make it that far.

By day 2 of Santa Marta I found myself unable to move past the bathroom, spending most of my day in bed lacking any energy. Odd thing was, our meal the night before was at a decent, respected gringo-owned establishment. But apparently the lobster disagreed and reeked havoc on me for the next week.

By day 3.5 I was moving about, albeit slowly.

Day 4 was New Years and with tradition, I spent it still mildly sick and sober (usually, due to a hangover) except for the two glasses of Flor de Caña I downed. I could handle no more. There were no spectacular displays of fireworks, no big parties in Santa Marta, most everything was shut down, but there were people in town, somewhere.

New Years Day we taxied over to a smaller beach town named Taganga, known mostly as the center for diving in Colombia. Classes are cheap, around $200 for the basic course, and I had planned on taking a dip under under the ocean myself, but my condition was not improved enough for that kind of adventure underwater.

The beaches of Taganga were packed. I think its where all the people missing from Santa Marta were spending their days. We hiked 30 minutes up and over a huge hill to Playa Grande, but it wasn't that big. More people. After a nice afternoon nap in the shade, we threw around the football I had dragged all the way from Bogota for the sole purpose of playing on the beach. That was the first and last time we played.

Forgetting the being sick part, the town of Santa Marta was nicer (and larger) than I expected. We stayed in the historical slash touristic district. It seemed smaller, more quaint. It was confirmed safe once I saw kids playing tag in the streets after ten at night. The dogs traveled in packs as normal, but instead of fighting, also played tag in the streets. The streets themselves except for the large amount of trash, were constructed very well using a nice combination of quality concrete and red brick. The number of pedestrian paths was unexpected. If you add few more places to eat, I see Santa Marta as town ready for a tourism explosion. Just hopefully the prices, which are quite affordable right now, do not go through the roof as they have in our next stop, Cartagena de Indias...

Te odio. Te odio.

2010-02-04T14:00:00.002-07:00

We spent the end of December, beginning of January traveling about northern Colombia. It all started here in Bucamaranga, the capital of the departamento Santander. Lonely Planet says there is "not much to do here" and "the only real reason to stop here is to break up an overland journey". They are correct.

We spent 2 hours in the city, got chased down by a drunk homeless man yelling crazy shit while burping literally every 10 seconds, some of the loudest I have heard, and couldn't find anywhere clean or open to eat. We returned to the bus station 4 hours earlier than planned to change our tickets for San Gil, the real highlight of this state, the "adventure capital of Colombia".

Te odio. I hate you. Te odio. Those were the most common words heard from the mouth of Andrea. Weighing in at little-to-nothing and under the stated requirement, the paragliding instructors waited until the very end of the day to see if the winds would calm down enough that she wouldn't fly fly fly away. They didn't. An extra 10 pound bag of weights was rested on her lap for the flight. The hours preceding, Andrea continued to try and run away, tell me how much she hated me, say she was scared of heights, and pretend like she didn't want to go. She went. I don't like people telling me no. She enjoyed.

The views were amazing and we were quite tired by the end of the day. We went rafting that morning too, which is where the curses started flying first.

Before we even left Bogota, Andrea mentioned her fears of rafting. I had however already promised David we would float down the river. The river we signed up for however was not a float. It was a never ending roller Splash Mountain coaster ride without emergency breaks. Classified as a 4-5+, the videos when we arrived in San Gil were enough to convince both David and I we were not in shape for such a treacherous run down the Rio Suarez. We caved (and compromised) for the significantly cheaper Rio Fonce (no expensive kayak guides required). A ride everyone enjoyed without anyone hating the others after.

After sleeping the next day, we found our way to the local watering hole where we climbed up a small waterfall and swam in the pool below. A refreshing relaxing day before our night bus to Santa Marta...

bus, troles, bus

2010-02-03T09:14:00.001-07:00

The day started with waking up to the owner of our hostel arguing with a guest. "You not stay tonight. Period." A group had rented out the entire place. While we'd "reserved" our room the night before just in case we wanted to stay, we figured we might as well pack and be ready...

Good thing. We left our room and were asked to checkout. After lunch we grabbed the bags and headed to the bus. Quito has quite a few different public transportation systems, none of which connect directly to the other, but all of which cover a good majority of town. We boarded the bus rapid transit, similar to Bogota's Transmilenio, yet light years older. It was relatively empty despite the plethora of school kids boarding. Nice, as we carried two backpacks, each.

No problems there, we jumped off on the north side of Old Town Quito, walked through the park, and in the direction of another transit system, the Trole. This one would take us to the nearest bus station about 15 blocks away. It was packed. We never boarded, instead opting to walk through the Old Town one last time. Thirty minutes later we passed the Trole station we would have disembarked and walked down the steps to discover this bus station was abandoned. Lonely Planet FAIL.

We ought to have verified it still existed, but its not everyday a bus station completely disappears from a guidebook. Well, it didn't exactly disappear, but it was deserted. Having no idea where the new station might be and not in a part of town we felt completely safe in, we flagged down a taxi. "$10 dollars. Very far. That way." Screw that.

We walked back up to the Trole station and while David went to ask, a friendly old gentleman questioned were I was trying to go. I told him. He responded with the correct directions. If I had only listened to him instead of everyone else over the next 2 hours.

The Trole went directly to the new station, literally drove up right inside it he said. So we bought tickets, $0.25 apiece and boarded. There was absolutely no room. I am not sure how we pushed inside, but imagine a bus being so packed you do not require the assistance of the handrail when the bus lurches forward and back, starting and stopping at each estacion. The lady who sold us the tickets told David 5 minutes, so at about 5 minutes and what looked like the right stop, we jumped off along with half the bus.

After 2 minutes, we realized we'd jumped the gun. David was exhausted though. I thought he'd gone to ask for directions so I just stood there for another 5 minutes until I saw him on the bench. The police officers confirmed we were on the right line and that we had to take it all the way to the end. But, he did not say how far the end was. The next stop appeared to be the end to David, but I refused to get off thinking otherwise until I asked if this was that stop. Yes was the reply. Shit. Doors were already closed. No exit possible.

Again, we offloaded, bumping everyone in the process with our bags, at the next stop in order to turn around. Something was wrong though, the next stop was not the last stop. We had continued south as I had predicted, but I took the word of the man on the bus. Wrong. We asked and finally received the same directions as the man on the street originally described. Ride it all the way, all-the-way to the end.

We boarded again, but not more than 4 stops later we exited, again. David couldn't handle it anymore. He barfed all over the platform immediately clear of the bus. While he recovered, I worried about getting to the bus station early enough to arrive in our destination before dark. Another 10 minutes later, an uncrowded trole stopped and David took a seat.

One bus and 4 troles later, we finally arrived at the brand spankin' new bus station on the farthest south side of town. The taxi driver was not lying, it was far, very far. But for 50 cents each, we saved ourselves at least 12 dollars for the day by taking an adventurous ride on two of Quito's mass transit systems. Fortunately, there was a bus immediately departing for Riobamba. We arrived an hour earlier than expected, dusk slowly fading into darkness. This time we took a cab ($1) to the hotel. Enough excitement for one day.

the worst bus ride ever?

2010-02-01T15:06:00.001-07:00

Planning in advance, we bought our tickets 8 hours before departure time. After stashing our bags at the equipment check, we headed out sightseeing around Medellin. Our last day of "vacation", we were returning to Bogota the following morning. Except for a few bumps, our trip was an enjoyable success. Here is one of said bumps.

The town of Medellin was beautiful today. Without much of a schedule, we walked quite a bit, drank a few cafes, ate and basically spent a lazy day wondering around the Universidad area between the Jardin Botanico and the Parque de los Deseos. We skipped the amusement and science parks. Money. The planetarium was closed. But maybe we ought to have slept the entire day.

Maybe I should blame the guy who was taking the largest dump of my life while I waited patiently for ten minutes as he ruptured his spleen and my eardrums with his Montezumas Revenge. Or the guy in line at the baggage check who was being non-cooperative and holding up everyone trying to get somewhere. Though I am not sure these few minutes would have made too much of a difference in the first-come first-seat arrangement. For the record, we had seats 1,2,3 - the first purchased of the day.

When we boarded, there were 2 seats, apart empty. Andrea in her sweet, little girl voice whined to the lady pretending to have control of the situation that she did not feel safe or comfortable sitting with a stranger. Hell, I didn't either. In one of said empty seats sat a guy in a full head-to-toe body suit. No shit...I don't want to know what mutation of H1N1 infected him.

The stewardess-ish motioned to request a guy from the back to come sit up front so we can share a dirty by the bathroom seat together. By the time he moved and we navigated around him (and the rest of the people still standing in the aisle), a couple had stolen the seat. And when questioned why, jackass guy responded with a virtual fuck you.

Ok. Asshole number one, check. We ended up in what they vacated, non-reclining seats. Ass...No problem. It's only 8 hours. We can do this. The bus left an hour late, asshole yelling at the stewardess-ish in the minutes leading up to departure. The aisles are still full of people. Now sitting. Inconsiderate people. In a chicken bus, this would be totally acceptable. But this was not. In all the buses we had taken collectively in Colombia, the rides were generally nice. Seats comfortable. People friendly. Not so much.

After 30 minutes of the guy sitting less in the aisle and more in Andrea's little corner of the bus, I offered to switch seats as she had this scared, "I am about to get off this bus and cry" look. Being quite a bit larger, homeboy eventually moved himself entirely into his aisle. Now call this a dick move all you want, but no apologies, no requests, no excuse me's were ever said. By the way, seats in the aisle are half the price for half the space.

But my troubles were not over. Andrea drifted off into sleep or watching the horrible version of Rush Hour 3, dubbed in Spanish. Some movies should never be voiced-over. It's just wrong. Meanwhile I had new issues with an old over-make-up-ed awfully-faked blond and her pink painted toenails on my arm rest. After I made an obvious this disgusts me move/face/gesture, she put on her sandals. Wrinkly toes still apparent. Puke.

Eventually those disappeared too after the bus stopped for a longer than required rest. This is not counting the 10 or so random pull-overs to the side of the road to do absolutely nothing. When I re-entered the shithole-of-a-bus, the floor people had managed to find a way to crawl into balls and not outright encroach my space. Of course this meant no one could enter or exit the on-board bathroom which would have been okay if it weren't for people continuing to try.

After two thirds of the trip was over, I finally managed to pass off into dreamland and awake in safeland. Home sweet Bogota. It was a welcoming sight to see the city and I recalled the last time I was so dearly ready to be off a bus and into the comfort of familiar surroundings.

bar hopping in Medellín: a photo blog

2010-01-16T00:55:00.001-07:00

Medellín has gone from being known as one of the most dangerous cities in the world, the “drug capital”, and the “murder capital”, to being one of the safest cities in Latin American in a ridiculously short time. Today it’s one of the most popular and heavily hyped cities in Colombia among tourists. Four and half months in Bogota and all we ever heard from other travelers was of the magical land called “Medellín”. So our first night there, we decided to put the town to the test with a night of bar hopping.

Several bar hopping/pub crawl attempts had been made in Bogota, rather unsuccessfully. With our goal being to drink in as many locations as possible, we always seemed to end up in one good one and never leave. But in Medellín we determined to stick to one drink per bar, then move on. Here’s proof that you can do anything you set your mind to.

#1 – First we kicked things off at the Medellin Beer House a nicer, pub-ish place with a decent selection of international beers as well as the local micro-brew, 3 Cordilleras. Amber Ale and good times were had by all.

#2 – Next was this place. 3 for 1 cocktails were their specialty, but to start cocktails this early would be a rookie mistake. We opted for cheap national beers and moved on.

#3 – Upon entering this steak house (directly across the street from bar number two) we realized it was a bit beyond our price range. Paid slightly more for the same national beers.

#4 – With a name like Mr. Cocktail there was no way we could pass this one up. And that was before we even knew what they had…alcoholic ICEEs.

That’s right. Your favorite flavored frozen carbonated beverage with your favorite liquor. I had a “Superman” (essentially a RedBull with 30% whiskey) Andrea a “Mango Biche" (mango flavored with 30% clear liquors), and Brendon the interestingly named “Mongolian Motherfucker” with the words “Ni pregunte!!!” (“Don’t ask!!!) in the ingredients list.

We didn’t ask. We just enjoyed. Other menu items included variations of popular drinks like Strawberry Daiquiris, Long Island Iced Teas, Margaritas, and Piña Coladas.

#5 – Next we found a Scottish pub (tragically, no Irish Pub our entire stay in Medellín). Again, a good selection of foreign beers and liquors, but we restricted ourselves to the more affordable micro-brews again, this time trying the American Pale Ale and Wheat Ale.

Andrea showing signs of sleepiness, Brendon quickly ran off to get her a RedBull. Unable to find any, he instead came back with this energy drink containing something named “Horny Goat Weed”.

Your guess is as good as ours.

#6 – This place too was chosen for it’s name. We can now say we drank rum at “Ay! Caramba”.

Yes, moved on to rum.

#7 – Back to beers at the local quickie-mart. Interestingly, it had more people than several of the bars, as well as a sushi menu with 13 different items on it.

#8 – Another beer. Not that memorable.

#9 – Returned to rum. At $2 a shot, why not? One-drink-per-bar rule was broken here.

#10 – Double digits, Woohoo! Between this bar and the last, we attempted to enter several clubs, all of which denied us access as Brendon was wearing shorts. Suck.

It was at this point that Brendon gave in to Andrea’s request to dance in the bar, as clubs had been ruled out. We had a couple more rums here as well. Perhaps that helped.

Awwwwwwww.

#11 – Time was running out. A quick beer at this seemingly nameless place.

#12 – Drunk food and another beer at “Mario Bros.” which had the bathroom doors pictured right. I’ll let the picture of Brendon below speak for itself.

#13 – We ended on lucky 13 with a beer at our hostel, around 5:30 in the morning. Thank you, Medellín.

gringo dancing

2009-12-08T01:36:00.008-07:00

So they say,

"People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."

Yeah, screw that, I'm going to anyway. My glass house is insured. And by that, I mean I have permission to write this. Today's stone throwing will be directed at dancing, and more specifically Brendon's unique dancing "style".

So dancing. Neither of us are too crazy about it, though being in Latin America, and what with the great "Latin passion" for things gringos can't do, dancing comes up a lot (coincidentally, I recently had a discussion on said passion of Colombian women vs. American women, with a freezer repairman after I broke the freezer...but that's another story). Generally we try to avoid it (dancing that is), but as we are trying to make local friends, immerse ourselves in the culture and all that, it is often unavoidable. And no matter how we may try to convince people not to dance with us to save their embarrassment as well as our own, we still sometimes get dragged onto the floor, but never with as much alcohol in us as we'd prefer.

Brendon, having been traveling for over a year in Latin America, should have more experience in the department than me. And he does. But a little more than nothing is still a little. As I said before, I am in absolutely no position to criticize, but all the same, I'm going to.

This last weekend, we went to the birthday party of a friend here in Bogota. It was, of course, at a Salsa club. Salsa. You can't even fake that one. Brendon (to his credit) did not try to fake it, instead choosing to go all out, busting out such gringo moves as few have ever seen before, when the birthday girl dragged him onto the floor. You can't deny a birthday wish.

I thought perhaps the following birthday wish might be something involving time-travel and stopping herself from ever asking the first wish, but apparently not because Brendon was made to dance a second time. It was certainly entertaining to watch. Words such as "spasm", "seizure", and "convulsions" came to mind. Many people's feet were stepped on. The birthday girl herself said "You're sooo gringo."

I myself was made to dance twice as well (totaling three times in my life), and thankfully the train-wreck that was my dancing went mostly unseen, though I did not attempt moves anywhere near those of Brendon. With about six months left in South America, I shudder to think what lies ahead on the dance floor in this continent, much less beyond.

the tourist train

2009-11-30T17:09:00.011-07:00

Last weekend, we took a day trip on an old steam train from Bogota to a few surrounding towns and also paid a visit to the Catedral de Sal in Zipaquirá. A popular weekend outing for locals and tourists alike, the "Turistren" consists of a trip through several small towns outside of Bogota on either an old restored steam or diesel locomotive, depending on the day you go.

We opted for Sunday and the steam locomotive, which looked a great deal like the Hogwarts Express from Harry Potter.

The train ride itself began in the city, but gradually we made our way to the outskirts of Bogota. I could not tell, however, where Bogota ended and the next little town began, as one faded into the other with no distinct space between. Bands walked through the train cars along the way, serenading the passengers with lively Latin music. There were a few stops along the way, but after a few hours we reached Zipaquirá, home of the eponymous Salt Cathedral.

The Salt Cathedral of Zipaquirá is "an underground Roman Catholic church built within the tunnels of a salt mine 200 metres underground". It had a distinct tourist feel, with a gift shop inside, and a playground, rock climbing wall, and mini food court outside. Shortly after entering the mines, we broke away from our tour group to explore at our own leisure. There was certainly a sense of grandeur in the towering tunnels above, and an eerie resemblance to the Mines of Moria in Lord of the Rings (Yes, two geek references. What of it?)

We had hoped to explore the salt mines themselves, but that was a separate tour, and with the train's schedule there just wasn't enough time. So next we stopped in Cajicá, where we had lunch, walked around the central park, and killed time wandering around the train.

And so, tired from a fairly long day, we boarded our train for the trip home and tried to get some sleep. The band returned and Mr. Accordion Man felt the need to play inches from my ear.

So much for sleep, but Brendon was knocked out the entire ride home. He does that.

HA94HVHNCEYQ

growing

2009-11-27T14:08:00.005-07:00

Growing older is only fun up until a certain age. As kids we quite enjoy it, why not? Regalos, cake, friends, clowns, etc. But even as we enter our teenage years we have learning how to drive, later curfews, and graduating from high school to look forward to. Past that, its 18, becoming a real adult and then...breaking the teenage barrier of 20.

And that barrier, we did break last weekend. David is still running through the enjoyment ages. It wasn't a hard break, but we definitely put a dent in something. Probably the wallet more than anything, but if you compare a night out on the town in Bogota to one in the States, we fared pretty well. I am always down for a good birthday celebration myself and I fully expected to play my role in David's demise, but I won't lie. I was distracted and partook lightly. But without a doubt. Fun was had.

For David, the night, was a success. The secret goal was to get him annihilated enough to dance just a little, hit on a girl just a little and remember just a little after. We managed to score him 2 out of the 3. For me, I was happy enough to take part in yet another growing up day of David's. Nineteen was an entertaining learning experience. Twenty was par, tomorrow it would be above par. Twenty one will be, well let's just wait and see.

Dinner the night before had been scrapped due to logistical issues. In other words, not wanting to interrupt a binge. Postponed to the next day, we hungoverly went out to an early dinner at Andre's Carne de Res. Most likely, the most famous steakhouse in Bogota. The food was great, the drink menu looked superb, but we were still quite exhausted. David voiced loudly his desire to return home to bed and watch movies for the rest of this celebratory day. Booooring...

I had other plans. He became wide awake later as we pulled into the parking lot outside the venue hosting The Killers concert. David had been begging people on Facebook for weeks to buy him tickets for his birthday, but no one offered. So sad. Unknown to him these tickets had been purchased many weeks before and somehow, someway been kept a secret up until this point. Throughout the birthday celebrations, the birthday dinner, and the most difficult "Where are we going?" in this car in what seem like an hour north of Bogota as the lights of the city passed away in the distance. "Oh...there is a big Christmas lights display out here somewhere, Andrea's parents wanted to show it to us...Sorry dude...I was a little confused myself...".

As we pulled in past crowds starting to gather he started looking for signs of confirmation that I was telling a lie. But, none could be found. "Happy Birthday Fucker..." as I slapped the tickets against his chest, his eyes lighting up like the fake Christmas lights we were not going to see. The concert rocked. The opening band did not. Who cared. Had it not been for the night before, they were selling Johnnie Walker in a The Killers branded Nalgene bottle. Half smashed crowd started singing English lyrics in an Colombian accent a cappella before the show started. Then the real show hit. The lights. The sounds. The Vegas experience. The set list was perfect. Human opened, When You Were Young closed. David was no longer as young, he had passed into the 20s leaving the 10s behind...

adrenaline is crazy...

2009-11-04T17:51:00.002-07:00

A couple weeks ago, our crazy Finland friend Tom came to visit. Of the many stupid, weird things Tom says or questions he asks, the only one I remember is whether or not I had ever been mugged. If you believe in jinxes, blame Tom for the following experience...

The bars in our neighborhood generally suck. If its not the weekend, most are closed. If it is the weekend, most are still empty. We specifically decided to stay in La Candelaria so we would not be out indulging our appetites with fine drinks and exquisite foods. Our original plan to venture into Zona Rosa, our preferred location for causing trouble, hit an unexpected snag this night so we decided to begrudgingly checkout the local scene despite knowing exactly what to expect: boredom.

Soberly walking home after a quick trip to two mostly empty bars and one seriously ugly drunk girl, we walked into yet another snag. Taking a glance over my right shoulder I noticed a short, stocky fellow a mere two steps behind me. David was just a two steps in front and the rest of the street was quite empty. And dark. And quiet. Typically, I speed up the pace when feeling unease, make a warning to David, and veer into a more lighted, populated area. There was no time. In a reversal of normality, I slowed, allowing him to pass. He did not. I heard an "hola amigo", which to me is bullshit, why not say, "hey fucker". A split second later his right arm came up from behind the back with what appeared to be knife.

The next 30 seconds are virtually missing from my memory. I am standing on top of amigo, opposite side of the street, my left foot smashed on his left hand, my left knee dug into his neck, and the rest of my body weight positioned in a manner so as he is not moving, nor struggling. "Tranquillo amigo. Tranquillo amigo," Why is he still calling me his friend? I scouted the location of the knife to find its a sharp piece of glass. Lying in the street a few feet away, I could not reach it without assistance from David who I finally noticed was standing on the other side of the street still, not exactly sure what the fuck just happened or what to do next. Igualmente...

He retrieved the weapon at my request and returned to cover as I contemplated what I was supposed to do next. I wanted to punch mi nuevo amigo in the face, but I stopped just short. Grabbing his right arm, I twisted it behind his back, ready for the break. I let go. Picking him up, I threw him back down la calle, yelling "Run the fuck away...Run the fuuuck away...Ruuun the fuck away." He paused half way down the block, composing himself, not sure what just happened. I, am not sure what just happened. "I will tear your fucking head off..." as I retreated up the street and around the corner into lit territory.

The walk home was brisk. I tried to remember the series of events. Most were vague at first. I cramped up on the three block fastwalk. My heart pounded feverishly. Adrenaline still building up. We entered the apartment and proceeded directly to start laughing. Pouring a glass of vodka, we collected ourselves and captured the damages on camera. It was 5am before I remember falling asleep, the chemicals having finally subsided.

protests in Bogota

2009-10-21T16:08:00.000-06:00

Today I went to go pay the rent for the month, and rather than rush to my destination as I often do, I took the time to look around. Of course, it was a little difficult not to look around today, but more on that in a bit.

Whether it's paying the rent, or for Spanish school, or anything else, when it involves walking around with (for me) large amounts of cash, I'm always a bit nervous. I've never been robbed (yet...knock-on-wood). But somehow my paranoia tells me the day I get jumped I'll be carrying a pocketful of rent money.

Anyway, back to walking the Bogota streets to the bank. As I approached Plaza Bolivar, I could hear chanting and see a crowd from a couple blocks away. There was a protest going on, for what I wasn't sure. Peaceful protests are nothing out of the ordinary here, I see them perhaps every few weeks or so, for everything from political reasons to anti-bullfighting animal rights.

Photo Credit Colombia Reports

Today's was the biggest I'd seen, however, with Plaza Bolivar overflowing with people in front of the Palace, and a crowd of onlookers around the square. I later found out that it was over 15,000 students on a march to "demand a decent budget for their universities". I kept walking down the street to find a group of riot police in full body armor with shields, and one or two with vests loaded with canisters of something which I guessed was tear-gas, leaning against the side of the graffiti-covered grocery store building.

About every other block from there, I found another half-dozen or more Colombian riot police chilling on street corners, even several blocks away from the protest. I also passed a couple Colombian SWAT armored riot vehicles, which look like tank-truck hybrids.

Probably what struck me the most was the large number of people who continued walking with little more than a glace at all the excitement, or for some, not even a glace. It reminded me that, however similar it may seem at times, it's a very different world than back home, where events like this are not necessarily out of the ordinary.

a weekday getaway: Villa de Leyva

2009-10-12T18:01:00.023-06:00

continued from "a weekday getaway: Tunja"...

With buses and Tunja having taken up most of our day, we arrived Wednesday evening in Villa de Leyva, a small colonial town turned national monument, and one of the nicest colonial towns I've seen.

As the Lonely Planet states, it's "a popular weekend getaway" for the citizens of Bogota. Hence, tourist boom, and all the wonderful goodness that comes with it. Cha-ching! Ah well. Tourist prices are of course an inevitability. It's not so bad, as long as they're worth it. Villa de Leyva was a mixed bag in this respect.

Daylight having faded, and us following suit, we grabbed a hotel. Generous Brendon offered me the full size bed, while he took the twin, because at home, I'm on the pullout sofa. In all my thanks, I did not notice that my bed was essentially a giant, cushionless rock with sheets on it, while the twin, while small, had one of those fancy "mattress" things on it. Damn.

Whatever. Dinner then bed. I had seen this restaurant that had the promising words "The Beer Factory" in it's name, so we went there. It was...disappointing, as Brendon clearly demonstrates in the following video.

Overpriced and under-delicious. Sigh. Time to go Fred Flintstone and sleep on my rock. What followed was one of my top five worst night's sleep ever. Skipping details, let me just say that mosquitoes are one of the greatest evils in this world.

Morning, glorious morning came and we rented a taxi-truck to take us around to some of the nearby sights. There was El Fósil, a large kronosaurus fossil...

El Infiernito, Spanish for "little hell", an archeological site known for its' many "large phallic stone monoliths" (which had we read before visiting might have changed our expectations and resulted in a far less hilarious stop)...

Convento del Santo Ecce Homo, a convent and church with a beautiful garden with some museum-like displays...

And lastly the Ostrich Farm, where you could get up close and personal with the birds.

I could not make myself forget the fact that they are descendants of velociraptors, and so kept my distance, while Brendon on the other hand had to get in their face and trash-talk them.

My belief that ostriches on farms are not necessarily tame seems true (another example of something you could never get away with in the USA), though Brendon's verbal abuse in a faux Australian accent could not provoke them to attack. After the tour, we ate ostriches burgers in their restaurant (our hopes of being able to go "That one!" and pick our meal from the pen were tragically dashed).

After finishing our tourism of the surrounding area, we decided to try a new hotel, resulting in much nicer rooms for five bucks cheaper. The night concluded with a successful second attempt at Mexican food, and closing out a bar with some new-found local friends who were singing, surprisingly well (audio clip below), and some of the accursed aguardiente.

Losing the Tongue

2009-10-11T12:16:00.000-06:00

continued from "Holding the Tongue"...

It was 20 hours to the border and I had just enough money to pay my exit fee. This meant my dinner, breakfast and lunch were leftover crackers and a bottle of water. Nigel had graciously payed my last lunch of Chinese food the day before. By the time I arrived, much later than expected, I still had another hour to travel.

The Lonely Planet said minibuses went for the border every hour or so, but I saw none at first glance. Thomas later confirmed he never found them either when he passed through a week later. Instead, I found the common and commonly hated taxi drivers begging for my money. Unbenownst to them, I had none! My neighbor on the bus ride was Colombian and knew I was headed to Bogota, so he found me and offered to split the fare to the border. Knowing I was running out of time before the border closed at 7pm, I agreed, but first explained my lack of cash. No problem, we'll stop at an ATM on the other side said the cabbie. Good deal, this is going well.

It took nearly 2 hours through beautiful rolling hills to reach the border that was supposedly only 1 and a quarter hours via bus according to the Lonely Planet. Ha...Once we finally arrived in the border town after a nice drive and friendly conversation, we stopped at the very friendly immigration office were I spent the last of my money, both Colombian Pesos (leftover from 6 months before) and Venezuelan Bolivars, on exit stamps. Next stop, Colombian DAS. No problems, 60 day visa secured. Wow, this is going well I thought. And I thought too soon...

ATM #1. Failure. ATM #2. Failure. ATM #3, 4, and 5: #FAIL. I assumed at this point there was something wrong with the ATMs, as it was the same with my previous ATM attempt on the Brazilian/Venezuelan border. I would find out later my account had been scammed at said other border of just over four g's. Now, eerily dark in a sketchy border town with a frustrated cab driver where I needed to catch a bus in less than one hour without a good nights sleep in several nights after two weeks hiking, climbing, boating, swimming through the jungles of Venezuela, my mind is finally shot. My best solution to the current problem is to find a store where I can buy the taxi driver something for approximately what I owe him, $15 dollars, on my hopefully functioning credit card.

No problem he agrees, I'll just get myself a new pair of shoes. Cool. Right? We walk into a store that is about to close, in a whole town that is about to close, and there I am surrounded by 4 bored sales guys, 1 curious store owner, 1 Colombian tourist, 1 Venezuelan taxi driver, and 1 pair of $50 shoes. I tried to explain I did not owe that much. I'm trying to convert correctly in my head, they are converting wrongly in their heads. I pull out the calculator. I don't believe anyone cared. I know the shop owner wasn't comfortable. I was a gringo. I did have a credit card. I didn't speak enough of any language at this point to argue anymore. I finally threw up my hands and said, "Fuck it!" Merry Christmas. Happy Birthday. I just want out of here.

I paid almost $60 in the end, the cabbie gave me $5 back, lying he had no more to spare. Fuck you. The losers outside the bus station tried to hussle me for a fake bus ticket. Fuck you too. I found a really nice saleslady inside who said I could pay with a credit card at the other location. Fucking a, how do I get there. For a moment a few hours ago I was scared I would be stuck on the Venezuelan side of the border. Now I was afraid I would be stuck on the Colombian side of the border. I paced around like a frightened, exhausted lost child in a giant department store with my bags close to my chest. I looked the worried tourist, the prime target, the ripe for the picking gringo.

"Oh, don't worry, just get on the bus and pay at the next station," I finally translated after several failed attempts. Yes! Ok! Thank God! I am leaving tonight. After I confusingly paid for my ticket and using the very very last of the wallet, cash-only tax of $1.50, I fell fast asleep on the bus ride and awoke the next morning to the rolling greens and sparkling yellows just a few hours north of my new, soon-to-be temporary, home of Bogota.

Holding the Tongue

2009-10-10T20:45:00.004-06:00

As we rode the bus up and out of the city on Wednesday, the oranges and browns of the bricks and mortars disappeared, replaced by the greens and yellows of the countryside. I recognized the road almost immediately as the one I bussed in on nearly 2 months ago and my mind wandered to that eventful series of days...

Having just flown in on a plane that morning from the tourist laden Salto Angel falls and nearly broke with just enough money to get myself out of Venezuela, I was in no mood to be ripped off, talk to strangers, or anything the like. Almost as soon as I had purchased my bus ticket and sat down to wait the 90 minutes until my departure, a lady in nearly perfect English approaches me asking to switch tickets with her...

Having read all about scams like these, I somewhat declined at first. She explained the story of how her friend had requested her to buy his ticket as he was running late only to finish the purchase when he called back to have her buy a second for the girlfriend. In between this time period, I had purchased mine and therefore the seat adjoining the girlfriend. Convinced and now wanting to help, I agreed to switch seats once on the bus, but kept my original ticket, it had my name on it anyway. Deal closed.

What happened next was a 45 minute conversation that started out about Hugo Chavez. In the past 2 weeks I have tried vehemently to avoid any talk about the president of Venezuela, he not being our biggest fan, but I have not been successful. The first time I was drunk in a bar with Thomas. The only others in the joint were the bartender/owner and his friend. Both talked so much shit about Chavez, I thought I was in a different country. During the conversation a police or military official came into the bar, but not to join us or arrest us, simply to accept his bribe for the night.

The second time was overhearing a Venezuelan-born tour guide in Canaima go on and on and on about the failed policies of the Chavistas. I nearly wanted to enter into the conversation myself, but opted for my bed as it was my first real one in a few days. Now two days later I was again having a talk with an Anti-Chavez activist.

Funny, I thought this topic would be easier to avoid and being an American I was perfectly fine with keeping my thoughts inside my head for the safety of my being. In most of these conversations I stayed relatively quiet, listening more than speaking, out of curiosity. I was surprised to hear such open negative thoughts about the current administration. Being foreign, you wonder often about the openness of politics in foreign countries, most especially politically controversial ones. It seemed almost as if these few people were telling me about their plights because I was American. The Europeans, the Colombians, even the fellow Venezuealans were not listening, fewer were speaking.

The topic progressed beyond politics into economy, religion, education, and of course, travel. When it ended I felt I had made another unexpected friend in yet another country the result of a conversation I had purposely avoided. I boarded the bus, switched seats, ended up with a better one than I'd originally had, and fell fast asleep...

To Be Continued...

a weekday getaway: Tunja

2009-10-10T16:30:00.004-06:00

This week we got out of the house and played tourist in the nearby towns of Tunja and Villa de Leyva, a few hours outside of Bogota.

The first day began with our second, but much longer trip on the TransMilenio to pick up a bus out of town. With some luck, we managed to snag one of the nicer buses with cushier, reclining seats, and a TV with a DVD player, featuring some kiddie mystic-magic-Harry-Potter-ripoff flick. Just as we were in a near-sleep state of travel bliss, the bus pulls over to the side. Colombian military board the bus: "Everybody except children, out of the bus with IDs ready."

Interesting.

I half considered whipping out the little camcorder to video this whole event, but changed my mind at sight of the various automatic weaponry which the soldiers were carrying.

For a second I wondered if the decision to bring only copies of our passports, as opposed the real thing, might be an issue. It wasn't. While everyone else's IDs where kept while we stood outside on the side of the highway, mine was given right back to me. Brendon's got taken over to a guy in a little shack with a computer where his passport number was taken, but that was the extent of that. One random guy got padded down. IDs were returned, the bus was re-boarded, and we were off again.

A short while longer and we arrived in Tunja a town of about 160,000 people and capital of the Boyacá department of Colombia. With an hour or so to kill before the churches and museums of interest opened, we wandered around looking for a decent bar to no avail. Never a good sign.

By the time we'd found a restaurant and had lunch, the tourist spots were open. First was a colonial mansion turned museum. A tourist police officer gave us a tour in Español. Catching about every seventh word or so, we managed to get a very clear understanding of the place. Some guy lived there a long time ago, and, it's very old. Yeah. It did have some interesting painted ceilings that blended European mythology with some local mythology, and random non-mythical animals.

Moving on, the goal was to visit two churches. One was having multiple funerals. One was closed. The last attempt was very ornately decorated, but photos were not allowed. With Tunja seeming to hold nothing else of interest, we hopped on another bus for the far more touristy Villa de Leyva.

continued from "a weekday getaway: Villa de Leyva"...

visa renewal day

2009-10-02T11:30:00.002-06:00

With our initial 60 days in Colombia having flown by in a flurry of uneventfulness, it was time to renew our visas.

Personally my visa renewal experience is limited to Guatemala, where the current system in place involves making "border runs" to Mexico to kill a few hours before re-entering the country with a shiny new stamp on your passport. Thankfully, Guatemala is a country where one can still avoid that day-long event and grease the wheels a bit to have "a guy" get it done for you. Not that I did such a thing...twice.

Colombia's system is much simpler. We got the required docs, copies, and such listed in the Lonely Planet, then went to government branch DAS where we learned that we only actually needed about half of those. Ah well. If the LP was 100% correct on something like that, the universe would probably implode.

We walked fifteen blocks or so from the DAS building to the bank where we had to pay for the extensions. Waited in an long line of people who could not operate the ATM, then we filled out the wrong deposit form before we finally got it right. Another fifteen blocks back, but I needed a passport photos. A clever entrepreneur-extraordinaire waits on the sidewalk right outside the office with his digital camera and photo printer and aided in crossing that off the list.

All docs accounted for and turned in, all that's left is to get our fingerprints taken. We're on the books. Damn. There goes out potential life of crime...At least in Colombia.

Three hours in total. Not bad, but it was stressful, so how better to cope than a visit to the micro-brewery? With new stamps, our Colombian life goes on for thirty more days till we have to renew again. Woo.

one year

2009-10-01T10:18:00.003-06:00

Today marks exactly that. One year I have been "on the road". Gone from the U.S. of A. Disappeared from first world societies. In all truthiness, I am not really sure where to start writing this blog. For the past two days I've thought about what I would write on this aniversario with nothing really coming to mind then or now. So, let's just write...

Perspective. Changed. How could it not be? Struggles. Every day. Different in many ways than friends and family back in the real world, but the same in other ways, on other days. I am still looking, just like many in life. Looking for what is next. Looking forward to the surprises. Wondering where I am going: physically, mentally, socially, spiritually...

Physically I am on a road, sometimes a dirt one, sometimes a paved one, sometimes just a trail, going somewhere around the world in some odd fashion. The path is literally almost always winding, like I am going around a corner the entire time, never able to see more than 5 feet or 5 days in front of me. True it does straighten out once in a while, or at least it pretends to long enough to feel comfortable again. Rest, rest, rest...

But forgetting that road might drop off at any moment throws the mental state of being all out of whack. When it actually happens. Breaks are rarely applied. You just hold onto whatever shit handle you can find. "It" being the unexpected. When the bombs in the head finish exploding and the storms of the journey settle, I step back and realize, with a grin on my face turning into wholehearted laughter, "This is why I am here."

I've read several blogs from long-term travelers about making new friends and making new ex-friends a few weeks later. It's mostly true. The joy of new friendships cannot be underestimated. But with it always comes the realization this person will most likely not be a significant part of your life in the future. And that, that can be depressing. Its like fishing in a catch and release stream. Sometimes however we break the law. Those are the moments lived for. It's like turning suddenly into a field at ridiculous speeds trying to escape the cops chasing you out of town for causing trouble. Causing trouble is fun, we too often forget that. That excitement. That adrenaline. That story. That is worth losing a few to make one new.

Spiritually, where am I? Some days I am honestly not really sure. I explore ideas, I act on others, I forget even more. Another part of my journey with so many questions yet to be answered. But the core remains, Thank God.

So where does that leave this story? Most obviously...to be continued. And that is something to cheers to: health, success, and another crazy year down roads unknown...

Belem to Venezuela, Part 4

2009-08-28T23:54:00.004-06:00

Overcast and early, we arrived in Boa Vista to find the next bus leaving for Venezuela at 12 noon. Having read the following in the Lonely Planet, I ventured into town to take care of business:

"Travelers of many nations, including USA, Canada, Australia and most EU countries, need to obtain a Venezuelan tourist card before entering Venezuela by land. The process can be completed in Boa Vista and takes about a half-hour; you’ll need to present a passport photo, and copies of your passport data page, your Brazilian entry stamp, and the front and back of your Brazilian tourist slip and yellow fever vaccination certificate. Photos are available at booths in Boa Vista’s main plaza, and there’s a copy shop around the corner from the consulate Xerokão Center (Rua Barão do Rio Branco at Av Ville Roy). Be aware that the consulate is open weekdays until noon only, and Venezuelan border control is not as lax as it used to be." - Lonely Planet, Brazil, Latest Edition

However, when I arrived at the embassy after having my photo taken near the park as described, the lady working pulls out a 10 year old copy of a policy that says United States (and most other) citizens do not require anything. WTF? Knowing its 3 hours to the border, and 3 hours back, I am afraid of having to return should she not have understood me correctly, but we head back to the bus station anyway to purchase tickets north after a breakfast of hamburgers and a little further, inconclusive, internet research. Guess I will take my chances, what other choice do I have?

Having read about Venezuela's parallel (i.e. black) market rate differences and not expecting any ATMs at the border, I pulled as much cash as my bank would allow or about 2 weeks worth of money, and boarded the bus as soon as possible after I kept watching this guy stare me down following the withdraw and counting process. We arrived at the border town and immediately started being hounded by the money changers. The rate was better than expected and it actually seemed quite safe to carry around the large wads of cash we just converted.

We crossed the border without issue. What? Lonely Planet, fail. My name was jotted down in a book, no tourist card was issued, no immigration form filled out, no photograph required. Nothing. This, I was to find out over the next few weeks, would be one of the first of many Lonely Planet failures. Later, in skimming the back of his older, more outdated, South America on a Shoestring, Nigel found a conflicting report to the above.

It was only 6 days away from my 6 month anniversary of arriving in Brasil and now I was officially checked out, and checked in to another country. I was happy to trade the Portuguese for Spanish, but I was of course sad to leave my home for the past half a year. A cab was awaiting us past the guards, who never even looked up, and for a mere $2 took us 30km into Santa Elena de Uairen where the next 6 days would be spent trekking Monte Roraima. Bienvenidos a Venezuela. Tchau tchau Brasil.

Belem to Venezuela, Part 3

2009-08-27T23:27:00.008-06:00

Remember the paranoia, well I half ignored it in pursuit of our bus to Boa Vista from Manaus. The Kiwi Nigel speaks fluent Portuguese and he seemed to not be in a big hurry to get to the bus station any earlier than we needed, so I didn't hurry myself as I normally do to arrive well before the scheduled departure.

Ooops. Well, almost...We arrived via taxi to find the bus already full, but with a later departure leaving in 3 hours. I guess we'll get there, just a little later than expected I thought until we asked if there was another bus company departing sooner. Go behind the bus station, cross the road, and next to the hotel is another company. Maybe it's just me, but isn't the point of a central bus station, a rodaviaria, so that everything is in the same place and easy to access? Confused, we dash across the parking lot out back, around a fence, and up to a road with no cross walk, no bridge, just cars speeding past. Ten minutes later we are still standing on the wrong side of the road. The bus, we were told, was leaving in a few minutes...

Finally, after a successful game of Frogger, we lived to see the other side, only to find a building next to a hotel where it looked like a bus station once existed many many years ago, dirty dusty dark windows. I wasn't convinced we were in the right place so after a few minutes my paranoia kicked back in and I encouraged Nigel to use his language and running skills to go back and get better directions. But, not being able to cross the street again, he found an old man instead who actually was sober enough to tell us to walk down one of those alleys I typically avoid in a foreign country.

Half way down muggers' alley, we see a bus, lights on, engine running, pulling out onto the street. Fuck. We run. It sees us. We jump on. Exactly two seats left. In the back. Right next to the toilet. It smells. My nose eventually adjusts, a movie is started, lights go off, I crawl upside my hammock turned blanket and fall fast asleep. Despite the seat location and the bus being a little out of shape, it was one of the most comfortable sleeps on a bus I'd had in awhile.

Border Crossing Next...

Belem to Venezuela, Part 2

2009-08-26T22:43:00.006-06:00

Having already visited Manaus, I knew it was hot, muggy, and not really full of excitement. We were interviewed on the street one night by a few school girls about why we were here, did we like it, etc. I kept my mouth shut to be nice while Alex, who actually liked the city, gave the girls an A for their assignment. I stayed inside most of the 3 recovery days, but one afternoon was spent visiting The Zoo.

Described in Lonely Planet as containing animals "rescued" from the jungles by the military, most appeared pretty depressed inside their cages. A few roamed wild, but not exactly as the guide made it seem. But, there were tons of monkeys so I was happy...

After the zoo, Nigel and I decided to go (more like attempted) to see the Encontro das Agua, or meeting of the waters. Here the white waters (actually light brown) of one river meet up with the black waters (actually red brown) of another. Supposedly for a few kilometers they run side by side, but our quick water taxi across the Amazon to the town of Careiro prevented our visualization of this "phenomenon".

Careiro was a small town literally built on the shores of the river. A main dock in town offloads trucks heading north to another smaller town by a similar name 150km north. Few stores lined this main road for a quarter mile and for a few minutes we thought that was it until we ventured onto the boardwalks behind the buildings. Kids ran about, a few even tried riding bikes up the planks. (Something I'd never try.) The rest were swimming. A typical hot day, I considered the diseases I might contract by giving into the cool waters and said fuck it. I striped down and canonballed in, hitting the bottom covered in ?riverweed?, it being only 2 meters deep. Houses stood on stilts, a few less fortunate than the others.

We grabbed a few beers, after fulfilling our picture quota and the kids were finally bored with us, while we waited for the free ferry headed back. It took about 10 times as long to get back and we still didn't see the meeting of the waters, but we did catch a nice sunset.

The following day, the Kiwi and I packed the bags and waited for the night bus headed north to Venezuela via Boa Vista. Alex, our British mate had decided to stick around and head into the jungle for a 4 day trek. We wished him luck since he had an uncanny ability to freak out about spiders, moths, butterflies, and whatever else crawls, flies, or lives in the jungle...

Continues Tomorrow...

Belem to Venezuela, Part 1

2009-08-25T22:43:00.004-06:00

After my long long long bus ride up to northern Brasil, I jumped upon a boat heading back into the Amazon. I'd not yet convinced myself I wanted to do the boat thing again, but I met up with a Kiwi and a Bloke the night I arrived in Belem so I figured what the hell, its cheaper and its good company. Six days of card playing, vodka drinking, book reading, and hammock sleeping were about to begin.

The trip was better than I expected, more fun than the first, and it only helped I made a few new friends along the way. Two hippie couples spent their time making some crazy jewelery. Not usually a fan of hippies, these ones were super cool. The most entertaining evening on the 3rd night included exchanging lessons in language (English, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian) with the kids and bartending (Dirty Martinis) with the adults. Madness, mostly on my part, ensued, but I woke up with more new friends the following morning and a worthy pain in the back of the head.

At halfway through the trip, we switched boats and spent a hungover few hours in Santerem taking tourist photos. One nice thing about traveling in groups, it's easier for me to just take the camera out and act like what I am.

The next few days were rather uneventful and everyone was ready to be back on dry land after 6 days on the slow boat, in our case a super slow boat because the engine starting acting up and we went at half speed, thereby taking an extra 12 hours to reach our destination, the Amazonian city of Manaus...

Part 2 Follows...

Stood Up!

2009-08-19T02:07:00.003-06:00

Maybe for the first time in my life I have actually, categorically, been stood up by a girl. The story started while visiting Salvador on a simple Saturday night at a bar/club called Borracharia. Now apparently I was the only one to find this name quite amusing out of the group in attendance. Not laughing yet? Let me explain.

In Portuguese, it simply means tire store. The type of tires you put on your vehicle. This tire store however closes down at normal business hours, but then transforms into a really cool underground-ish type of club. In Spanish however, borracha is slang for being drunk. Adding a form of -ia to the end of a word (in Portuguese and Spanish) simply implies a place where one does said action. (Lavandaria is a place that you wash (lavar) your clothes.) Maybe its just me, but I found it ironically entertaining that this was a place where I was going to get drunk. What a perfectly honest name for a bar.

But what about the stand up? Well, Victor decided to talk up a girl we were standing next to at the bar and I eventually became included as the focal point of the conversation. Once her friends arrived, we all enjoyed the night of dancing to everything from mid-90s Matchbox Twenty (yes they are still in love with that decade) to Beatles to AC/DC. As the night wore on, the party dwindled and phone numbers were typically exchanged. Except...I had abandoned my cell in Rio de Janeiro, so I left Victors numbers instead.

Two days later, no phone call. I figured nothing of it, planning to leave the following day as already behind schedule until I received an email: "Hey, phone numbers didn't work, but let's hang out. Drinks at my favorite bar Monday night." Sure why not, I hate being on schedule. As Victor, my couch surfing host lived a good hour outside of the city, I figured it smart to grab a cheap hostel room in town, also giving myself the opportunity to see the tourist part of the city, Pelourinho, the following day before catching the night bus up to Recife.

I arrived later than expected due to Salvadors poor public transportation, i.e. the bus never came, but not later than our planned meeting time, 9pm. I sent an email with the name of the hostel and a number to reach me at before taking a quick shower. Ready for a few drinks: no reply, no call. Alright well, I have a number, let me try calling it. Two pay phones later, nothing but a message I could barely understand. I returned to the hostel and asked to use the owners cell phone. The family running this place, Pousada dos Sonhos, was super nice and gave me a great deal on a private room. I finally translated the message: "This phone number is disconnected. Please hangup and try again." WTF? Huh...

Never heard from the girl again. No email explaining something came up. Nothing. What can you do? I took the opportunity to get a good nights sleep in a real bed, instead of a couch, for the first time in a week. The next day I walked about the cobbled stone street of the "Pelo", ate lunch at an African restaurant, Salvador (and the encompassing state of Bahia) is known best for its rich heritage of black african culture, and visited a few museums. It was an enjoyable, lazy day.

It's now been well over a month since my first encounter and my first failed re-encounter and no word. I wonder how many more of these I might (not) have. If its only one every 25 years, I think I'll be alright. So...cheers the girl who disappeared!

a day in Bogota

2009-08-18T20:11:00.008-06:00

Today's goal was rather epic: Be Productive. Or in other words, actually get some stuff done, as opposed to...whatever we've been doing (though to our credit, we did find a nice apartment, for cheap, which is no small feat).

First on the list, cell phone hunting. After a couple marathon walks around La Candelaria and up throughout Centro, a major shopping district, in an attempt to find a cheap cell phone without any luck, we moved on uptown in the search. And thus we entered the holy land of tech, the mecca of computers: A three story building with, and only with, computer stores, their numbers too high for any mere mortal to count them all. Store after store after store of laptops, netbooks, iPods, and any other little box of electronic goodness. Alas, cell phones were mostly of the high-end, smart phone style. But after breaking out of the hypnosis, we found exactly the kind of cell phone we were looking for: used and cheap.

Cell Phone - Check

Task two, try to repair the not-so-waterproof, waterproof camera at a repair center (hooray for warranties). Olympus USA says just take it in, no documentation needed. Olympus repair center in Colombia begs to differ. We shall return, but for now...

Repair Camera - Failed

Next, ride the TransMilenio, Bogota's much heralded and very popular public transportation system, an above ground bus on steroids slash wanna be subway since it runs in traffic-free dedicated lanes (more like steroids, crack, and any other drug used in these kind of analogies combined). It's actually pretty cool:

Pay your flat rate fare, get a plastic card, use the card to go through the turnstile (something I would not have achieved without the help of kind stranger).
Like any good public transportation system should, it has a very confusing route/map/grid system. Figure that out, then squeeze yourself onto an overcrowded bus.
Pray the bus you picked stops at your station (this part is key).
Squeeze yourself off the bus when it stops at your station during the few second window of opportunity before the doors close again.
Congratulations! You have just survived the TransMilenio. With any luck, you made it where you wanted to go. Woo.

Ours was just a "trial run" of the TransMilenio, only trying to go a few stops from our starting point. But it worked.

Public Transportation - Check

Lastly, buy food to stock our new apartment. So it's off to the supermarket. Interesting items of note:

"The Grab Bag of Groceries" - Don't know what you need? Then just grab one of these babies, which has everything from rice and pasta, to toilet paper and powdered juice, all for $11.

"Receipt Checker Guy" - a la Sam's Club, a guy at the exit verifies all receipts on the way out.

"Super Bagger Man" - Yes, he bags your stuff, but he does so much more! He pushes your cart outside to the curb! He hails you a taxi! He loads all your stuff into the taxi!

Grocery Shopping - Check + Tip for Super Bagger

More to come on grocery shopping when I return with a camera...

the david why

2009-08-17T14:27:00.004-06:00

I was nearing the end of my year off between high-school and college. Eight months in Guatemala had flown by in a flurry, soon I’d be going home, and the little taste of the travel drug had made me an addict. One country wasn’t enough, I wanted to see the rest of the world. Unfortunately there was the small matter of four years of college in between me and the world. There were no other options to be had. So applications had been sent, acceptance letters received, and the bastard named Enrollment waited for me with an evil grin.

But the storm clouds parted. Brendon, who I’d become friends with at a Spanish language school in Guatemala, mentioned offhand how he’d like to have another person join him on his trip. The conversation started out jokingly, as Brendon listed various "requirements" of whoever would join him, and I quickly answered, "I can do that," to each one. Gradually the tone became more serious, and eventually, over the course of several weeks, turned into an outright offer to join. Dream. Come. True?

It was time to break it to Mom and Dad. I tried to imagine how the conversation would go: "Hey Mom, Dad...So you know how I was gonna start college this fall? Yeeeaahhh, um, I’m gonna go travel the world for two years or so instead. That cool with you?"

It turned out it was cool with them, more or less. They were surprisingly supportive. I decided to go home and work for a few months first, but before I even left Guatemala, I bought my plane ticket to meet Brendon. Thus, here I am in Bogota, Colombia. College will come, in its own time. For now, I'm at the start of what I hope will be one of the greatest journeys of my life, waiting to see what lies ahead as I pursue my current life goal: see as much of the world as I possibly can.

paranoia

2009-08-17T11:08:00.009-06:00

Phew. Almost thought I lost the bus there. I now have extreme paranoia for missing buses, planes, what have you. It most likely is the product of missing, usually by sleeping though, departures in the past. Once I was 10 feet from the gate at Austin-Bergstrom and dozed off just before the boarding call only to awake 45 minutes later no plane in sight.

In my awakening this morning, I heard the conductor say 10 minutes and took this to assume our re-departure time. I not so quickly wandered into the bus station in Teresina, which more represented that of a third world country than what Brasil has become over the past decade. My mission was to find water as my bottle disappeared sometime during the previous night and I needed something to wash down my cookie breakfast with.

The first stall/store I walked into I grabbed two of those plastic cups of water, the ones with the aluminum seal, not a big fan as the metal screws with the taste, but they were the coldest. $2.25 I'm told so I hand over a $5. The girl asks if I have better change, something more typical of using a $20 or $50. I reply no, she looks around, and repeats herself. I look inside my pockets and pull out $2. Only a quarter short and usually never a big deal. She says no. Not awake and thirsty, I leave dumbfounded and a little pissed leaving the water on the counter soaking the top of the $5 magazines.

The second stall I stop at (after a rapidly walked to the next floor) is selling two real bottles for $2.50. I try again with the $5. No change I reply, so the dude comes out from around the counter, asks two other vendors, and finds the appropriate change. Meanwhile I have found something else to purchase, but I am returned $2.75 for everything. After giving the "are you sure that is all?" look, he confirms. Maybe he cannot add, it is not uncommon for basic arithmetic skills to be lacking since the introduction of calculators have removed the learning requirements for many.

Finished with my watering, I return to the bus. Well, where the bus was and was not anymore. Porra. Half freaked, I knew it had barely been 10 minutes. I asked a random dude where it went, no understand. Asked the baggage dude: "It's up on the 3rd floor." Phew. I run up the ramps and stairs, seeing the Guanabarra logo on the side of the bus, but when I near, its the wrong one. There are none others. Puta merda. Asking a man who looks like he knows what's going on, I'm told it will be parking in stall 10. Its empty now, maybe it is still driving up here.

10 minutes later. No bus still. Another bus by the same company comes and goes. Maybe it is filling up with fuel for the next leg is the though going through my mind, but paranoia is already well set into motion. Idea, look for other passengers. What did they look like? I was sleeping. Everyone looks the same. Wake up Brendon. Think. I briskly walk back down a level and notice the man from the seat in front of me. No bag, he is still traveling. Still, I am not convinced. Images of me inside a taxi rushing to catch up with a bus flash through my head, but eventually more and more passengers begin to arrive as does the bus 20 minutes later. Phew.

dance, dance, dance

2009-08-16T20:07:00.004-06:00

Tomorrow we move into a nice, albeit small, apartment in the historical center of Bogota, La Candelaria officially ending the last 6 weeks of living on the road in hostels and homes of new friends. But before the next chapter of life in a foreign country begins, lets go back a few weeks to the point where I ended off last...

I have just embarked upon the longest bus ride of my life, 36 hours, but first let me tell you about the last 72 hours as these next ones will provide little entertainment.

Four hours ago I woke before my alarm, a rare occasion. Ironicly, I set two not expecting to wake up. Three hours before I crashed my bed, just as the sun was rising. I half expected to be in the back of a cop car 2 hours before that, thanks to a random DUI check point and a not entirely sober driver. Some random dude in the car behind us ended up driving our vehicle the rest of the way home, still curious about that. I took the opportunity to sleep off the fun...

Speaking of dancing, in the past 3 days I have jammed and/or danced on 3 separate occasions. All involved an incredible live rock band with excellent electronic music in between sets. Somehow Brasil has managed to find a way to combine two of my favorite genres of tunes and then turn it live. I love it. Simply amazing. And the crowd on the floor never dwindles despite the change in pace, type of music, etc.

Before the policia intervention was one of these rare dancing moments in my life. With a little help of the bottle, everyone was going crazy, girls especially to the sounds of Victor and Leo performing at Chevrolet Hall. It was not perfect, I did have an amazing fall, which I blamed on the slippery floors, but got up and kept dancing, all the way into the parking lot after the show were we continued the festivities for a short while with the hatchbacks open the iPods blasting.

The real party however started 3 hours prior, while we rocked out in the streets of Recife with a beer vendor who is the best street bartender I've met yet (and better than a few real bartenders I know). When the rain started to poor, no problem, we just crammed inside his circa 1980s VW station wagon jallopy and kept the beers flowing from the cooler in the trunk. Myself taking the drivers seat and all continuing to jam, beers in hand, to the shit sounding radio. It was one of those experiences where I remembered this is what I live for, this is why I travel.

Another few hours before, beers and dominos started my day (or technically afternoon). Never a big player, I and a new friend, soon to be DUI culprit, cleaned house. But, it was the night before where a live band rocked the house with covers of Elvis, The Beatles, 80s and 90s rock, even a little country. And as mentioned, a nice helping of DJ Tiesto, Oakenfold and more were spun during the set lists. Amazing.

~

Recife knows how to party, there is no doubt. These are just a few of the details, stories from the first club the first night of my arrival, are nearly missing from my memory already, but quite similar to those above. Boys I will return one day to spend a little Carnaval time in the city, thanks for the couch (actually entire bedroom) to crash on, and good luck staying out of trouble!

delayed...again

2009-08-07T21:44:00.003-06:00

The plan was to arrive in Colombia yesterday, the capital city of Bogota, but instead I find myself in a posada in the middle of Venezuela not even half way there. How did I exactly end up here?

Four weeks ago I set out north from Rio de Janeiro to Salvador via plane, a bus ride several days later and later than planned, I ended up in Recife. Another extra day there than expected, I took a hungover 34 hour bus ride to Belem staying less than 12 hours before boarding a 5 day turned 6 slow boat to Manaus. Two recovery nights and then it was north to Venezuela via a two buses, a cab, and a little walking over a period of 24 hours. Arriving in Santa Elena de Urien, I walked into a tour office first thing and found a trek going up Monte Roraima the next day. The following six days were sleeping in a tent and the 7th wasted recovering before catching an 11 hour night bus to Ciudad Bolivar where I had arranged a tour and flight to Angel Falls. Now I sit in a hostel, almost a week behind schedule + today as the plane broke itself and everyone else was booked up.

But what schedule am I talking about and why do I have one? I am always running late and therefore I hate schedules so the majority of this trip so far has been without. However the new addition to the crew arrived in Bogota, Colombia two days ago.

Mr. David as you may recall from Guatemala stories, has officially joined this crazy trip and promises to bring enthusiasm and perhaps a different perspective to living life on the road. So while I finish up my trip in Venezuela spending the last few bolivars in my pocket climbing waterfalls, David will be exploring Bogota. So welcome David and good luck putting up with me for the next however many days, months and years...

so there i was...

2009-07-11T02:07:00.002-06:00

standing in the maternity ward of a hospital...

Just one of those moments in life where you go, how did I get here? Why am I here? What is going on here? Well thankfully in this case I have all the answers, no tests to run, no people to inquisition. My couch surfing host is visiting a friend who is having a baby and as I am virtually living inside his life for the next few days, this places me inside a very nice, clean and rather pleasant smelling hospital ward.

So sit back down, everything is okay.

random Brazilian differences

2009-07-10T10:00:00.004-06:00

Often while traveling, I enjoy noting the differences between the way life functions in the country or city I am visiting compared to back home. Here is a collection of various things I've noticed over the past few months in Brasil.

Drive downtown in any major city in the United States and you are sure to find a parking meter. Even more likely you will find a ticket on your car because you didn't feed enough quarters into the machine. In many third-world countries, although I have yet to drive vehicle, you can park for free just about anywhere you want, no tickets. That does not however mean your wallet will be left undamaged from petty theft to keying, your car is a symbol of wealth and will reap the consequences. In Nicaragua, to help prevent vandalism, little boys often hang around popular areas and offer to "watch" your car for you. Whether or not they actually protect the vehicle, or just watch someone break into it, is up for debate. I like the way Brasil does it. Instead of machines or adolescents, men are payed wages by the city governments to monitor parking areas, assist in parallel, and collect tariffs. Cars are protected, people are employed, and the meter never runs out. Win, win, win.

Credit or debit? I think that question is asked to me more than any other. In restaurants, bars, grocery stores, shopping malls, everywhere accepts a cartão. Not just credit, debit. Punch in your pin number and no signature is necessary. And better yet, the whole transaction is done at your table, right in front of you via wireless card readers. For those geeks out there like me, they can connect directly to the card transaction networks via cellular service.

Although the United States is considered a very "service" minded country, we took a step backwards in one industry decades ago by removing the man at the pump. For as lazy as we can be or for as busy as we make ourselves, it seems odd to me that full-service gasoline stations have gone the way of the dinosaurs. Drive up, pop the fuel latch, request the grade, run the card, drive away without ever leaving the vehicle. Only thing missing is a way to pee without getting out.

Hot vs. Cold. I've always stood by the idea that at least in cold weather, you can put on more clothes, but in hot weather, there is only so many you can remove. Well, at least here it is acceptable for men to take of one additional item, the shirt and walk into just about any establishment without question. None of this no shirt, no shoes, no service crap.

Malls are huge. If not at the beach on a sunny day, cloudy days Cariocas spend shopping. In my few short years I have lived on this planet, I have been to many malls around the world, but Brazilian malls are quiet impressive. On top of that, the food court rocks. Sure you can find McDonald's and related fast-food junk, but more popular is eating or drinking at one of the many nice, upscale restaurants or botecos. And forget about 9pm closing time, I left the mall at midnight one night after downing a few pints of beer (however lost inside the corridors wondering if a Terminator was going to bust out of a wall at any moment).

If you cannot find time in your busy (not really) lifestyle to make it to the mall for your fast-food fix, McDonald's delivers. So does everyone else. Drugs, food, groceries, you name it. Anything a farmácia carries including: prescription drugs (which you do not need a prescription for), tylenol (for that killer hangover you cannot get out of bed for), soap (if stuck in the shower), condoms...you get the idea. Did I mention many are open 24 hours a day? Not having a car, the grocery entragar option was great. While this is finally starting to catch on in the US, it's not just ordering online. Just show up, fill up your cart, pay the bill, drop your address, and an hour (or a few) later you have saved yourself a taxi ride or lugging 50 lbs. of bags up a hill. No time to shop, 99% of restaurants deliver.

Speaking of food, pizza in Brasil beats out any other place in the world, including Italy and most of the United States. You can order just about anything on a pizza if at the right place. Of course delivery is an option, but the best deal is the rodizio. Where we have "buffets", the Brazilians improve with table service. I can stuff myself with unlimited supplies of pizza without ever getting up as the servers bring around pie after pie, including dessert pizzas for less than $10. Now if I can just figure out why someone would ruin it with packets of ketchup and mustard.

Now if you ate too much and are having trouble crossing the street before a car hits you, just pound feverishly on the hood, it is well within your right and proper etiquette. I'm not sure what this is compared to, but I wanted to note this.

That's about all I have for now, I am sure there will be many more of these types of lists in the future...

the "tourist bus"

2009-07-09T11:53:00.005-06:00

Only once, in Dublin, Ireland, have I boarded a "tourist bus", but my couch surfing host suggested it as a good way to see most of the city of Salvador since he was busy working. For U$15, Salvador Bus is cheaper than cabs and buses between the spread out metropolis.

I arrived at the mall to catch the bus around 9am while people were already busting down the doors to get in on a Wednesday morning. Barely awake, I trolled the mall for the ticket counter, even though I knew I could buy one on the bus directly. At the same time, I scoured for a coffee joint, with cold drinks. I never found either.

Standing outside waiting, I thought I'd failed on the bus too, but it was just a few minutes late and I boarded as the only passenger. We picked up a few more as we stopped at hotels along the way to our first tourist sight, Farol de Barra. A lighthouse on the tip of the Salvadorean peninsula, it looked cool from the outside. Unfortunately, these bus trips only give you 10 minutes at stops, not enough time to pay the entrance fee and look around. I suggest 25 minute stops, that's about all I ever need to look at anything.

The bus drove around town, talking out of speakers about the town, in both English and Portuguese, but I was too tired to understand either. We stopped at the Praca Municipal for lunch, except my brochure said lunch was at the Mercardo Modelo. After some broken language barriers were overcome, I found out I was to meet the bus after lunch at the market, which was apparently underneath us. Turns out it wasn't exactly underneath, but there was an elevator for 5 centavos dropping us to another level of the city where I found the market and much required food with a nice view.

The rain started just after lunch and at the point I realized it was better to be on a bus, even if it stood out around town like a sore thumb and smelled of gringos. At least I was partially dry. Between the large, overpriced, but good lunch, the rain, and the movements of the bus, I began slipping into sleeps.

The next and last major attraction, the Igreja do Donfirm went like this for 10 quick minutes: bus stops, people clamor out, up the church steps, flash flash flash, scamper up the aisle, flash flash flash, back on the bus. I almost faked a genuflection because no one else did. But the guilt of pulling out my own camera, flash off, disappeared being in the company of heathen tourists. Or maybe the guy selling beer outside the was the sign that anything is allowed.

The last 10 minute stop was for ice cream. It is either the oldest or most famous or best or something sorvette in Salvador so despite not being a big ice cream fan, I indulged with a scoop of graviola and mihlo verde, or green corn. Yes, you read that correctly. I first tried this flavor in Saquerema back in March, delish. It is actually yellow though. Of course there were 30 other odd flavors to choose from (see album soon), all better than Baskin Robins.

I continued to nod off and woke up thinking I missed my stop, but not. Following the crowd outside of the mall to the main bus station across a few overwalks, I waited on the platform while bus after bus pulled in and out, in and out. No sign of "Praia do Flemengo". Then it came, opposite side of the station, I ran through the crowd, dogging like the best, not alone in my pursuit. To day dreams again I went, waking up on occasion and scared I'd missed my stop. I always think I've missed my stop. Finally I asked for assistance, confused where we were, thinking I was going to be backtracking. But again, thankfully wrong.

the first couch

2009-07-08T07:33:00.002-06:00

I arrived in Salvador to meet up with my first couch surfing experience on Tuesday evening. Walking out of the airport baggage terminal, Victor was already waiting, 30 minutes early and recognized me immediately. Car parked on the curve 5 steps away, I tossed my bags and we went off to grab some grub. Salvador is a seaside city full of seafood dishes so he ordered up some boiled oysters and shrimp pastries to compliment the beer. A good start to my first couch surfing experience if you ask me.

A good, interesting, half un-American conversation later, we headed to his apartment literally 1-block from the beach, palm trees and all. Both having to wake up early, it was quick to bed. Or not. I struggled. And struggled. At first it was the mosquitoes, I'd forgotten I had return to a summer, humid, bug filled environment and came very unprepared so I put as many clothes back on as possible without dying from heat exhaustion and tried again. No real luck. Combined with being in a new place and having my sleep schedule used to 4am, I think I finally wondered into dreamland by the time Victor woke up that morning, scoring myself all of 2 hours of sleep.

It's 7:30am, today is going to be a long day...

2 weeks and counting

2009-06-21T21:45:00.006-06:00

The day go by. It's hard to believe 3 months ago I was moving into this house I will now be leaving in 2 weeks time. Seems like just yesterday, but Carnaval seems like forever ago. I guess that's what happens when you spend the majority of your days working and sleeping and saving.

I imagine the next less than 14 days will disappear even quicker. While I am sad to be leaving an amazing city and good friends, I am also quite stoked to get back on the road. Itching for the experiences, I will be heading out alone, but sure to hook up with travelers along the gringo trail up into northeastern Brazil.

Following my excursion into a very different side of this great country, I will head back into the Amazon (via boat again, ug!) and up into Venezuela with a stop at Victoria Falls hopefully. Quickly crossing the country, I plan to arrive back in Bogota, Colombia where I will be meeting up with David at the beginning of August. More on that later.

In the meantime, I have many many stories to write, and I'm hoping to shoot some video footage of Rio de Janeiro before my departure. Already visited a few musuems/galleries last week and plan on a few more next. Other than that, I am just counting down the days...

P.S. As I have had a few days of spare time with little work left to do, I've updated the site in various places. Mostly behind the scenes, but you will notice a few improvements on the outside (except for Maps which I actually broke). Plus, there is an updated schedule on the Join Us page and a few additional contributors on the Support page. Thanks again to all for your prayers, wishes of luck, and support!

My Carnaval, Not Everyones

2009-04-22T13:20:00.003-06:00

The closest thing I can think of to relate what Carnaval (in Portuguese, everywhere else, Carnival) here in Rio de Janeiro was for me like is to go back to my small town semi-roots: "street dance". If you are unfamiliar with the term, "block party" might be more adequate, but I cannot imagine many of these go on these days with all the laws regarding underage drinking, liability litigation, etc.

These two ideas come to mind in attempting and failing to describe Carnaval in Rio de Janeiro: "street dance" and "block party". Essentially they are the same thing, but for people from different places. If you are from the middle of nowhere Nebraska, the former term rings true to your roots. If you are from the big city, perhaps the later is more to your liking. But this holiday really is not just one, not just the other. It's both. It's bigger. It's bigger than bigger. It is people from both walks of life, from country to city, from slums to mansions, together, in harmony, at the largest party on Earth.

Now what entails a good party? For the 11 million inhabitants of this city along with the 2+ million estimated tourists, it can mean so many different things. But I selected to be apart of where "the people" go. And they go to the street. Called a "bloco", some 100+ variations exist starting weeks before the official celebrations and even a few, including the largest, ending weeks after.

A few ingredients go into making a bloco. The already mentioned 1,000's of people are important. Next a party must have music. In the majority of cases this consists of a two story bus, specifically designed for Carnaval, to carry a multi-piece band, singers, etc. on its roof along with camera crews, reporters, and VIPs. Because buses move (that's right, this party moves down the streets, like a parade, but you are in it), surrounding it by 5 feet on 3 sides is a rope held taut by requiredly huge Cariocas (imagine the burns keeping out the 10s and 20s of people pushing on it simultaneously every 10 feet). Another 50 feet of caution taped area in front of the bus, a marching band huddles to perform an incredibly drumtastic array of original beats and compositions commissioned solely and specifically for this bloco, interspersed with traditional chants from around the country.

With great music, there is dancing. Another key part. While I have always considered myself the tall white guy who sticks out like a sore thumb at the disco club, who always requires copious amounts of alcohol to even get out onto the dance floor, and then continues his downward spiral for the night by actually believing he can move, I was not this person at the bloco. Not that any of the above did not happen on a few occasions, I found the following to be true of dancing during Carnaval. I'm not the biggest or goofiest looking person dancing. I'm not self-impossed to finish 10 drinks before starting. I'm not require to have any skill whatsoever. What a relief it was to realize these facts and be able to partake in one of the many things Brazilians love: dancing!

Of course, just because it was not necessary, does not mean liquids were not flowing from all corners of the streets, into mouths, and out of urinary organs back onto the corners.

Imagine going to a 4th of July celebration. Every family brings a nice, huge styrofoam cooler to pack enough food and beer for 25 guests. Remove food, replace with, more beer. Put cooler on shopping cart (remember: moving). Stash extra 12 packs underneath. Now imagine the families only 2 feet apart. Limitless, endless, infinite. All good words to also describe the flow into the mouths of young and old. Next imagine that $1 = 1 beer or $2 = 3 beers. No piggy is killed. Finally, imagine a party without port-a-potties, which are not quite as portable as their name might imply (remember: moving). So back onto the street corners the flow eventually returns and in parts of the city hosting multiple blocos over multiple weeks, the smell of piss permeates the air until the next big rain. (Don't imagine that, it's not pretty, but it is the Carioca way I was told and who doesn't want to fit in?)

In review, we have 1) people, 2) music, 3) dancing, 4) booze and lastly: 5) giant dudes in pink tutus. More specifically, costumes. Bloco parties each have their own theme and sometimes this includes dressing up. One of the most popular and hilarious is the "cross dressing" themed event. I was quite literally traumatized by many, but the saying around here basically says you can and should do anything, and no one, not anyone can hold against you because, well, "It's Carnaval."

End story. Want more? There can be more, but this is what I did for 2 weeks. Rio de Janeiro offers so many additional forms of entertainment from big costume parades in the Sambadromo to private anything-you-want-to-imagine parties to special club events. These events however are not what the people, the Cariocas, born and raised here do. They party and dance and drink in the streets. And its Marvelous!

road construction ahead

2009-04-14T12:29:00.007-06:00

Being on the road is quite simply, amazing. It provokes a different way of thinking for a new kind of life. Good and bad, not all is always well, but life is always swell. At 6 months into this journey, I have experienced so much in so little time. From people, new friends and old friends. To places, rich in heart and poor in pocket. To cultures, changing sides and staying past.

There really is no where to start or way how to write an epic summary trip launch-to-date blog, but I figured I owed to it readers out there to give an update, a look into the future. (For the past, see the archives.) In short, I'm taking a sabbatical from my sabbatical and will get back "on the road" in a few short months, continuing this journey down roads unknown, but until then I will be living the life of carioca in Rio de Janeiro. Since I've already summarized what I want to say next, here are excerpts reprinted from my personal blog:

"I've been on the road for exactly 6 months now. October 1 until April 1st. Crazy. What to think about that? Europeans I've met along the road travel upwards of 12 months before returning, but as far as Americans, it's rare. Since our culture likes to set anniversaries for things, I figured something would happen at this point in time. I assumed it might be some sort of realization, maybe a random change in itinerary, perhaps a friend joining, or an epiphany of small magnitude. I did not however imagine being solo. Ironic it is our trip, this road we were on, has taken a twist of unknown proportions today."
...
So what's next, then? I'm placing the backpack back in the closet and temporarily settling in to a new, short life here in Rio de Janeiro while I [work] to continue onward. During my anti-sabbatical, I will be hoping to further document life here in "The Marvelous City".
...
At large [the itinerary] has not changed. [I will return] to Colombia, perhaps via Venezuela and follow up with Ecuador, Peru, Chile and Bolivia [before] eventually landing in Argentina. I'll search for that boat to cross the Atlantic to South America in time for the World Cup 2010 [then] crossing African and cutting into Asia. [This] goal to see the world I am sincerely committed to and hope to finish successfully with the continued support of friends and family."

--excerpts from blog titled "Transitions and Ambitions", April 1, 2009

Perhaps that does not answer so many questions still lingering out there, so feel free to ask. Again, thank you to all who have and will continue to support this adventure and remember, the offer is still out for anyone to join, for any period of time, anywhere in the world! Wish luck, say prayers, or give karma. Obrigado...

service without a smile

2009-03-22T11:38:00.007-06:00

If you have ever traveled outside the United States, you always miss this one thing we Americans pride ourselves upon: Service. Until a few weeks ago when we arrived in Brasil, this thing called service has been more or less non-existent. Even with a fake smile, nothing really compares to the culture of service we have created in the U.S. Here in Rio de Janeiro we have however been re-introduced to quality in the restaurant, both in food and help. But before I write that story, here's one from a few months ago while traveling in Panama.

If I ever need to be reminded I'm in Central America, I just walk into a restaurant. Hospitality, by and large, for the most part, generally and specifically speaking, considering all others, fucking sucks. Blows balls. Esta mierda. Ever been to Europe, maybe specifically London and wondered what you got for 10%? Whatever it was, it was a hell of a lot more than here.

So I'd just eaten not too many hours ago, but it was dinner time and my stomach was habitually growling. Cheap sounded good, but raining I passed on the street vendor sandwich guy for cover and ended up in the Chinese restaurant in Bocas del Torro. Walking in, I saw down and the menu was quick to be delivered. I needed no time to consider, if its just Chinese, I most always go with a fried rice. Typically slow, the masera (server), returns for the order. Drinks always come late. Never quickly. Sometimes with food, something after. Fortunately fried rice takes about 2 minutes to cook up so my simple order of water came with.

I eat quickly. I know this. There were a few other tables who received food before, but close to my time, so I timed off their completion. Not that hungry, I figured I'd take half home, remember I'm eating Chinese, its take-out friendly. Fifteen minutes post consumption, I'm still waiting for a return visit. Good thing I wasn't thirsty for a second drink. The ladies pretending to work sat up front talking. I gave "the glance", nothing. Twenty minutes, one comes out and cleans off ta table that left. Glance, no vocal, no arm waving. Its not "accepted" here. Another table is cleaned off. Twnety five minutes. Now I'm just starring into space, but directly at one of the ladies. I actually here her call something across the restaurant like, "What da ya want?" in a uneducated, we are lazy bs and why are you here, tone of voice. I just want a box. I've figured out by now you get up to pay the check. I'm not however going to get up, plate in hand, go to the counter and ask for it. If I was in the States, it was one of those times you just walk out 45 minutes later without paying, but the only way not past the cs was off the dock into the ocean.

I half started to respond, shape a box with my hands, and said screw it not wanting to yell across the restaurant now completely empty. It was only $2 worth of food. I walked out, dropping $5 on the counter, not even waiting for my change. I had no where to be, no one to see, but I'd have rather stood in the rain eating a sandwich. Street vendors are super nice, super hospitable, super cooks. Sounds backwards? Welcome to Central America.

hammocking

2009-02-15T12:10:00.003-07:00

Sleeping in a hammock for 3 straights days isn't all its cracked up to be. Sleeping next to a cute Brazilian girl who dresses like she's hitting up the non-existent club every day on the boat however, is.

The 200 other people crowded in next to you within a space of 25sq meters, not. Listening to the humming of the engine in between the peaceful bliss of the Amazonian waters, sign me up. Cold showering once every other day in the toilet slash shower, think again. Reading 2 good books while sipping on maracuca (passion fruit) filled with vodka, wonderful. Regreting eating lunch and sharing the lou with two chickens who've already disposed of theirs, never again.

Attempting to communicate with a super-friendly couple who shares any fruits, cookies they are eating with you, unforgettable. Arriving on solid ground, swearing to never sleep in a hammock again, relief despite the rain and cold.

Leaving Central America

2009-02-04T19:17:00.006-07:00

For me Central America has come with its ups and downs lefts and rights and just about any other direction that one can think of. A part of me is happy that I am leaving C.A. and another part of me is already missing it. I feel like after four plus months I should have some great insight for you but I really don't think I do. So as I walk across the border I have thought of a list of observations, experiences, or random musings that you prolly don't want to ponder but have crossed my mind more than once. So without further ado....

It has been weird being gone for this long and not really knowing anybody. I have been out of the states longer but always with a certain group of people that you spend every day with. I ended up hating most of these people or just knowing them in passing. Traveling for me has one downfall (or it could be an upside depending on my mood). You never really get to know anybody. Everybody you meet turns into a disposible friend that you use as entertainment until you part ways. It may be one hour it may be two weeks but you know that the chances of you seeing them again are slim. Don't get me wrong I have met wonderful people that I know I will see again and know for a very long time but these are few and far between. Of the hundreds that I have met I can count these people on two hands max. I have however started a fairly decent facebook friend collection. Maybe that can define my personal happiness.
Outside of my family and friends I can truly say that the only things I really miss are Mac & Cheese, Sushi, Grilled Cheese, & Tomato Soup. I know people should miss things like hot showers, sorority chicks, and all the other conveniences that living in the states brings... Yeah I miss food.
Jaywalking is an art that must be mastered in Latin America. The unfortunate part is that the learning phase can easily have deadly consequences. It is, however, a necessity.
Service in C.A. is def not what I would call "top notch". In fact one learns very quickly that holding your hand up and whistling is not an unacceptable way of getting the server's attention. In fact it is expected. I am strangly ok with this. I will trade the service for the slower paced lifestyle. That and it completely opens up my dinner hours (notice the plural) for my second favorite hobby. People watching.
At first being in a foreign country bothered me. I like being out of my conmfort zone but it was difficult for a part of me to get used to the crowds and complete lack of control of my surroundings. After four months I am still a little nervous without cause but I have for the most part gotten over it. I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. Most of me loves every step further out of my comfort zone but a small part of me worries where it leads.
I think that if I total it up I have spent the better part of three weeks on a bus. This just isn't normal.
I love the culture and the people around C.A. The vast majority of the people have been nothing but wonderful to us in any situation. I hate that there are the few that make me distrust many. I can't decide if I am more angry at these few or at myself for falling into the trap of distrusting so many people.
In order to travel like this you have to get used to and embrace the idea that you can't control everything. In fact you control pretty much nothing. Hopefully things go your way but they will not all the time.
Perhaps the best hug that I got was from the owner of the corner store on Christmas day. It brightened my day a thousand fold.
It pains me to see the poor and transient populations of the world. I want to give a quarter every time I walk past one but it comes down to a problem of numbers. What saddens me more is that this population is pushed aside, pushed around, and pushed to the background by communities and governments in favor of the flashy tourist industry.
People are diffent from me. They have lived completely different lives, have completly different ambitions and expectations, and understand about as much about me as I do them. This is what makes travel interesting and difficult at the same time. Finding that line between your quest for experiences and respect for those around you.
I have always been a fairly prompt person. I did not fully realize this until lately. It does drive me a little crazy when people are not on time or I am late for something. This, however, is part of the culture here. 30 minutes late is right on time.
Hostel living isn't easy. I am tired of the same lines. The "get to know you" conversations get old when you have to have them every single day. It seems to me that the where-are-you-from-where-are-you-going-how-long-are-you-traveling conversations seem to turn into a type of competition between travelers of who has gone the most places or playing the longest. I can only take it so long before I seclude myself and hide from them.
HIPPIES-enough said
It really sucks when the incredibly hot chick sleeping above you speaks absolutely no English. It makes me sad.
I like the random experiences you get when you least expect them. In Granada at the circus Joslyn randomly paid for a family of four to get into the circus. One of those gestures that you do without any hope of getting anything out of it. The next morning I was standing in the market while everybody waited for the bus and the mother grabbed me and told me not to move until she got back with breakfast for the two of us. I have never seen a complete stranger so excited to buy anybody else anything. It made me really happy.
I like sailing. Brendon makes fun of me for this alot.
I feel like I might have misspent some of my time in Central America. Part of this is because of the short time we really could stay places another is because I was using C.A. as a school for my Spanish but while it was probably one of the best times of my lie I would have liked more from it. I am making that my goal for South America. Stay places longer that don't revolve around gringos, get involved in the local scene, do some real volunteer work, and immerse myself more in the local culture altogether.

Bocas on the Wagon

2009-02-04T17:03:00.005-07:00

I sit here as sober thoughts enter my head. I write and many find themselves on paper. The rest do not. Where do they go? Why can I not record them all? These other thoughts, these other memories. Gone. If I wasn't on the wagon, I would understand. Booze stole them away. But Jack, Jim, Jose, and James are not here.

~~~

I sit here on a Friday night in an island town full of gringos, locals alike ready, some already starting to party. I'm reading Jack Kerouac, On the Road. He talks about a crazy life, with crazy friends often ready, most already partying. And I'm on the wagon.

~~~

The "Chinos" are back! This is a good thing. Nicaragua had none. Therefore no Asian food. Mexico did. Guatemala did. Even Belize! And now in Panama. And just like in Belize, they own all the grocery stores in town. Which also sell liquor for cheap. But I'm on the wagon.

~~~

These French might be stupid. I'm not making fun because they are French. I thought the point of a balcony, as designed, as shaped was to sit in a line watching the people, the traffic walk by. Not arrange half the chairs in a semi-circle, in the middle, blocking the sides including the door so I cannot leave without awkwardly stepping over them. It's not a deck. It's not a living room. I need to get off the wagon.

~~~

Tonight I ate dinner at the nursing home. Reason why? It's one of the least non-expensive restaurants in Bocas serving "Asian Fusion". Of course it was no where near the price range of Zengo's, but definitely out of the price range of backpackers. So I'm surrounded by the cruising aged crowd instead. Daily budget gone, good thing ATMs like me, better thing I'm on the wagon: more more expensive dinners.

~~~

It just dawned on my why there are an overwhelming number of girls, attractive ones at that, here in Bocas. Backpackers are cheap asses. I'm reading the local whats-up-around-town-at-night-where-are-you-going-to-party-we-hope-with-us magazine, flyer thing. Every night there is a ladies night. Sometimes multiple said nights at the same place. With this being the case, guys only need to by themselves booze and girls drink for free. Too bad, so sad I'm on the wagon.

~~~

So those are some random wagon stories I wrote while not indulging myself in one of the largest party towns in Panama. There are more randoms to follow. I spent 4 days walking around, sleeping, reading, and not drinking leaving plenty of time for writing not so important, odd, weird, boring, entertaining stories.

The Slums of Panama City

2009-02-03T16:32:00.005-07:00

You show up in Panama City and from the word go the modern nature of the city is in your face. You look at the skyline and see the high-rises with apartments starting at a quarter of a million dollars. Anywhere you look it seems you can find an upscale shopping mall to pander to all your materialistic needs. Apple stores are about as common in the city as ATM's. You can see the massive amount of construction that is making these structures multiply. Anywhere you look it is easy to be deceived by the amount of money that has been poured into the city itself. Once you are off the beaten path you begin to realize that there is a much different side to the city itself.

Casco Viejo has a history within Panama City. It is the second of three rebuilds that the city has gone through and possibly holds the most colonial culture in the city itself. Way back when after the Spanish decided that they were going to rape and pillage as much of Central and South America as humanly possible Panama City was established as a major artery to bring the plunders of their conquests to Spain from South America. The first of the cities was Panama Viejo. Panama Viejo now stands as stone ruins on the north side of the modern city. The cathedral tower stands as a monument to a city that was sacked an destroyed in its entirety by Henry Morgan in 1671. The ruins are now protected by the government and are a huge tourist attraction.

After picking up the pieces Panama City was moved to what is known as Casco Viejo. This place is the colonial heartbeat of the city to this day but for a time was basically abandoned by the affluent for the allure of the modern city. Casco Viejo quickly slid into a series of slums that were dangerous and a threat to the developing tourism industry of Panama.

Casco Viejo became one of the worst and run down parts of the city until the government realized the cultural and tourist gems that dotted this peninsula. Two years ago they started a very ambitious rejuvenation project that was aimed at bringing it back into the limelight of the tourism industry. Rightly so too, the entire area is littered with magnificent churches, governmental buildings, colonial architecture, convents, museums, and much more. It likely contains the most heritage in all of Panama City. The Colonial buildings mark the last that have been spared by the expansion of the modern city. The Churches stand in defiance to the years of neglect, the neoclassical meets colonial, and of course like any tourist attraction the poor are being pushed out to make room for a playground.

This is the downside of this area. Once considered a slum it was heavily populated by people that make less than minimum wage and worry constantly about being able to eat their next meals. They lived in one of the oldest, most densely populated, and dangerous neighborhoods of Panama City. There is a distinct line that separates the barrio from what is now a major tourist attraction. One side of the street is restored buildings and the next block is run down shanties. This is the area that the hotel tells you not to walk even during the day (I walked). People sleep in the streets and the buildings are collapsing. This is a place that represents the war zones of the Eastern Bloc that you see on TV.

The question I pose here is at what point does tourism begin to become detrimental to an area. In this case Casco Viejo has been recovered for the benefit of a huge industry at a very large price to the government. They have effectively pushed all of the poor and lacking population to an even smaller part of the city. Population density in these areas has shot up and crime is an every day ordeal. At what point do you start thinking about the least fortunate demographic of a city and not about the people that want to see a church on their holiday? It is the same in any city in the world that attempts "Urban Renewal." Ambitious policies like the Broken Window policy don't stop crime or reduce it. They simply move it to a different place. The poor neighborhoods get poorer and more dangerous because people cannot afford the cost of living in their old areas and are required to move and continue the vicious cycle.

Now I realize better than anybody that we don't live in a perfect world and projects such as these are an important part of economies around the world but at what point can a city that badly needs the tourism take a serious look at the impacts that it has on their least acknowledged demographic.

ducharing

2009-02-02T17:38:00.002-07:00

I knew before I left which things I would miss the most. Possibly at the top, hot water. I love my showers. Whether its to wake up in the morning or relieve a splitting hangover. I'm a fan.

Here in Central America and probably the majority of the world (I'll let you know), hot showers, hot water in general is a luxury. I've been spoiled the last few weeks in Nicaragua, we might have been the only people I knew with one.

Cold showers. This is how it goes. You put your left arm in, rinse it all about. You put your right leg in soap is all about. Except unlike the hokey pokey, there are more appendages. You put your armpits in, damn cold. You put your...You get the idea. If any guys out there still banking for delay, start thinking cold showers instead. Funciona.

So instead of 20 minutes of water wasted and a half clean me, it's conservation of a declining world resource and more smelly me. Cake on the Axe, ladies here I...Or not.

Crossing the Border to Hell

2009-01-26T20:29:00.007-07:00

Alright you have to excuse me while I put a little rant down on paper. As the namesake implies it is about border crossings and how they are the incarnation of an idea formulated by the devil himself.

Now I like to think of myself as a patient and levelheaded person but these things make me want to lose my mind. Personally I believe that they are the worst part of traveling aside from getting all your stuff stolen out from under you (now that would suck) and I would also like to believe that this isn't the case everywhere but as far as Central America is concerned I think it is the norm. Now there are three things that make a border crossing pure hell: the officials, the helpers, and the tourists.

The Officials

Now I understand that they are just doing their jobs, albeit extremely inefficiently, but seriously. Did 75 percent of these guys ride the short bus to school?? Even the most simplest of tasks for them seems to be brain surgery. I admit that part of this may be my fault because of the language barrier so I cannot lay all the blame on them but why must you spend 30 minutes and six phone calls wondering why I don't have a Nicaragua stamp in my passport. The CA-4 is not a new thing and this is your full time job. How is it possible that you cannot figure out that one stamp covers all four countries and I don't need one for every single country that signed the treaty. Like I said it is your full time job. You should know this.

The "Helpers"

Everybody at the border wants something from you. These guys just happen to want your money in exchange for walking you around the clearly marked offices. Now I am not saying that they don't have a purpose. When it becomes necessary to make that bribe to a border official they are good people to have on your side but when things are going smoothly they are just a pain in the ass. They constantly yell, grab, threaten, smooth talk, or flat out ask you for money for nothing. Annoying? Yes.

The Tourists

I like to think that I am not one of these people but I prolly am albeit not as bad as some. Example. Standing at the Panama border there were two girls sitting at the window throwing a 15 minute fit in three different languages about having to have a return ticket out of Panama for entry. Now it wasn't the statement "I knew it was a rule but I didn't think they would actually enforce it" that bothered me. It was in fact that the other 100 people in line had to sit there and watch her thow this fit. Seriously??? You took a chance and it didn't work out. Now either pay the man off, buy a bus ticket, or stay in Costa Rica. Just don't stand there complaining another 15 minutes. Deal with it.

Now I of all people know that border crossings can be frustrating there are tourist cards, visas, entrance fees, exit fees, return tickets, time restrictions, and about another thousand things that can go wrong and you have to deal with it. Such is life. But damnit I am still going to complain. And please please if you are a traveler don't start screaming at the man that just squeezed in to talk to his buddy, the official at the window, don't bitch about things that you can't change (ok this one is flexible but don't do it so loudly that I have to listen to it), and please please don't get all huffy when I pay somebody off to not stand in the three hour line. It just isn't polite.

the waters of Isla Bastimentos

2009-01-25T15:14:00.004-07:00

I woke up again at 8am for the second third straight day in a row. And I'm going to do the same tomorrow, maybe even earlier! This morning it was partly cloudy, partly sunny. It was going to be a good day in the deep blue sea.

Maybe not so deep, this is Caribbean and I am on an island, but definitely blue. I'd booked a dive trip with a company on the main island where I'm staying, but canceled at the last minute because no one else was on the roster. Instead, I headed out on a water taxi across the bay to Isla Bastimentos to dive with Rob who runs The Dutch Pirate. I liked the name better, arr!

Ended up being quite a few people on the first boat ride out, 8 in total including Rob and his new instructor/Dive Master. The first couple was from Berlin. Being "older" they had many more years experience diving in Egypt, Southwest Asia, and the Galapagos Islands. The second boy/girlfriends were from Germany too I think and had just completed the first course. Every tourist around here seems to be from Germany or Holland. Everyone was fun. I buddy teamed up with a French guy who I think said he flies/flew jets (or something like that). His girlfriend-ish was still studying for her Open Water Diver certification. He was a Divemaster in another life.

Having only been out in the scuba gear back in Belize, I was glad to be paired up with an experienced diver. The first go round we hit about 60 feet or so and it wasn't too exciting. We navigated down a trench, Chiquita Channel, where the banana boats come through on their way to/from the mainland. It was sandy, maybe you'd call it dirty, but its the ocean so I'll go with dusty. All the coral was covered in dusty sand. I tried to dust a few off. It was going to take awhile so I quit.

After 45 minutes underwater, we surfaced and headed back to the dock for our interval time where I suddenly came down with an amazingly nice set of pregnant woman cramps. Rob said it was fine, just go slower on the next round if I went into labor. I didn't. The dive at Donkey Dunk wasn't dusty, visibility better and we lost the group. Awesome. French guy had his own computer and compass so it wasn't an issue. We just swam around in a big circle anyways. Caught a great view of a huge stingray, but mostly just fish. What type of fish? The types you see in the salt water aquarium at Pets Mart.

Resurfacing at 50 minutes we found the boat 20 meters away, everyone else on board waiting. The weather had turned overcast in the past few hours, so much for the idea diving with the sun, and it started raining on the 15 minute trip back.

Now I'm exhausted. Underwater takes it out of you. Dehydrates body, impels sleep. I'm going to sleep well tonight and head main/inland tomorrow to relax in a waterfall...

the sides of Isla Carenero

2009-01-24T15:26:00.006-07:00

I woke up this morning planning to hit the ocean in scuba gear, under the water with the fishies. But at 8am, yes I woke up this early, the skies were completely overcasted from the rains the night before still so I returned to my top bunk. I don't like the top bunk but it was cooler, fans blowing all night. I actually used my sheet.

I woke up to half assed sunshine and after checkout time so I headed downstairs to pay for my extra night and find some food before I decided what to do with my day. Yesterday I explored the other side of Isla Colon, i.e. Baco del Drago where I found half a beach, a beer, a chicken, and docks to catch up on my sun at. Normally the trip out there takes about 25 minutes, but the road is still being repaired after a quite disastrous storm hit back in November and so it took 45ish.

The people here at Hostel Heike are super nice which I cannot exactly say for everyone I've not really met here yet. After paying one of the owners asked where I was headed, I had no idea, I needed food first, but I'd half figured on going to Isla Carenera. He confirmed my decision for me and I headed out there after comida.

I was dropped off more or less in the center of the populated side of the island and walked right. There are no roads. Maybe paths? My journey took me past new houses, old houses, some sort of a corral/fighting ring, and eventually I found the "beach". By beach, it implies sand instead of concrete walls and docks. The local kids were jumping off the end of the dock and the water was not that amazing, so continued to jaunter along the coastline, paths ending. I eventually reached another sorta beach and sat down on a palm tree jutting out over the water. Two more months in a hostel and my back would have thought it comfortable. Beautiful still, I figured on lounging, but the sand flys were infinitesimal.

I returned to a burm a few meters back and climbed up to take some amazing pictures. It was grassy green so I laid down the towel, pulled out the book, suncreened up, and bite. Apparently sand flies don't just exist in the "sand". Not wanting to end up polka-dotted in red, I assumed the standing position and headed back the way I came. This time I went left and found the road, err sidewalk leading through the shanty island village. I felt odd and put my camera away for a few seconds. It wasn't the nicest of places. New meaning to dilapidated. I won't start on the trash. I kept walking. It was like starting in Downtown Denver and walking west/east on Colfax, only worse. I passed multi-million dollar sailboats docked at the "sailboat lodge" only 200 meters away and eventually turned around in front of a $675,000, 2-story, 3-bed, 3-bath, office, etc. beautiful island home for sale. There was an open-house today, but I was probably too sandy to walk inside. Pictures once posted will give the full light of the various sides of this island and instead of going into a diatribe about it, I'll let you make up your own at that time.

I eventually returned to the original dock, unable to find the "bar" I was looking for. What is it about signage in third world countries. I was seriously looking. I ended up having a few beers at the dock I'd unloaded early and a Thaimargerita. Wow, talk about sweet. Tequila, triple sec, pinapple juice, coconut milk, glass rimmed in sugar. I figured its the Carribean, why not. I'm going to the dentist tomorrow. I read more in "On The Road" and got even more stoked about randomly going places, traveling without money. I'll talk more about that later. I moved tables into the sand out front near the water. Dumb. Sand Flies v. Me. I lost. But I'm here, where are you? I couple hours passed and I hailed a water-taxi. Really, I just stood at the end of the dock, thumb out, yelling "Bocas". We passed the bar I couldn't find earlier, good thing, it was full of friendly looking fun people and I'm on the wagon. No need for temptation.

Five minutes later I jumped back onto the main big island, paid my dollar fare and walked inside to write this story before the buzz set in and I forgot anything...

many more

2009-01-23T17:32:00.005-07:00

just a little update...I'm down in Bocas del Toro...Jason is I have no idea...I've written two blogs on paper in the past 24 hours but with internet at $2/hour and broken keyboards and white sandy beaches and cute surfer girls, I'll wait til I'm back in the city...plus Jason has a number to write, I have a summary Nicaragua expose, and there are many more pictures to go up...one day videos might even make it too, we'll see...i have a cold beer waiting for anyone who wants it on an island of the Caribbean coast of Panama.

back to borders

2009-01-23T14:18:00.004-07:00

So there I was in what is probably the dumpiest, sketchiest place I've stated in, yet (and perhaps ever). I went for the single bed as time again has proven bunk beds to be mostly noise. I switched in the middle of the night, proven wrong. Plus there weren't springs stuck in my back anymore. I was forced to pee on my tippy toes in socks for fear of the over zealous fungi. Three times that night.

The thought was to chug a few beers and pass out peacefully in the sty half pissed. Not so much. The guy renting the rooms was odd enough for me to not bother asking for sheets, hell I couldn't imagine them being any cleaner than the multi-stained pad for a mattress. I was leaving first thing in the morning anyway, no second thought. It was that kind of hostel. But how did I end up here?

The original plan was to head to the southern side Costa Rican-Panamanian border and end up in David, the second largest city in Panama, for the night. The original original plan was for Jason and I to take a bus straight out of the San Jose capitol to the Panama City capitol, but he switched up plans of his own at the last minute. I'm not actually sure where he went, gone before I woke up in the morning. One bus left at 7:30am and another at 11pm. Both 9 hours via the Pacific route into Panama. I liked the idea of 10:30am and went instead via the Carribbean coast. Lonely Planet said 5 hours and compared to the former 9, I liked my new plan. I arrived at 8pm. Damn math. Damn buses. No wait, damn borders.

That, borders, was another reason I selected to go east rather than west. The border is easier to cross so says Lonely Planet. I'm walking on wooden planks, split by a railroad, that shudder when a small car goes by, much less a semi. There was a pedestrian bridge though, it lasted for the first 50 meters. The book also mentions at every border crossing you "may", keyword "not really ever" be asked for proof of onward travel (out of the country). This I actually had, out of Panama City in less than 10 days, just not on me. Of course that didn't stop random border crossing guy who wants a tip to explain that I needed to buy a return boat ticket to Costa Rica. As I attempted to explain I had but didn't have a ticket to the immigration official, homeboy behind me is continuing to babble and I cannot concentrate, much less communicate. She says what he says. I say no. Where is the ticket? It's electronica. I need the ticket. Want to buy a boat ticket? Alright fine. Donde esta The Internet? Yes, even border towns have The Internet. Homeboy escorted me of course, whatever, fuck it, I'll have to tip him anyways for saying "Hi, I don't want your help." No really I'm fine. "Thanks for not listening and continuing to follow me." Friend. Amigo. High five. Shake shake. Slap slap.

One dollar, 75 cents printed me out a copy of my itinerary. I copied and pasted into Notepad. I could have typed it up myself, but then it might have looked too legitimate. Returning to the border, I bought my $5 tourist card and walked back next door to see my now friendly immigration official. The only problem leaving Costa Rica I had was a double take from immigration because I'd only been in the country for 2 days. He said nothing, just stamped.

Then the fun began. In the 6 hours before, I'd read the border closes early and my fear had been getting across before that happened. Now that I was over, I found out the last boat leaves at 6:30pm. The town of Chinganola was only a 10 minute cab ride away though, so no big deal. Until, I was informed the docks were closed due to heavy rains and the requirement to re-trench the river. I called bullshit at first, but another homeboy confirmed for me. Whatever, how much to Almirante? $35. Yeah right. I started at $10. I moved to $20. We were at a standstill. I could catch a bus, but the bus left in another 30 and took 45 and it was 5:30pm, leaving no time to catch the last boat. On top of that, I wasn't so stoked about getting on another two buses, chicken ones at that. Traveling alone however did not help my cause for bartering down the cost of the taxi. I had number to compare legitimate fares with, but it was for the closest town, not the second. By this point I had two homeboys not really helping. Number 2 kept checking cell phone and delaying to the last minute waiting for more people to come. They never did. We left for an agreed $21.

It wasn't even his cab. Dumbass me. Whatever, I was moving again. Unofficial tour guide who spoke English got out at the end of town and I continued onward. We negotiated traffic and came up to the turn for Almirante and the cabby pulled over. "We cannot make it in time. Too much traffic. Too many trucks." WTF? No, I told the other guy I was paying extra to guaranty I would make it. All in broken Spanish. My stay in Nicaragua had deroded my schooling in Guatemala. "Ok, ok. We try." He took off, we were stuck behind several large semi trucks. The switchbacks were worse than Hwy 6 over Loveland Pass, but the road scenic and relatively free of potholes. My window was rolled down, sucking in diesel exhaust fumes looking for when we might be able to pass. I was pointless.

Twenty minutes later I'd admitted to sleeping in someones boathouse when the cabby called another operator and assured me we would make it. Phew. I pulled my head inside and relaxed, still wishing there wasn't a giant truck or two in front. I have issues with that, but this was the only safe driver in Central America and refused to pass haphazardly. Arriving at 6:45pm, the 6:30 boat had left, but there was another. 9pm. What? Whatever, at least I was going to make it to the island and the taxi made his full fare. Then he sped into reverse and pulled over at another boathouse, 7pm launch. Sweet. I had a few extra Costa Rican Colons so I tipped him with that. Not any good to me anyways anymore. $10. Odd, there were no money changers at the border. A kid ran up and grabbed my only bag. Fifty cent tip and it didn't go but 25 steps.

I paid the $4 boat fee and got onboard. The sun gone. The realization hit. I'm hungry. Only 45 minutes to go, no problem. The bad thing about travel days and bus rides, you eat breakfast and cookies. Never a big solid meal. Who wants to take the chance of a sudden bowel disturbance? The solo meal consisting of a salami sandwich at 10am, followed by two mini-packs of Oreos and a Snickers hungry why wait had starved off the stomach as long as possible. The boat launched and made it 50 meters. Thud. Clunk. Die. It was a nice big motor, looked newish. Now it had a trap, cage, something stuck to its propeller. Thank someone for bringing cell phones to rural fishing villages in Panama, El Capitan dialed up for help. Another 30 minutes later, we were moving, out into the open waters of the Carribbean towards Bocas del Toro.

Apparently it's a rather busy little island destination. Jumping ship as soon as docked, I first wanted to drop my bags before eating. Hostel #1, no one home. Hostel #2, full. Hostel #3, dump. I'm hungry remember, long day, whatever. Asking how much I swear I was told four dollars and dropped by bag. The weird old man gave me a confused look when I only pulled out a 5 spot. It was $8. When I'd entered the hostel, by my own accord, homeboy number three for the day ran up behind me and translated what didn't need to be translated for me. He wanted a tip now. What the hell is up with these people? I argued for a second, "You didn't do anything..." before I realized I didn't want my stuff to get jacked while I searched for food. $0.75. And that's were this story started.

$1.25 sandwich, $2.75 cookies, $10 bus ride, $1.75 internet/printer, $5 tourist card, $3 homeboy #1 tip, $0.50 bano, $21 taxi, $10 leftover tip, $0.50 baggage tip, $4 boat ride, $8 room, $0.75 what for homeboy #3 tip. My math sucks. You add it up while I relax away on an island in the Carribean. Totally worth it, but borders (and travel days): suck!

Granada (The Second Time)

2009-01-20T12:06:00.002-07:00

Granada for me has always been one of those places that has draw. Yes, I like sitting on the beach soaking up the rays. Yes, I like the life of knowing a great number of people in the town that you live in, but a part of me has always been drawn to cities and as such Granada fills that void that cannot be filled by random beach towns and surfers. While not a big city, it has an incredible colonial feel to it that I can personally walk around and just enjoy for hours on end.

Last time we were here Brendon and I took the tour of the islets on the lake. The tour was suppose to include a boat trip around forty islets that make up a random mixture of houses, forts, boatyards, and monkey habitats. We got ripped off. I am pretty sure that it cost us about twice as much and was about half of what we should have seen. Personally, I think that it was because the dude's boat wouldn't go faster than walking pace but maybe that was just me. Well I decided that I would meet Joslyn in Granada. Her tour was going through there and she told me well before hand that she wanted to see the islets. I conceded to another agonizingly slow boat ride and headed for the docks with her. I was pleasantly surprised at the result of our hour long walk to the docks by a boat that was not only cheaper, but had the potential to go much faster around the lake.

This time I most certainly did get my full hour and forty islands as well as a tour guide. We stopped at the old colonial fort (again), saw the vacation house of the owners of Flor de Cana, and the boat yard. If anybody wants to buy an island in Granada let me know and I will watch after your vacation house while you are not there. I think it could work out great. But I digress. The best part for me was the Monkey Island. There were monkeys (obviously), but I don't know how you can beat a monkey in your lap eating gallo pinto. I probably have lice now, but highly entertaining. I would have to say that it was money well spent. Good company, good guide, and at least one monkey eating out of my hands.

While the random tourist attractions were fun I have to say that I most enjoyed the clowns and midgets at the circus. I kid you not, we went to a circus. Proper tent, extremely uncomfortable seats and everything else. Until the animals came out (think abused and skittish), the show was excellent! Trapeze artists, tightrope walkers, jugglers, and of course circus midgets. You know all the things you expect from a third world circus. It was ggggrreeeaaattt!

How to Lose a Fight with a Volcano

2009-01-20T08:17:00.002-07:00

I left the next day. Sad I know, but the city of Granada, boat tours, and a wicked cool circus with a bottle of rum wore me out and made me think of other things that I should do. Like physical activity and hiking volcano. Totally not the right thing for my lazy ass. I am more in shape for drinking beers on the beach than any sort of hiking, but I am stubborn.

The next day we made the chicken bus ride to Isla Ometepe. Sitting about 20 km off the shore of San Jorge in Lake Nicaragua, Ometepe is the home to two volcanoes. Maderas and Conception create a beautiful island that is basically cut off from the rest of Nicaragua. Sometimes you can hike both and I was all about hiking the taller one, Conception. Well someday the cards are stacked in your favor and this was one of those days. Conception was closed. This is a good thing people. They would probably still be looking for my body. At 400M taller than Maderes, I am pretty sure it would have killed me.

We decided that we would hike Maderas instead. Not smart, but smarter. Now if you are a hiking person you are probably going to call me all kinds of names about how much of a wuss I am and that may be true. Fortunately, I am not a hiking person and don't care. Five hours straight up, four hours straight down, a foot of life sucking mud, and a transition between tropical rain forest (hot as hell) and cloud forest (cold) made this hike one of those things that you remember. In fact, I did remember, about a third of the way up, why I swore to myself that I would never hike this volcano again after the first time I did it (two years ago). Chalk another one up to not smart. Well just as I did two years ago, I summoned all the stubbornness I could muster and managed to be the second one to the top (behind the guide). There I was treated to one ham and cucumber sandwich. Notice the "one" in there. I am a growing boy that is walking for eight hours straight here people. Throw me a bone.

With lunch done and pictures of the crater lake taken, we were on our way down. The guide said four hours, I called bullshit. Joslyn (whom I bribed into coming) and myself, maybe, the rest of the clan: no way in hell. Long story short we went down. I fell. I fell a lot. I fell on the really flat parts.

Finally after eight agonizing hours I saw the sign. The sign that was telling me I was at the end. It was large and had a giant Tona bottle on it. I have never had a beer or chocolate cake taste so good nor been so happy to walk around a bar barefooted.

As I went to sleep that night and pondered whether or not I was going to wake up in the morning (and if I did it was for sure that I was not going to be walking), I decided that I was glad I had done the hike. It was stupid and painful, but cool nonetheless.

I need to work out more.

it's time to go

2009-01-19T14:53:00.005-07:00

Now we need to leave, for real this time. The plan over the weekend was to celebrate our departure of Nicaragua this morning, but today I feel like I spent the last 48 hours in Vegas on a whirlwind tour of food, booze, and fun when I passed by the local casino (i.e. store full of slot machines).

Next time I'm having breakfast at 8am on the beach (Coquito's), having recently exited the last bar at 6am (Mache's) with beers to go, where I ended up at after the dance club (The Crazy Crab) at 3am I don't really enjoy going to, but the popular bar (Los Iguanas) closes at 2am, please tell me to go to bed. But those words did not come until later that night after said breakfast of whiskey filled coffees, orange juice and rums, and transitional beers. Nor were those words mentioned before getting on a boat at 12pm with beers, run, ginger ale, and no food (a reoccurring sailing mistake). Not until after a dinner of fish and chips and another beer (Republika) followed by an interruption of others' dinners at El Pozo where we'd started the night before with filet minon, yellow fin tuna, arugala and goat cheese salad, jumbo garlic prawns, bread pudding, chocolate tarts, and a bottle of wine, were those words finally enforced into my ears at 10pm, 28 hours later: "Go to bed!".

And so I listened. And this morning I woke up at 8am to realize there would be no getting on a bus and no crossing of a border. No new town, just not yet. So tomorrow we'll try again and tonight I will not require anyone's help. I will be in bed, where I've been most of the day enjoying the air conditioning and cable television and the relative peace and quite on the streets the day after a big party weekend in San Juan del Sur.

Christmas (Just a Little Late)

2009-01-19T11:28:00.003-07:00

So the days leading up to Christmas were weird. Every year that I spend away from my family puts me into a sort of funk. I come from one of those very close knit families that it is an unwritten law that you just don't miss Christmas. I have missed three.

In Guatemala, we decided that we would make our way down to San Juan del Sur and spend the Christmas season with the Powell family. You have all heard of them. We said that we were going to do something good for all of us for Christmas. Originally the intention was that we were going to spend the day at an orphanage in Jinotepe, but that really didn't work out (The kids go home over the holidays). Fortunately, we met Bill.

Bill is a Canadian. He is the local talent for an organization that provides help to the communities surrounding San Juan. They build roads, schools, libraries, and infrastructure for the communities that have absolutely nothing. Generally being a better person than people like myself could ever imagine.

One of the things that he does once a year is go to Managua and buy upwards of 500 Christmas presents for the children of these communities. When you are talking about people that spend their whole life with nothing, no electricity, running water, or access to any services, a simple tiara or Tonka toy goes a long way. He was nice enough to invite us to the festivities and to take part in them. And of course while the kids may not realize it, the Christmas presents are just the icing on the cake for a community in need.

When we got there we got the opportunity to meet the mayor of San Juan who came out for the festivities and was the one that did all the actual giving of presents. He showed up with two pinatas and the days events went from exciting to insane. I am not totally convinced that there are dangerous animals compared to 150 Latin American kids under a pinata. Chaos does not even begin to explain it. Finally, the adults of the group decided that the two or three pieces of candy falling out of the pinata at a time were not sufficient enough to keep the kids at bay so they started throwing it into the crowd by the handful. More chaos ensued, but injuries were fortunately kept to a minimum. It was obvious that everybody was having a great time.

In the end it was a wonderful day for me personally. I got to meet the incoming mayor of the city, watch the fights for candy, the adults truly enjoying the entertainment, and in the end I got to see a hundred and fifty kids with the purest of smiles. That one that kids get when they just got the impossible.

Giving and Receiving

2008-12-31T15:37:00.009-07:00

As I'm about to embark on yet another wild and crazy night here in San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua, I figure I ought to get a few of the ideas from the past few weeks out of my head before they disappear in the celebration of a New Year.

But, it's not quite a new one for me. Many people around these holidays spend time with family and friends, contemplating about the past 12 months of their lives while predicting the next twelve. I cannot. My nuevo ano, my new life started 3 months ago and so while I attempt this reflection, my mind only goes back that far. And my future only goes a few days (sometimes weeks) ahead...

We've been living in San Juan del Sur now for almost 3 weeks and I'll admit I have my up and down days about this small, growing tourist yet still Nica town, but all in all, spending days on end at the beach is quite enjoyable. We've made many new friends and spent time with old ones we now consider family (it's uncle Jason and Brendon, according to Freja). We've surfed, we've swam, we've eatin and we've drankin, we've shared and we've experienced many aspects of life here with everyone from the local bartenders to the new mayor, the expats and the tourists, sailboat owners, real estate agents, drug dealing ladrons, and more.

But the most important people I've had the pleasure to receive friendship from are those of the local children in a village 45 minutes south via bumpy dirt roads the VW could barely make it up while we chanted "I think I can, I think I can". It was Christmas Day and Bill the Canadian had loaded up a truck full of toys he purchased in Managua. The new mayor of the town showed up with pinatas, we ate ham and cheese sandwiches in the back of the van, our sobrinas played with the kids on the playground, we chatted up Keith from Minnesota about his expatriation and beautiful Nica girlfriend, and together we all took part in the festivities of handing out toys.

Although I'm not a big Christmas fan, but I've always been a big fan of giving. Sometimes it's just a beer to a stranger, other times an extra tip to the waitress, randomly it's an unexpected gift to a friend or family member, but less often than it should be, it's my time. I'm also not a big fan of New Year resolutions either, but next year in South America, I want to spend more moments like this past Christmas sharing myself with those who are, cliche to follow, less fortunate than I.

And that's it for 2008. Hope everyone had a Happy Christmas and have a Merry New Year!

slowing down

2008-12-17T10:37:00.006-07:00

One of the reasons for this trip, for me personally, is to find "that place". The place where I could envision myself hanging out for a few years. In reality right now, I cannot at all imagine this working out successfully for me, but I figure if I fall in love with the culture, food, people, etc. I would make a go at it. I could just end up back in the States just as well, I could find more than one place, who knows, no se.

Traveling at a fast pace I'm not convinced really allows you to see the true colors of a town or country. So just like we did in Guatemala, where we stayed in Xela for a month and might have stayed in Antigua for longer if we'd had the time, we're going to stay here in Nicaragua. Last trip down here 2 years ago we enjoyed the place thoroughly, and it is catching on with many other travelers, ex-pats, gringos, etc. So we figure, lets see if we like it. Lets rent an apartment and stay for a month.

So finally, after 3 days of searching, false leads and drying up hopes, we found a place that's perfect. It's less than a block from the beach, two decent-sized rooms, full-sized beds, A/C, shower with heat (we think although its not necessary here), Cable TV/DVD, and high-speed internet. For $500/month, it's quite expensive by Nica standards (average 2-bed $300), but its the holidays and there isn't a casa or apartamento to be found in-town in San Juan del Sur.

We'll spend the holidays here and decide what to do next when the time comes. Meanwhile we might learn to surf, maybe dance the salsa, contribute a little volunter work, and spend large amounts of time on the beach turning our gringo skinned bodies into lobsters. Oh and of course, write a few stories and post a few pictures...

firsts in Guatemala

2008-12-07T15:27:00.003-07:00

the following blog is a mish-mash of fun, excitement, boredom, but most importantly random events that either deserved their own blog (and got one) or those that did not. some of these stories were written weeks ago and never published, others i will try to make up (and remember) as i go along. the central idea is first evers, either for me, for us, or for them. enjoy...

Thanksgiving
Jason wrote this story, appropriately, since he had more at stake for missing Thanksgiving than I did. I'm not a big "holiday" person, but I have to say this was one of the best I've had. Maybe it was the idea of sharing it with another culture (or 5), or maybe because I never expected to celebrate it abroad, or maybe it was the bottles of rum that flowed afterward. Either way, I stuck to my normal managerial self and "supervised" the cooking taking a break to buy (contribute) my part of the festivities, the wine. As Jason mentioned, it was the schools first ever.

Whiskey and Coffee
My teacher and I were having a conversation the other day. It was a typical one. We say this slang phrase, do you have one like it? I was referring at the time to the idea of doing something, just for the "hell of it". Another popular variation is for "shits and giggles". Sometimes our actions are purely out of curiosity and sometimes out of boredom. Other times we say or do things just to see others reactions. Being my Spanish was only in week one phase, I couldn't seem to get the point across that I put whiskey in my coffee just to tell a story about it later. Although it was typically Jason's signature drink before a Bloody Mary after a long night out on the town during college, I'd actually never had one myself not being a big coffee drinker and all. Apparently, I am the first student and perhaps the last to do so at the school. I'm okay with that. On a side note, how fun is a school that actually has whiskey in the cupboard at 10am in the morning. Especially in a country that doesn't really drink the stuff.

The "Other" School
After studying for weeks together, Matty, Shona, Jason and I were all leaving. David, our young 19-year-old "student" of debauchery wanted one last lesson so we willingly obliged being the good "teachers" we are. The night started with a fun game of football at the concha, followed by a mini-concert by Matty at the escuela. By the time we got downtown it was late, leaving little "official" time for the training session. As we walked back to our hostel, determined to have another beer, we were rejected by the kid who watches the place at night: "I don't want to put up with you tonight." In Xela everything shuts down at 1am, but David and I had passed a bar playing a little music still with the doors slightly cracked open. I knocked, couldn't hurt. It worked. David's eyes lit up as he ran back to tell the boys the good news and I made 4 new friends. In summary, the following classes were held: 1) How to Knock Over Beer Bottles 101 (twice in two minutes by David), 2) How to Sing Bad Karaoke with Guatemaltecas, 3) How to Dance Ungracefully (Matty, dancing by himself, suddenly topples over taking out 3 tables), 4) How to Piss Off Your Wife 400 (Matty crashed our floor forgetting to tell his wife he would not be home until morning). First self-made after party. First karaoke.

Small World Experience
We arrived in Antigua two nights ago. The plan was to leave today, no more time allowed except for going just to say we've gone. Yesterday morning morning we set about town to take the obligatory pictures, visit the market, etc. and found ourselves sitting in the park going what next. The guidebook mentioned a bar with Guinness and we figured "what the hell". Two shots of Jameson later, a girl walks in and sits down next to me. I said "what the hell" are you doing here, after recognizing her a split second later. I'd first met the American named Jocelyn in Merida, Mexico on the street looking for food during a festival. This isn't the first time we've met fellow travelers, but she isn't one of those, instead looking for a new job. Yet here she was, having found employment as a tour guide only two days after meeting us. First small world story, first round of Jameson, but not the whole story, see the last last for the next round or ten of shots...

4 Bottle Night
What more of a explanation does one need? They sell rum by the bottle around here, in the bar, not just the clubs. And it's cheap, $10 for the good stuff, 12 years aged. Sound like a bad night? Try a bad next few days. The first part, no other group of students has finished off 4 in a single night. Go us!

Banditos
Another story that deserved more than a wrap up. My first (and everyone else but our driver's and director's) eyewitness account of two thieves holding up a car with a shotgun and a pistol. I love Guatemala!

Foreign "Club"
They say curiosity killed the cat. Fortunately, they have more than one life, and hopefully, we do too. Call it that or "shits and giggles" again (see Whiskey and Coffee), we were convinced one night after many turned down requests to experience our "first" foreign club. We finally decided to kill the little furball, Jason is allergic anyways. I'll admit, I've never been a fan, and I can't say I am yet. No one ever cares about the details on these types of "adventures" so I'll leave most of them out. Although no dancing was technically paid for, to continue conversations initiated by staff, you are requested to buy drinks as a courtesy (at 3x the normal cost, or $5), and the idea, of course, is to up-sell you. I tried and failed miserably, at talking (I'd only been in class a week). Anthony was better, Jason just didn't talk.

Football Game
Xelaju is the local team and who recently won their way into the semi-finals here in Guatemala. We got a chance to watch a game and enjoyed it thoroughly. Although there were no riots like those we witnessed in London years ago, I do have video that will eventually be posted showing the large amounts of confetti spewed across the field not to mention fireworks set off, mini hot air balloons let fly, and flares lit up. First game of the trip, it was a warm up for the real action that starts in 2010. Join us for your first!

Finlandia
So I can't find my book of sayings by Tom. I have a tape of many, but haven't wanted to go through the excruciating pain of re-listening to them. What am I talking about? Trust me, you don't want to know. I'm not sure even I want to remember. Tom or "Finlandia" as we called him, either suffers from massive head trauma or not seeing the sun for 3 months a year really screws with your mentality. Once I find or listen, Tom might just deserve his own blog...

Cops
Twelve hours, an entire chocolate cake, a Van Gogh painting, and (no Guinness?!) later, I found myself leaving the "after" party at 4am with two local girls, Andrea and Maria, and a dude from an island near Iceland. The idea was to "find" my hostel, but the cops found us first. I hit the Icelander-ish guy next to me saying "don't say anything", but he was already passed out. Maybe it was the fact the girls were cute, maybe it was because they don't really mess with gringos anymore, maybe it was because its Antigua, or maybe they were very nice cops. Maybe we shouldn't have been driving the wrong way down a one way either. They directed the girls where to find my hostel without citation. The directions didn't help, but eventually I realized where we were via landmarks and found my bed. I'm not so sure the hostel worker was happy to answer the door at 5am, but really, this is Antigua, little America Guatemala. And, I actually enjoyed it!

Thanksgiving in Xela

2008-12-06T09:03:00.011-07:00

So this is me Madre in Xela. Flory runs the school in which we studied for four weeks. From what I know she loves her job and as with any good educator makes sure that her students enjoy/learn the most from their time in her school. Thanksgiving was no different for us. It was an odd request in Guatemala: we wanted to throw a Thanksgiving dinner (i.e. party) in the school. Apparently, it was the first Thanksgiving meal that was cooked in the school and I have to say that it was an incredibly good time.

Everybody pitched in to buy the food and do the subsequent cooking. I have to say that even though the turkey had to have felt quite molested by the time that Carlos and Anthony were done with it, it turned out wonderfully. Yours truly made the gravy of the gods and everybody else pitched in with all the fixings. It was a day of cooking, slacking in classes, and eating until our eye balls were full.

When dinner actually came around, the crowd leveled somewhere around thirty people. There were English, American, Scottish, Guatemalan, Finnish, and Canadians present. My father used to tell me every Thanksgiving and Christmas that having the knowledge to carve a turkey was essential to being an adult because some day I would meet a girl for a holiday with her family. He is way smarter than I am 'cause I never believed him, but I learned the skill anyway. And as usual, he was right. It wasn't at the home of some girl that I was interested in however that the skill came in essential, rather a small school in Zone 3 of Quetzaltenango with six different cultures standing on while I carved a turkey and speeches were given concerning the origins of the holiday.

First went the American (no not Brendon) in two languages. He spoke of the history of the holiday and the importance of the holiday in current context. A time to welcome and thank friends and family from anywhere the speeches continued. Our new friends spoke in English (proper English), Spanish, Finnish, Scottish, and I even think there was a little French thrown in there.

Then we ate.
And ate.
And ate some more.
Did I mention we ate?

Coming from a good sized family with an even larger Thanksgiving tradition, I get a little homesick every time I miss a Thanksgiving. For me, the joy is always being able to see the people that you hardly ever get to see and catch up on a years worth of activities. This year was no different in that I started the day a little homesick when I called the family, but without the opportunity to spend it with my entire family, it was nice to share it with all our friends in Xela. Obviously never replacing the real thing this night came in a close second. Thank you all for a wonderful night, wonderful food, and letting me show off those skills that father thought so important (and rightly so).

Things I Have Learned in Guatemala

2008-12-05T17:02:00.004-07:00

So as our time dwindles in Guatemala, I wanted to put down a few of those things that I really didn't expect about the place. A few of them you might think of as common sense, but some of them really did hit me like the route six chicken bus doing 65 MPH down a cobble stone side street that is as wide as an H2. So here you go!

I will spend 90 percent of my time not spent studying or sleeping trying not to get hit by a car the other 10 percent is set aside for avoiding buses
13 dollar bottle service in the club for top shelf ROCKS!
43 people in a VW bus is the main mode of transportation
Only one arm and half a foot actually have to be able to fit inside said Micro for a ride
Said ride only costs ten cents
Having to go to the Cinema two days in a row is required to watch a whole movie because the power is incredibly unreliable
The mall reminds me of suburbia malls in Colorado
Burning buses are not a figment of the imagination
Walking around the park loaded with cash at night is a BAD IDEA! Three amigos and their friend "Chuchillo" will relieve you of the extra wieght
I can talk about anything in Spanish just as long as it consists of food or drink and maybe a bus if you are lucky
I kinda miss cell phones
If somebody offers you a police escort...TAKE IT!!! They probably know better than you
Highway robbery at nine in the morning on a Sunday isn't a completely crazy idea
Restaurant service sucks. Good news though, you really don't have to tip!
Whether you are driving through the city, one mile out of the city or four hours down the road the views are nothing short of breathtaking and the drives are simply gorgeous.
Gringo bars can actually be fun. This is especially true when there is Guat v. USA football game on tv. You just have to be wary of the flying beer bottles when your team scores.
The drunk Guatemalan who's father got deported from the US is not your friend. Tell him you are from Canada and he will buy you a beer.
The place is a little sketchy at first, okay the entire time, but it is easy to fall in love with. Xela by no means is an untouched place but it hasn't yet had the ridiculousness infused into it.
Every one of my Guatemalan friends are better than I am at getting a taxi. Totally makes sense though...
Unless it is Pollo Campero, everything is up for negotiation. EVERYTHING!

Hope: In a Coffee Bean

2008-12-02T08:14:00.014-07:00

Over the weekend Jason and I visited a local coffee finca called Nueva Alianza about 2 hours outside of Xela. Matty, our Canadian hippie friend and his family, along with a few others from our school and around also toured. He posted a great blog about the history and struggle the locals went through to live a quality life. So instead of reinventing the story, here is our first guest column from Matty...

The gods work in mysterious ways and my coffee prayers were answered ten fold. Our family visited a local coffee finca over the weekend and not only were they growing only organic coffee, it is also a community co-operative with a very interesting and heart wrenching tale of it's conception. I'll give you a summary of the historia (story) that was shared with us over a few beers on Saturday night. For those of you unaware, coffee definitely has a bloody past and this story is just one of many that have happened and continue to happen all over the planet.

Nueva Alianza sits on 650 Acres of mountainous land in the heart of Guatemala. It's a beautiful, but harsh landscape which begins with the long and bumpy road up to the community. We had a mini-bus drop us off at the start of the steep part of the road and the rest of the drive was in the back of our police escort truck. It was and probably will be the only time I was happy to be in the back of a police car. I was holding onto Freja tight the whole way as the road winded through banana and coffee trees, past little shacks with clothes hanging in the morning sun to dry. After about 20 minutes we arrived at the community of Nueva Alianza and unpacked our gear. The Eco-Hotel that we all stayed in had a beautiful sweeping view of the valley below, a view that was limited to the past owner of the finca as this was his old house that we were sleeping in. A giant mansion compared to the rest of the tiny abodes scattered around the hillsides, which is a good point to start from in the story of Nueva Alianza.

The community was made up of about 40 working families. We were told that women and children regularly carried up to 100 pounds of coffee up and down the narrow winding paths, while the men and older boys carried 200 pounds. Shattered were my illusions of the donkey and smiling man that accompany Nescafe's clever marketing. The smiles were there, but hiding behind the sweat on their brows and strain on there faces. Everything was relatively good for the people of Nueva, they were getting wages, they were working hard and content with their dueno (owner). It was after his death that the plantation started to fall apart.

One of the owners sons took over the plantation after his death, but didn't share the same love as his father. He had other parcels of land that took up more of his time. The farm went into default in 1998 and the workers were not paid for their work for a period 18 months. The owner knew that they really had no power. Under Guatemalan law, if they left voluntarily would not see any of their accumulated wages. So they persisted working the farm with no wages, surviving mostly by gathering wild plants for food. It was exhausting both physically and emotionally and some of the 40 families left to find work in the city. The remaining workers organized and sued the owner for their wages time and time again receiving little of what was owed. Eventually, the new owner declared bankruptcy blaming the declining cost of coffee in the national markets and owing by law, little if nothing to the workers.

The farm no longer operating, every family was forced off the land on which they lived for 3 generations. Through a series of discussions with the bankers, labor unions, and NGOs, they organized once more under Guatemalan labor laws and secretly decided to take back the farm at midnight on a December evening. The bankrupt owner caught wind of this, having gone to the farm earlier that morning and taking all of the equipment worth anything substantial, but it was still seen as a minor victory for the Campesinos (locals) that night. The next few weeks were spent under the threats of private security firms with automatic weapons hired by the previous owner's family. These hired guns were notorious for hostile takeovers, usually ending up in the deaths of some -if not all- the workers. The story had gained some attention and the families on the farm were spared this fate, although they kept 10 guards at the gate at all times, not allowing any strangers entrance to the land for months.

On condition with the bank for inhabiting and working the land, the workers were required to pay for $1.9 million quetzals ($250k) for the land. After the air of hostility settled, the workers applied for and received a development loan from the sole governmental organization setup after the peace accords to help indigenous groups and begin buying back the farm for themselves and future generations. A victory in a country that usually doesn't favour the community organized resistances that they had staged. The old owner's house was turned into an Eco-Hotel, realizing that tourism would be a good way to bring in capital and educate people to their plight and that of others. Over three years later, the farm was finally back in action producing equal the previous amount. The first step in this process included slaves of work to get the plants producing again, having been left dormant for 6 years. This however only produced the raw product, selling pennies in comparison to proceeded beans. Purchases of new and fixing of old machinery followed, all due to the former owners theft or lack of maintenance, and its a process that continues today with the help of numerous local and international NGOs.

Today, Nueva Alianza has many projects on the go and many more planned for the future. They realized that they could use the natural springs throughout the land to purify and bottle water for their community. It has now turned into a supply for not only Nueva Alianza, but many of the neighboring communities as well, including Xela, selling for 12Q ($1.75) a 5-gallon jug. They have a working Bio-Diesel plant, with plans to use only non-food producing plants grown on their land instead of relying on the cooking oil from nearby restaurants who -realizing the capitalist opportunity- have begun charging exorbitant rates for their waste. They also grow macadamia nuts, harvested and processed year-round. All of the power for the finca is generated on site with a micro-hydroelectric system catching energy from a nearby waterfall. The families installed a solar water heating system, which should be operational soon. A school for children in the community was created and a satellite for Internet access installed. Politically, Nueva Alianza is run by a democratically elected board of directors. All major decisions go to a vote before the families and a women's co-operative operates as well, teaching women's empowerment and sustainable commerce to nearby communities. Did I mention, all of the coffee is grown organically? Several organic techniques are used in the process, including the method for keeping pests away by making a paste from chili peppers and spraying it on plants in the nursery. Organic fertilizer is also used, created from the leftover macadamia nut shells, fermented and mixed with nutrient rich dirt in the area.

It may sound like a dream, but it's not. Nueva Alianza is a working reality in the midst of the Guatemala jungle highlands. I personally didn't want to leave, but they are limited by the terms of the loan to 40 families, 30 of which stuck to their machetes and sticks and fought for the land that they deserved, the land they worked with no pay for 18 months, the land that was their home.

I was inspired by this story. It shows that anything is possible if you really want to make a dream a reality. I will take this knowledge and passion with me to Nicaragua where I see possibilities opening for us. If 40 families with nothing can organize and make it happen, we can too. All of us. Take the power back.

To learn more about Nueva Alianza, check out the website here: http://www.comunidadnuevaalianza.org/.

But even better than that would be to go and visit it for yourself. -Matty

You can read Matty's personal blog chronicling his family's trip from Canada down the West Coast of United States into Mexico and down into Nicaragua at http://www.mattypowell.blogspot.com/.

beaches, balls, and banditos

2008-12-01T11:58:00.010-07:00

Two weekends ago we decided to get out of this cold climate of a city and find the sun. Weekend trips in Xela tend to start around 7am so we took the previous night off to be make the early trek. Fortunately, Flory (or school's director) picked us up in the microbus in front of our hostel so we didn't have to walk the mile to the school in the 50 degree morning.

An hour into the trip the jackets came off as the weather warmed. We wound our way down from 7,800 ft (the elevation of Xela) towards the coast. It was going to be a nice, clear, peaceful sunny day on the beach. I couldn't wait. From the road, you could see one of the nearby volcanoes erupting in a billow of smoke, clear as day. I wasn't paying any attention, my eyes focused on the car stopped on the opposite side of the road. But it wasn't the car trying to get a good view of the volcano that caught my attention, rather the guy standing in the middle of the road waving us on.

In his hands, a shotgun. Nothing new, we've seen shotguns all over the place, guarding not only the ATMs, but every Dominos, McDonalds, etc. Maybe it was the classic red scarf over his face or maybe it was the classic long barrel, silver 6-shooter his friend was holding inside the window of the stopped car. We passed as instructed and hurried to the nearest town where we all emptied out of the minibus and took a breather to watch the volcano erupt from a safer view. The driver warned the bus heading towards the robbery area and Flory notified the police.

After a few passengers chain smoked a few cigs, we loaded back up for the rest of the rather uneventful ride exchanging stories on who actually saw the banditos and who was sleeping. I asked Flory how many robberies she'd seen and she answered with many. In broad daylight however, it's not that common. It took another 2 hours to go less than 100k due to the permanently bad road conditions, but we arrived safely at a privado (private) beach near El Tulate.

After breakfast we headed out into the ocean. A small lagoon forms in the cove during high tide causing the beach near the eco-hotel to be quite small, so we waded through it to the sand split. The undertow coming out of the inlet was quite strong limiting our swim to only a few meters off the split, not wanting to risk being carried out and down the coast. That left us with playing a game of futbol(soccer) or football, but no one remembered to bring a ball of any time. So in the style of Tom Hanks or Robinson Crusoe (whoever is your favorite), I found a coconut to play with. Soccer was out the question after I'd accidentally kicked a coco earlier and bruised my foot.

We played two games, switching off full-time QBs during each. It was quite an entertaining time and a coconut ball is not that easy to play with we found out. Quite exhausted, we realized none of us had worked out since we'd left our homes months ago. As breakfast had required waiting for the chicken to lay eggs, we headed back to the hotel to place our order for lunch, giving them time to catch the fish and us time for siestas. Following a meal of fried chicken, shrimp with heads, and fish without, it was time to head out before dark fell and the banditos returned.

Flory had arranged an escort by the police for our return trip saying if a Guat gets robbed its no big deal, but if a bunch of gringos go down, its all over CNN. Verdad (True). The escort followed us from the nearest town back to Xela, switching off at random points with other shotgun out-the-window ready police along the way. We arrived back in Parque Central, half expecting a guided walk home, but we headed to Casa Babylon for a few beers and dinner instead. Returning home afterwards, I fell asleep quickly wondering if my first bandito experience was just the beginning...

For Matty's account of the story, click here!

holiday number dos

2008-11-25T16:18:00.008-07:00

Might as well be a holiday. Jason's birthday that is. We spend more, drink more, eat more on our cumpleanos (birthdays) than any other legitimate holiday including New Years. This past Friday was no exception.

The night started off with a huge helping of Chinese food with rest of the students and maestros (teachers). We still cannot figure out if Jason is Joshua and I Biff, since we ate Chinese food on his birthday and on mine two times ago. His was cheaper, by far at $6 per plate that serves two. Served up family style, I ate everything from the classic pork fried rice to special mushroom lo mien to stewed beef chow mien to a soup I swear had mini-looking octopi in it. It was 9pm.

Despues de (After) the loading up of carbs, we headed out to Salon Tecun, the oldest bar in Xela circa 1864. It wasn't our first rodeo here and we went straight for the bottle of Ron Botran 12 Anos. Since it'd only been Wednesday since our last two bottles, I'd barely mentioned "ron" when the bartender finished my oracion (sentence) with 12 Anos, 4 Cokes. Now, for those aware of the great quality of aged rum, not the crap Bacardi pushes down college-aged kids, its meant to be had straight, on the rocks and/or with a lime. But, we had a few estudiantes nuevos de ron (new students of rum). The bottle between 6 disappeared quickly. David is our newest trainee on the arts of bueno alcohol in moderation, but he forgot the moderation part for his first pour.

Matee decided on a beer to compliment and a round of tequila shots for him and Jason. I warned him I was not fighting with Jose tonight, but he didn't listen, repeatedly making the same mistake two more times with myself (before I scolded him again) and about 10x with Jason. The first communal round I pulled a classic trick out of the book, dumping mine into Tom's beer. Tom noticed (which is unusual), but passed the ball quickly by switching beers with Matee. Nice play Tom. Jason wasn't arguing. It was his birthday after all, and nothing could be worse than the bottle we'd managed to finish at my last. The only difference was good versus bad, but this is Guatemala, not Mexico (or Denver). It was 11pm.

By now we were at the second bar, listening to what they call ... music. It was loud so we finished out the 3 liters between us and took 1 for the road. Good play again, Tom, because it took the next 30 minutes to decide which club we were going to crash the party in. First place was dead, made up for by another round of Matee initiated shots. This time and only this time, I partook. Walking back up the street, a few nice guys started talking to us, in Spanish. I kept walking, my language skills not in the mood for testing, just yet. Jeremy tried, Jason tried. The conversation started with "hey what's up" and ended in "fuck you Americans". Jeremy is Canadian. Jason said he was Canadian. No one actually knew what spawned the insult, but something to do with U.S. immigration policy. Friend apologized and I pushed everyone into the nearest club. It was 12am.

Less than 2 minutes in, Charlie found us. While the others found a quiet corner to consume more shots, I veered away to hangout with the locals where I was reintroduced to vodka and apple juice. I first came upon this lovely drink back in France while living in Germany. Jason never believed me, I shared with him the juice of the gods and he said: "Amen". The bottle disappeared quickly, funny how that happens, and we found ourselves outside the club watching David and Jeremy and Tom walking Matee up the hill to the square. I'd say he was stumbling, but I don't think his legs were working. I laughed. Trying to fight with Jose is stupid. We heard later it took 30 minutes to find Matee's house with Tom's help; they were standing in front of it for 15. If I hadn't know better, I'd said it was his fiesta. It was 1am.

We found ourselves in a car driving away from the scene stopping 10 minutes later at the biggest "Quicky Mart" I've seen yet in Xela. I called it the "Super Quicky Mart" for the rest of the night on the fact I had a new bottle of vodka, compliments of my Visa since I'd run out of money at the disco. While I poured apple juice into cups of russian juice, I found a few new friends eating hamburgers and asking the standard who what when where of me. Apparently I was too occupied in the conversation to ask where to get a burger myself, something I would regret later when we returned to find no more street food. Our ride eventually stopped making out with his girlfriend in the front seat and we left, popping the bottle of apple juice I'd left behind the back wheel.

Good thing Charlie told me to buy orange juice, the house party we crashed had only soda in limited supply. More conversation ensued and more friends made and time went by and bottles were emptied and people eventually left. I found myself in conversation speaking the only 3 words in Spanish (and English) left in my vocabulary at this point: what's your name, what's his name, what's her name. I tried to scribble them down in my pocket notebook choosing 3 spellings for each, circling the correct one la chica (the girl) pointed out for me while Jason sat in the corner, head in hands, no words left in his boca (mouth) saying to himself: why tequila, why tequila.

There was no more car. We were literally in the suburbs of the second largest city in Guatemala. We found the super quicky mart. Jason found (and raided) the Doritos and Cheetos. I found the beer (and water). Charlie found the cab. The cab found Parque Central. We found our hostel (after walking another 5 blocks). It was 5am.

como se dice?

2008-11-17T17:28:00.005-07:00

That's the line these days. How do you say that? How do you say this? I took Spanish classes in middle and high school and I've worked my share of jobs with Hispanics, but nothing beats one-on-one instruction with a language teacher, especially at the rate of only $150/week. That includes meals and lodging by the way.

Sherrill told me when you start to dream in Spanish that you are becoming more fluent. I don't remember my dreams. So I'm going to base my knowledge on the amount of English I am forgetting. On Fridays we play Scrabble. Usually in Spanish until the end of the game when we have no letter left and need to score a few extra points like "to" and "it" and "be". Our maetros (teachers) always win of course, but I've managed to at least beat Jason every time. Today, we played a second game in English. Who won? We'll as a team, Jason and I, barely. I'll take that as confirmation that I'm learning something.

Of course, learning a new language wouldn't be complete without throwing in a few palabrotas (bad words). For those inclined to study from these blogs, here is a short list:

hijo de puta - hjio is son, de is of, puta is (you fill in the blank)
aposa - simple "suck"
chupa - the conguation of chupar which means "to swallow"
este caca - este or esto or eso = that; caca = something bad; all together "thats shit"
es de mierda - similar but more literally translatable as "it is shit"
maldito - no one ever says this, its only found in subtitle translations for all of the following: damn, fck, sht, etc.
callate - shut up or shut the beep up depending on your inflection, tone of voice
chimado de su cabeza - this is what we call "Tom" now a.k.a. f-bombed in the head. Tom esta muy muy muy loco, but I will save that for another blog.

We'll that's all I have for now. We decided knowing swear words and winning at Scrabble in English are not enough to survive in South America so we're going to stick around for two more weeks, do a little sightseeing, do a little working, and do a little more studying. Adios...

The Chicken Bus

2008-11-09T15:16:00.006-07:00

So here I sit in a small internet cafe in Quetzeltenango Guatemala. We have been here for a couple of days, and if the ride out of here is anything like the ride in I may be a little afraid to get on that bus out of town.

The trip from Oaxaca to the Mexican border was fairly uneventful. It consisted of a night bus and watching the Butterfly Effect in Spanish. Buses in Mexico are nice. I really wish I would have appreciated them more. OK... so we get off at a small little border town and opt for the colectivo instead of the taxi. I mean really, who wants to err on the safe side? Side note: If you have never been to Central America and don't know what a colectivo is then let me give you an image. You know that little Toyota mini-van your parents had circa. 1985? The one where the engine wasn't in front, it swayed dangerously on every curve and smelled slightly of the remnants of your sister's carsickness on those long road trips... Ok maybe that is just my memory but think VW Bus with extra seats. That is a colectivo. Now imagine that VW bus going down the road at 83MPH with 23 people in it. This is the world of the colectivo. They rock!

SO that took us to the border and the crossing was relatively uneventful. The usual assortment of con-men, street kids, and taxi drivers of course, but no menacing men with guns pointed at us and body cavity searches after failed attempts to pay off government officials. This is always a plus when things go this easily. My day was about to be ruined.

OK do you remember that bus that was always breaking down when you were in grade school? It was the one bus that everybody dreaded being on because it was a given that it would leave you stranded. On those days that it was actually road worthy, it never disappointed any cynics believing it would break once again. Suddenly this bus disappeared. Poof. Gone. Nobody really knew where it went. I DO!!! It has assumed its new life as the staple of Guatemalan public transportation. A snazzy new paint job of every vivid expression in the color scheme, a roof rack, brand spanking new plywood seat cushions, bald tires, and a name like Shirley or something like that and it is ready to go. So that is the bus that I was confronted with.

Ok now imagine a road. Not just any road. A road like that one in San Fran. You know which one I am talking about. The one that isn't really a road but rather a series of 90 degree turns without any straightness whatsoever. Yeah now make that road 120km long and you have the road through the Guatemalan highlands. While the views are incredible you can't help but notice the fact that the aforementioned bus is driving said road at speeds no less than 75 mph. Every time you feel the bus tilt to nearly two wheels you can't help but wonder what that sound in the rear axle is and wait to see the wheels running out from under you while you drive soundlessly over the edge of the 100ft cliff on your right.

Strangely enough this isn't the part that makes your heart skip a little bit. Only when you are passing another said bus, on said curve, at said speed, on the edge of said cliff, with another said bus driving said speed on said road, but in the opposite direction barreling down on what seems to be a head on collision course do you get a little excited. Something about driving a mountain road at 70 MPH three buses wide is almost exhilarating. Either that or just insane. I am opting for the latter. This happened three times.

So there it is. The reasons that I may never get on a bus again. There is good news though. My bag didn't disappear. I made it here. I am learning Spanish. I can't complain too much. I mean people pay thousands of dollars to have the shit scared out of them. It only cost us 10Q ($1.25US) for a three hour adrenaline fix. Forget jumping out of airplanes just come here!

Random in Oaxaca

2008-11-05T15:49:00.006-07:00

Pigeons tried to eat my nuts today. Peanuts. I should guard those more carefully. They might have tried to drink my Dos XX also, but I grabbed it first as the 3 of them attacked my table on the Zocalo from out of nowhere. I spawned curse words at them which normally wouldn't receive any looks in a foreign country, but this place is full of tourists including the retired American couple next to me. Oops.

Tacos in Oaxaca are served on a plate. Like enchiladas, but crunchy. Covered in a mildly spicy sour verde sauce. I've been trying to find this type of green sauce in Colorado for years. Now you know where to get it King Soopers.

Balloon vendors line the main square of town, the Zocalo. I find it hard to believe that many kids' parents buy them balloons, but who am I to know anything about the business. I did find myself contemplating one night, like a child, how many it would take for me to fly. Jason says 960. When quizzed on how he knows this he said mythbusters and then attempted to rattle off some math. I considered trying to prove him wrong, but spending $960 on balloons didn't seem like a good use of our shortening money supply.

I've never seen a cemetery filled with so many alive people, stepping on graves like its cool. I took a few video shots since I can't really steal a dead persons soul. Beer, music, food and fun later I was just a little creeped out, but it had nothing to do with the dead people awaking after a year's sleep since the last holiday.

There are speed bumps everywhere. And city planners here know how to make them work. Drivers slow down. You wouldn't want to wear out the shocks though it doesn't stop the cabby from accelerating from 0 to 50 every 25 meters in between though.

Speaking of cabs, remember the Toyota Tercel? Your parents passed it down to you from your older siblings. It gave you a reason to stop complaining about the hand-me-down jeans. They are still 80's style, but brand new here. Mexico still produces the model for the cheapo car rental and cab businesses. That and Tuk-Tuks.

When you were a kid did you parent's check your candy for "poison"? I was thinking about this as kids walked around begging for money with small orange pumpkins. Why didn't I ever think of that? After two beers of that (and no more change) we moved bars to the no kids allowed area of town. But speaking of poison, was it just a ruse so half your candy could go missing? No one actually poison's kids do they? If not, then why wasn't the Easter Bunny's egg hunting candy searched?

There are many alters around here, obviously displayed for in lieu of the upcoming holiday renown around the world as Dia de Los Muertos and well, why we are here. They depict dead people as alive, the idea behind the festivities is to reunite with past loved ones, in what they typically would be doing if still on top of the soil and not below. Here in Mexico, they are shown doing what they do best: eating, drinking, praying, and of course, humping.

holy mole

2008-11-04T15:26:00.002-07:00

I'm not a fan. I'll admit it. I always liked the chicken mole burrito (second to the potato burrito of course) at Big City, but apparently thats not real MOLE. What is mole? Chocolate. Not the sweet Hershey's kind, the bitter stuff. We ate this first at a restaurant fancily named Zandunga our first day in Oaxaca, and for the rest of the time I attempted to avoid it and failed several more times:

Pollo con Platano Macho en Mole de Guavaba - Mole introduction. Exquisite sound and looking dish: chicken wrapped in thin slices of fried sweet bananas set in rich dark chocolate Mole. You know how when you pick a random good sounding dish off the menu having no idea what it really is but being really excited by the idea all the same? FYI, it doesn't always work.
Tamales - I love them. Wrapped in large green leaves here. They are huge. The bigger they are the more Mole. Not a fan anymore.
Colorado Sauce - In Colorado this typically refers to a darker, red type of sauce. In Oaxaca, its quite popular, but its darker than red brown and its actually Mole. I'll stick to eating Colorado sauce in Colorado next time.

...but not all appetite was lost in Oaxaca. One of the best (and cheapest) meals came from the street and it wasn't the stray dogs running around although I'm waiting for the day still. Instead it was a good 'ole burger. (There was a fry guy too next cart door.) Not your typical Burger King crap, although there was one of those directly across the street, this was thinly smashed ground beef (seriously, like 1/16 pounder) topped with cheese, onions, peppers, and a slice of ham covered in salsa, mayo, and ketchup. I could do without the later to, but I wanted my first one to be truly Mexican street style. For $2 you can't beat the taste except with maybe one of the other exceptional two dollar meals we found in the way of tortas (grilled sandwiches consisting of meat, peppers, cheese, onions, salsa, and more) on a back alley one night.

one month later...

2008-10-31T08:09:00.008-06:00

Well, it's officially been a month, but it doesn't seem that long until I realize how far I'm actually going. 30 days later, I'm finally remembering to put the paper in the wastebasket not the toilet. In October we essentially played turista for 30 straight days, and are quite exhausted.

Mexico City was the first stop and I have to say I heard from both Mexicans and Americans questions like "why would you go there?". All I can say is I had a blast. From upside down tequila shots to Aztec pyramids to cathedrals to Mexican wrestling, it was a fun 4 days. After spending a good part of our month visiting ruinas from both the Mayans and Aztecs, I think I enjoyed ones just outside this city in Teotihuacan the best.

Next we headed down into the state of Chiapas. Described by one tour guide, the Mestizos here have perhaps the roughest life in Mexico if not the world. It is by far the poorest area of the country due in part to the rough mountainous terrain, climate, and history. "Without roads, cities or even small towns, eastern Chiapas is a kind of dumping ground for the marginalized, in which all of the hardships peasants confront in the highlands are exacerbated," says Charles Collier who has written several books on Chiapas. We spent most of our time in and around the hills of San Cristobal. If you've always imagined Mexico as hot and humid, I thought it was going to snow one night here.

Following trips to small towns like San Juan Chamula and Chapia de Corzo and Mayan ruins in Palenque, we ended up in Merida. This is a city I could enjoy. Every Saturday and Sunday they have a festival. kids, adults, teens, young, old, very old dance in the streets to classic Mayan music played by live orchestras, bands, choirs, etc. street performers entertain with clown skits and statue poses. Hot dogs are fried, churros are amazing, corn is served on the cobb covered in mayonnaise and cheese, and of course, tacos galore consumed. As the largest city on the Yucatan Peninsula competing for tourism with the likes of Cozumel and Cancun, Lonely Planet describes the town as "not near the beach and not caring". I like that.

After a quick trip to Uxmal, we headed to Chetumal to find a bus headed south into Belize City. I'm not sure how the Creole language would describe this former capital of a small former British Colony, but shithole works for most I think. A local explained it simply for us: "When Hurricane Hattie hit in 1961, the city never recovered. The government picked up shop and moved to Belmonpan." Couple that with government corruption (which another Bealizean did not want to even start a discussion with me about), lack of quality education, poor economic and infrastructure planning, and you get a country with huge potential that's struggling to pay the bills.

Getting out of there as quickly as we could, the following 5 days were spent diving on Caye Caulker. PADI training came first followed by the Blue Hole and then 5 days ridding my ears of water. I apparently breathe too much and found my oxygen deplete faster than most, but in the end I thoroughly enjoyed my time spent underwater with the fishies. Boats in rough waters, not really.

After almost a week on an island with no paved roads where random holes dug up in the middle of sandy streets were common (plumbing issues?), it was hard to make the choice to get on a bus towards San Ignacio in the forested hills of western Belize. Here we found oceans of rain with nearly every tourist attraction closed. Still, we managed to convince the tour company to take us to a few waterfalls, Rio Frio and Rio on Pools, with a stop along the way at Bols Cave for ancient Mayan artifact fun. The roads were nearly washed out which made for a fun, but obnoxious ride (thanks to our New York City tourmate).

2 days later and 1 more extra, while we waited out tropical storm offspring that closed the river bridge and killed two guys trying to cross in a canoe with a drunken captain, we crossed into Guatemala for a quick stop over at Tikal. Sure the guides say it takes 4 hours to see "most" of the Mayan ruins, we did it in 2. Truthfully, you can spend days in the area if you haven't already seen a million cool stone buildings built into the sides of hills like we had for the past few weeks...

36 hours, 2 buses, 3 collectivos, 1 taxi, 1 boat, 1 random $1.25 roadside "tax" that no one in the colectivo wanted to pay, and 2 border crossings later we were in Oaxaca for Day of the Dead celebrations. Although the town is already decorated, the real holidays start tomorrow...

Tikal

2008-10-30T15:32:00.004-06:00

If you are seriously into ruins, I would highly suggest this place. If you are a fair weather type of ruin-goer, I would suggest doing something a little more mellow like Uxmal or even the Aztec ruins in Mexico City. Tikal however will not disappoint at all if you are willing to brave the jungle. An amazing view and many many very cool buildings await those that brave the 14km walk to see them all. Do however remember the following:

Bring Deet flavored insect repellent. 92 percent of the bugs are likely immune to it and you will get eaten alive anyway, but that eight percent of bugs you scare away may make the difference between Malaria or no Malaria.
Beware of the armed bandits that roam around to relieve you of your money. They may or may not be security guards or police.
Choke out the monkey that just stole your camera only if you have had your rabies vaccination.
Remember your malaria pills. Hopefully you won't hallucinate from being dehydrated and on Melfloquine. (remember the 14 km hike?)
It is humid and hot. Bring your own water. Stream water is not healthy to drink.
Bring lots of your friends and pay the collective price of 40 bucks for a tour.
DO NOT forget your camera

Trust me you will not be disappointed by Tikal in the least. I have seen more ruins in the past month than I ever wanted to in my life but this turned out to be a highlight. The view from Templo IV is nothing short of breathtaking. You have an unrestricted view of miles upon miles of rain-forested mountains and the other temples that poke their heads from the canopy. Supposedly you can bribe a guard and sleep atop the temple if you are really good, but not being that much of an outdoors type I didn't try. The place in constantly under reconstruction so I am sure it will be different for you than it was for me, but hopefully it will only be that much more majestic. Check out the pictures even though they really don't do it justice.

Blogs and Comments

2008-10-27T15:40:00.006-06:00

comments on blogs are now turned on for everyone. you do not need an openID or a Google account anymore. so that being said, start leaving comments! tell us what you like, what you don't, what's funny and what's entirely retarded. we want to communicate with our readers, followers, stalkers, friends and family. really we do!

you can also leave comments our photos, via Picasa, but you will need a Google registered account to do that. Google rules, not ours. but its really simple to register any email account with Google. you may already have if you use any other services offered by the Google gods.

so that's it. comment, comment, comment. thanks!

Drug Bust?

2008-10-26T15:03:00.004-06:00

Everyone knows you go south of the border to consume illegal substances at will, but I'm not quite sure how that works out for some people, and I'd rather not yet find out what a third-world jail cell is all about. These guys however have been in the business or habit for awhile and didn't get caught with their pants down, only the cops hands in their pants.

I'm standing outside enjoying the fresh mountain air when an unmarked Toyota 4-door pickup pulls up. Instead of the typical club goers I expected to see, out jumped the local police in full battle rattle, guns and all. Where as in the States, cops typically carry an M9 pistol, apparently that does not do the trick down here as it's supplemented with a shotgun. The guy smoking next to me is the first to be searched, "randomly". It's legal he says: "this is the first time that's ever happened to me", but they "always go after the 'rasta' guy". Cop says he is looking for a stolen cell phone, but only finds an outdated Motorola Razor and moves on inside the bar.

I knew right where he was going, our friend the Coke dealer. He grabs him and escorts him outside, but finishes his search finding nothing. The 4 boys in blue jump back into the vehicle and speed off. Having never been arrested, I'm not the expert on criminology, ask Jason, he has a degree in it, but I've been my share of Law and Order. Laws differ around here, simply said. At first, I was a little surprised that guy 2 was clean, having seen his bag of goodies earlier in the night myself, and asked him a simple question to which his response was, translated into gringo speak, "This isn't my first rodeo".

sensual drinks and succulent eats

2008-10-25T16:04:00.008-06:00

rated: PG-13 for strong use of sensuality embellished to zero degree.

guidebooks, stupid tourists, hippies and the like say Belize is "expensive"...not that we haven't blown a wad of cash here, that diving stuff isn't cheap, but its not as brutal on the bank account as it's made out to be. it's up to the traveler what to pay in the end, $10/night hotels are possible as are $50. free wireless internet can be found or paid for at $7/hour. but enough of that, let's talk about the good stuff, food and booze...

beer averages $2 for a local Beliken. the only beer company in Belize produces a stout for your monies worth, a regular, supreme (which could not be found) and a lighthouse. bottle and draft except the later. of course, the majority of our time here we've spent on an island and what would an island in the Caribbean be if it didn't have a collection of rum drinks with frilly umbrellas and cherries on top. add to that a strong heritage in Catholicism, shake in a few Mayan traditions, pour over ice to get the following local favorites:

Adiosmuthafuck - that's short for Long Beach but in Creole. rum, tequila, triple sec, vodka, blue curaçao, and sprite
Cosmo - nothing special here but according to one menu: "the most requested drink on the island". lame.
Calm Down My Pussy - i can't tell you i remember what was in this, but it didn't sound good.
Slo Phuk - more Creole apparently. found in a nightclub in San Ignacio. infatuation with sexual names anyone?
Panty Ripper - every menu, every last one had this classic drink served up in college bars all across America. go frat girl, its your birthday.
Panti Remova or Pink Panty Pull Down - if the last one didn't do the trick or you want to wear your panties again.

now that my grandmother will probably stop reading this blog, i'll go ahead and say the beer is good, the rum so-so, the vodka not bad and the whiskey, One Barrel, is actually just dark rum. for non-alcoholic types. Coca-Cola is the mainstay along with Fanta (Orange, Fruit Punch, Pineapple), also produced and distributed by the guys in red. no Pepsi around here kids, thankfully.

moving onto food. stew chicken. that's it. well, maybe there is more. lots more. add rice and beans (these are mixed, want them separate, its beans and rice). stew chicken is marinated for days or weeks depending on if its the busy season or not. it's not right now so it's extra delicious of course. one day we even sat down to eat our stew chicken with Stew's brother, Alive chicken. of course, a good meat and starch meal needs to be garnished with a few vegetables in the form of coleslaw. i hate coleslaw, but i've probably eaten more coleslaw in the past week then in my entire life. occasionally the cabbage, lettuce, carrots and mayo are substituted with more potato salad carbs; this i prefer. but for $3, you can't really complain now can you?

being the health conscious eaters we are we varied our diet with other options offered. on the island we treated ourselves one night to fresh lobster. fresh in the sense that i picked mine out as it tried to escape the precarious position of being on its back on a cutting board. i added a shrimp kabob (squash, pineapple, onions, peppers) to the mix and placed all alive and well done on the grill. each creature came with two sides so i went with the sauteed squash and baked potato, a green salad and rice/beans not finishing the laters. only $25 dollars and an excellent meal later i was ready for bed.

its seems to me the Chinese will one day overrun this earth. i think their world headquarters is actually here Belize, not Beijing. not only do they run all the grocery stores in every single town, they cook up some of the best Chinese influenced food i've had in awhile. chicken fried rice is my standard takeout meal, and i think it was chicken, as the stray dogs on the island were numerous. the pork curry, with mounds of vegetables and rice, was also quite the dish. not aware of the large portion sizes i added a cup (not bowl) of hot and sour soup to the mix one night, a meal in of itself i found out. i chased it down with a pint or 2 of Gatorade it was so spicy.

other nights entailed seafood alfredo, mango tangy short ribs, garlic and lime lobster, and the list goes on. desserts, not so much. breakfast: two eggs over easy, bacon or sausage, toast and jam; quite American. there's more, but you're already hungry so take a break and eat...

Simply San Ignacio

2008-10-25T14:18:00.005-06:00

While we waited out the rains (Jason has already provided coverage on how), we managed to convince a tour guide to dirty up his Toyota 4-Runner imported from L.A. Why they drive 4x4 vehicles there I have no idea, but maybe why he got a good deal including the cost of gas driving it down through Mexico, at night to avoid paying exorbitant "highway taxes" from corrupt law enforcement, bandits, etc.

Despite the downpour, we first found ourselves inside Rio Frio Cave. Large in size, but open on both ends for the Frio (cold) Rio (river) to splash through. Maybe more than splash. I'd not touch it with a 10 foot kayak much less an inner tube. The most interesting part of our first stop was the M4 wielding military escort, required for all visitors since Guatemalan bandits cross the Belizean jungle border and robbed touristas back in 2002. As we were perhaps the only people to visit the cave today (or anytime that week), I wondered if these two soldiers were the "lucky" ones to get out of the barracks today or the 20 other soldiers who stay backed to smoke and drink their shit post assignment away. I took a picture, reading later in the guidebook to never take pictures of military facilities, personnel, etc.

Another 30 minute conversation with a New York tourist, our companion on this exploration, asking questions like "Why are the oranges green?" and "Are there any ants here?". For those readers also slow the answers are 1) They are not ripe yet and 2) Its a fucking jungle.

We stopped for lunch at Rio on Pools eating our banana chips and cold tortilla sandwich/burrito while looking for the "pools". Typically this part of the tour includes swimming, but being it was just a Rio minus the Pools now, we sprayed ourselves down with Off! for fun instead and headed to the highlight of the tour, Bols Cave.

Found in 1985 by the father of our 15 year old tour guide, Bol's Cave is one of 47 caves on the families mere 500 acres, and the only attraction open for the public. Imagine one of those ladders in an Indian Jones movie that you foreshadow will not hold the weight of 10 men scurrying down into the pit of snakes. Well, this one was sketchy with just one person, but at least there were no snakes. After dropping my bag with $1K of camera gear into the dark, landing in a splash of mud (No Ms. New York, caves are not immune to rain.) at the bottom, I climbed down wishing my hiking boots were wet socks instead as I slipped underground. The cave was nearly 140 feet long and between 2 feet and 20 feet high depending upon where you stood. The guide said we could crawl through the 2 foot area for 7 feet and stand up, but I didn't trust him or my not so Mayan sized body to fit. The rest of the cave however was quite a sight to see, if we'd had decent flashlights (remember those you played with as a kid that barely worked in your room during a slumber party?). Now I knew why I'd bought that extra light for my video camera. The Mayan artifacts (pots, pans, skulls, jewelry, weapons and more) had been excavated and collected into several places for easy viewing. These were the real thing, not the fakes being sold on the streets. Quite amazing.

We climbed out of the cave 45 minutes later to find sunlight instead of rain and spent the next 30 minutes re-traversing rivers and former roads while attempting to not listen (definitely not participate) in the conversation about "how if Chucky is a hamburger, Pan's Labyrinth is a New York Strip". I felt sorry for the tour guide and re-contemplated whether I'd ever want the job.

Border Towns Meet Tropical Storms

2008-10-25T11:22:00.011-06:00

This is a survival guide. Some day you could find yourself stuck in that little town between the big city and the closed border (due to flooding) and you will thank me for this little piece of wisdom... So without further ado...

5:00 AM - Wake up because you have been sleeping for two days and cannot possibly sleep any more.
5:30 AM - Take a cold shower... (You are after all in Belize)
6:00 AM - Coffee at the local ex-pat coffee shop. B.S. with the locals about how much this storm sucks and when they think the border will be open again. (apparently they do not have as much faith as I do about getting out of here in the next two days)
7:00 AM - Take another cold shower. (Hey you don't know when there will be water again because of the floods.)
7:30 AM - Make devil horns out of your hair in front of the mirror while shaving. (Amusing yourself is a very valuable talent)
8:00 AM - More coffee and an inevitable breakfast. (caffeine poisoning is starting to set in)
8:30 AM - More coffee and look at the plethora of amazing tours that you could be taking right now. (that is if everything weren't flooded and impassable)
9:00 AM - Ask again about border conditions and run across internet cafe. (they have free coffee)
9:00-11:00 AM - Catch up on uploading pictures and blogs. (did I mention free coffee?)
11:00 AM - Take break from blogging and go find a beer. (oh they have wireless here so more picture uploads)
12:00 PM - Lunch. (Love the stewed chicken, rice, and beans)
12:30 PM - Ask again about border conditions. (nothing has changed but you heard a good story about two people drowning because they hired a drunk man with a boat to take them across the river. He is in jail now)
1:00-3:00 PM - Go back to the internet cafe and try to write. (entirely too much coffee to think straight so you end up mystalking for two hours)
3:00 PM - Go shopping for a highlighter.
3:30 PM - Give up on a highlighter and start looking for a single paper-clip
4:00 PM - Give up on both because it is about as effective as looking for plutonium on the moon. Start shopping for random trinkets in random shops.
5:00 PM - Realize that you have no room for that ceremonial mask you had your heart set on and go find a happy hour.
5:30 PM - Drink local rum drinks at half price. Meet locals galore: The tour guide, the ex-pat, the drug dealer, the competition for the drug dealer, the pimp, the kid selling Mayan art to help his friend with cancer, and maybe one or two tourists that have been in the bar WWWAAAYYYY longer than you have.
7:00 PM - Dinner (more stewed chicken and rice)
7:30 PM - Ask about border conditions
7:45 PM - Ask somebody else about border conditions (he couldn't possibly have known what he was talking about)
8:00 PM - Another beer at the local pub. More locals and tourists.
9:00 PM - Ask one more time about border conditions. (you might get lucky)
9:30 PM - You have had an extremely strenuous day!!! Treat yourself to a hot shower (oh wait there isn't any water hot or otherwise) And go to bed early so you can wake up early in the morning and check those border conditions over your morning cup of coffee.
12:00 AM - You drank too much coffee today and can't sleep... Reread Sex Lives of Cannibals for the third time.