End of Friday May 1st - Monday May 4th
'Joe and I agreed to make this an early one, tomorrow morning we leave for Machu Picchu. Unpacked and repacked my big bag, tried to get ahead of the game for tomorrow - Joe chose not to do the same.
I crawled home at about 3:30 this morning, fell out of bed at seven to begin getting ready for our trek. Joe was no where to be found. We agreed to leave at nine, so I figured he would be back at any moment.
I put together ten ham and cheese sandwhiches, double checked my bag, put what I decided not to take in storage, and melted into a couch in the Hostal. Still no Joe. At eleven he walked in, eyes bloodshot, skin pale, barely able to walk let alone formulate a complete sentence. This miserable heap of young adult managed to tell me he didn't sleep last night and woke up at a hostal in a stranger's bed across town. Sounded like a great night, just not before our trek.
Slowly but surely he began to pack. I had already put together a few apples, oreos, the sandwhiches, two big cans of Pork n Beans, and five liters of water. At the last minute I thought we would need a bit more food, so I boiled eight hot dogs and threw them in a plastic bag for the adventure. We left at 11:45, Saturday.
Half hour walk out of town to the Santiago Bus Terminal where we each paid 15 sol for a ticket to Santa Maria, half way to Quillabamba. Forty five minute wait, busted out a few sandwhiches nad Joe fell right to sleep sitting outside on a rusted bench. As we sat waiting for the bus, I noticed two young girls staring at us from the crack between a wall and door across the street. Each time my eyes met theirs, they would giggle. A few minuets later they shyly walked over towards where Joe and I were sitting, each holding a broken slab of concrete. They began to mark the pavement right next to me. 'Hopscotch' I heard Joe mumble. Sure enough, the squares and numbers were etched into the ground and without a moments delay out came the laughing, jumping, and beautiful spirit of these young Peruvian girls. They both wore shiny black shoes, tattered jeans, and a stain covered pink zip up sweatshirt.
The bus was an hour late, but when it did finally arrive it was comfortable. Joe and I had back row seats. The road was literally U turn after U turn, us back row boys felt each turn as though we were on a rollercoaster. The next six hours turned out to be the most beautiful bus ride of my trip. Looming snow capped mountins, riding above and below the clouds, frost forming on the windows, tiny huts growing out from the side of mountains, an occasional waterfall. Magnificant bus ride. Even though Joe slept the ENTIRE time, my appreciation was sufficient for both of us.
We arrived in Santa Maria just before eight pm. Quick and easy finding a colectivo for the one hour schlep to nearby Santa Taresa. All three drivers bumrushed the bus, somehow they seemed to know where we gringos were headed. Multiple drivers makes bargaining easy. Five minutes after stepping off the bus we were off to Santa Taresa for two and a half sols each.
Santa Taresa, like Santa Maria, is tiny. To say we arrived in the center is mos o menos the same as saying we stopped at the outskirtsof town. At nine we paid the 85 cents for the colectivo and set off on foot. The sun had long since set, slight drizzle, just cool enough to see each breath. Our first Point of Reference was the hydroelectric plant two hours away. From there it would be two more to the botttom of Machu Picchu, leaving one final blood bath 2400m slippery dippery climb to the top. We got off to a terrible start.
A kind woman directed us to the road that would lead us 'straight' to the plant. We didn't find the road. It took another pleasant elderly woman and finally a five year old to lead me literally by the hand to the stone steps down into dark abyss that would mark the beginning of our five hour walk. Five minutes later the stone path split four ways. FUCK! We took the path that lead towards a futbol pitch and what appeared to be a school.
There was an open lock on the gate, we pushed it open and walked in. Gavbe a few yells, sent up a prayer or two so as not to be shot. A young boy (12, 13 years?) came out with a headlamp and kindly pointed us in the right direction. He told us we would need to cross the 'puente.' I then asked Joe the second very stupid question of the trip. Thinking back to the Lost City trek and tiny, baby river crossings, I asked Joe if he was going to tkae off his shoes for the crossing. Little did I knowthis was no little river. This was a white rolling roaring ripping screaming fucking bucking bronco of a river! Death to he who set foot too close to the edge!!
After this kid pointed and we set off again, we still didn't make it. Walked right past the path down to the river. Luckily the kid had kept an eye on us. He came out and walked us to the path. Finally we were good to go, or so we thought. Four wrong turns, four people helping us and it wasn't even 9:30! Lord be with us...
We reached the puente and crossed the bridge laughing about my ridiculous question. Realizing then that my question earlier this morning about whether to wear shoes or flip flops was equally fricken retarted!
Incident free for roughly 20 minutes, after which we came to our first fork in the road. No easy logical reason to go one way or the other. Joe said one path looked a bit more beaten, I said we should try going up the other for 15 minutes but went with Joes better judgement. Glad I did because 30 minutes lter we asked some people in a small home half hidden from the road and they pushed us on the same way laughing and smiling while patting our backs. They dropped the same key phrase, 'straight,' which I took to mean no more intersections, one road one direction.
Before we had worked up even a slight sweat not only did we come to another fork, but there was another bridge! An hour in and we were stuck. Nothing to do but sit back, have a sandwhich, and choose one way to go. Joe wanted a spliff, I was too concerned. Its late, dark, raining, cold, and we are two lost lonely gringos, WHAT WERE WE THINKING??!!
The bridge led back towards Santa Taresa, I said we should keep on, continue hugging that lion of a river. Spent the next few minutes walking silently, up hill, down hill, barking dogs, silent homes, not knowing if we were going the right way. Both of us tired, little down, needing motivation.
Just when we needed it most, a colectivo came driving by. Sure enough we were heading towards the plant. Laughing at us through gritted teeth the young dude offered us a ride, even for free. We were too jazzed, sent his behind packin!
At eleven we reached the hydroelectric plant, right on point with the two hours. Fence, metal, lights, sleeping guards, nothing pretty or attractive but it was a victory for us. Nearly half way!!! The next two hours would be along train tracks. Nice and 'straight,' ish, we hoped.
We ducked into a small restaurant and paid a gratuitous amount for the best Powerade and Sprite we had ever tasted. Hung out there for an hour, I got some kip as joe skinned a spliff, avoiding the rain which had gathered significant strength.
A security guard told us to stay on these tracks until the third SALIDA sign, at which point we would just need to make a right and continue straight. My understanding was that that third sign would appear in more or less two hours. It sprang up in ten minutes. Slightly confused we left the tracks and began following a fuzzy path up hill through the woods. Note - My headlamp is a Saint that deserves to be knighted! Godsend!! We wound up at another set of railroad tracks, left, rainy, dark, right, rainy, dark, no signs, another intersection. Decided to go left, the same direction we had been heading in all night.
So it began, two horus, 120 minutes, 7200 seconds, looking down skipping block to block. Still drizzling, thick brush seeming to creep in on us from both sides. We were in good spirits. Joe decided to light up, I joined figuring there could be no better time than at 12:30am, in the rain, while walking alone along treacherous defunct train tracks with nothing (and hopefully noone) for miles in either direction. I tried the stuff a few years ago and really did't like it. Spitting, no high, itchy eyes, fuck that I thought, I've got better things to do with my time... until now.... Slow, shallow drags, trying hard not to cough. It was the first time I got high, and boy did it make those train tracks fun!! What better activity when stoned than walking on slippery train tracks in the dark... BRILLIANT! (sounds like something a Klebanow would do! idiots)
The endless laughing ensued, conversations with colorful topics ranged from fruit to Brazilian animals, and then we came to the mother of all bridges...
The metal rungs were slippery, widely and unevenly spaced, and I could not see the end with my torch. Laughing we said LES DO IT!! and started across. Not only did we not know how long it was, but it was the highest we had come to, shakey blocks, water roaring 20 ft below. About 15 steps in Joe stopped - 'Jordan my legs are shaking, I can't do it man I'm scared (maybe he meant to say stoned?).' He began to sit down, slowly bending over placing the joint on a nearby block. ' Joe!!, pass me the spliff, its all good, were going back' were my words of comfort. At that moment as we were beginning to head back I turned and saw a walkway on one side of the bridge. Reached land kisisng the ground and dying of laughter. After taking the path we realized there were about 150 steps to the bridge - ENORMOUS!!! We would not have been happy campers.
Off we were, on the rungs again, chatting away like old women. At about 2:15 we saw street lights not far from the tracks. Came to small factory alongside the tracks and decided to investigate. After straying from the tracks we crossed a daughter sized bridge and found that we had reached the base of Machu Picchu!! We knew this because a big sign read 'Welcome to Machu Picchu.' Not too excited though, victory yes, but we knew the pain that was about to become reality with the final one hour hike UP. During the day most people jump on the seven dollar (DOLLAR!! not sol, dollar!) bus ride to the top. At 2:30 in the morning its pretty quiet. Onwards!
It was painful. Hard enough after some sleep and a meal, but we were going on no sleep, largly empty bellies, and after four hours of trekking about! Slow go, especially for me with four liters of water and the canned (beast 570g cans!) beans. Alas, we made it. Reached the top thoroughly dead at 3:40am. The place was a dead as Joe and I, no security, no fellow bums. Found two benches near the ticket window. Joe ate his last sandwhich, I dropped mind (Sticking to the five second rule would have gotten me the dirtiest sandwhich I have ever seen, I though better of it). We had about an hour and a half ot go before tickets would be sold. We got 'comfy' on the benches.
Just after we laid down it began to rain hard. The canvas over us was full of holes, offered us no protection, cold and wet we were not happy. Neither of us slept.
How many people can say they were the first into the park!!!!! Victory for the exhausted miserable smelly bums!! Followed the signs to Wayna Picchu but chose to return at 10am. Heavy fog slowly began to lift, surrounded by mountains, above the clouds, it was awsome, inspiring, powerful. I am not one to hoot and hollar about the actual stones, ancient stairs or baths, sculptures, but I have never seen a landscape as stunning as the one from the top of Machu Picchu.
Joe and I had trouble functioning. Walked around for a while but quickly found a nice rock drenched in sun to sleep on. As is normally the case, Joe fell right to sleep. Took me longer but I eventually succeeded in using my knee as a pillow.
The climb up Wayna Picchu was greuling, but not quite a bad as up Machu Picchu itself. By our ten o clock date with this hidden beauty overshadowed by Machu Picchu, the sun had done away with the fog. One could see for miles in every direction. I don't have the words to describe the sensation experienced sitting thousands of meters above water, drowning in a sea of mountains. Just don't know which phrases do those moments justice.
Three hours at the main site, two more slipping and sliding around Wayna, we had seen enough. Time to begin the long haul back. At 12:45 we found the exit. Sandwhiches gone, ate our last four hot (raw cold) dogs, last apple for me, out of water as well. We inquired about the cost of a bottle of water at the MP restaurant shindig and were told a small half liter bottle went for eight sol (roughly $2.66). Bear in mind we bought our 2.5 liter bottles for 2 sol (66 cents) back in the city. We couldn't believe it, decided to go thirsty.
The walk down Machu Picchu was tough on the knees, ankles, not fun. Joe and I were beyond tired, our spirits low, especially without water. Not as much talking, uncertainties as to our making it all the way back to Santa Taresa on foot. I decided to fill an empty bottle with stream water when we came to the first bridge. Only a little bit of garbage, one or two toxic waste barrels floating by, nothing a yank like me can't handle. It was delicious!! Gave me new life! Joe had bought a bottle for three sol a few minutes earlier. Looked like we were going to make it after all!
Next issue at hand was food. I still had two giant cans of Pork n Beans. Thought about making a fire by the tracks, didn't seem doable. Three horus into the walk, when we reached the hydroelectric plant, I broke down. Busted open a can with my knife and went to town. Joe waited to see if I would turn green or shrivel up befoer venturing a bite. Like the water, the beans were awesome! You can't go wrong with canned beans, cooked further or not, they are a five star grade A non kosher DELIGHT!
The walk back to Santa Taresa was warm and bright, aka boring! But we made it. Colectivo to Santa Maria where we sat outside for two hours waiting for a bus. When it arrived, it was full. Standing room only. For the first half hour Joe, myself and a few others stood in the aisle. For the rest of the ride, Joe lay sprawled out in the aisle and fell asleep. I sat knees to chest stuffed in the aisle between seats so as not to roll around. It was a miserble ride, and it takes a lot for me to say that. Eight hours in that terrible position, I didn't sleep for more than five minutes at a time. Obnoxious women kept pushing me around, stepping on me, felt a hand make its way to my butt with my wallet on a few occasions. Bus rides are really never fun or enjoyable, they're usually bad or less bad. This one was awful!
Arrived back in Cuzco at 5:40 Monday morning. I didn't realize until I got off the bus and tried to tell Joe something that I couldn't speak. Literally, no sound, nothing. I had developed a nasty cold on the bus (still sick more than a week later). I felt horrible. We had a laugh about it in the taxi back to the Hostal. What a fucking adventure. 16 hours of walking after no sleep and little food, 14 hours on a bus, two and a half in colectivos, and a few unaccounted for. We made it. Fourteen dollars round trip, there and back. Compared to the normal 100 dollar train fare or 150 dollar tour.
VICTORY FOR THE BUMS IN BLUE!
Fell asleep sick and fully clothed at 6am Monday morning. '
Not much more to say, that's enough of a plate full.
Hope all is well on the homefront, everyone is healthy and safe.
My love to you all!!
xx
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Lost City
I have taken the following directly from my journal.
April 3 - 7, Ciudad Perdida
(Taganga, Colombia)
' Joe slept like a baby last night. I know that because I didn't! I was eaten alive by man-sized mosquitos! Joe and I shared a double bed that had a mosquito net but we were both too tired and drunk when we crawled in and lacked the good sense to tuck the net in under the mattres. We both suffered from this laziness, though I suffered in addition to not sleeping. I woke up with thirteen fat miserable sleeping mosquitos on the inside of the net.
I emerged from this den of sweat and bug-bites at 7:30, began unpacking my big bag, leaving just the necessities for the trek. Joe continued to sleep. Quick breakfast, Mark had left-over hard boiled eggs, oatmeal, milk in a bag, and fruit. Stored our bags at the hostal. Failed to lock down beds for when we returned in both Taganga and Medillin. Oh well, hope for the best. It's nearly Semana Santa, places will be booked, reserved, full, overflowing, streets crowded, drugs and alcohol everywhere, and we may end up on the street. Cool!
At 9:15 it arrived, the jeep that was to take us into the jungle where we would begin the trek of all treks! The Toyo (The 'ta' had either fallen offor been stolen) was an unbelievable mess of a sight - one side mirror was missing, the other dangling by the driver side door, the passanger door had no handle, drivers door had the long metal tool normally used when stealing cars as a permenant means of entering and exiting the vehicle,. had we been pulled over we could actually really claim to not know how fast we were going because the spedometer was broken, reading a consistant zero (negative five actually) kph. Furthermore, the engine was super hot!, and oil empty according to the two other gauges (that were both broken). Six of us sat like stuffed smelly olives facing each other on two benches behind the driver and passanger (this was the setup, I=, if thats not crystal clear...). The rof had been ripped up, gutted, leaving exposed nails and shredded insulation, to give us a bit of head room. To top off this hunky grade A Colombia Hoopdie, the rear door would pop open every time we began to drive. No matter how hard we or the driver slammed it, the door would break free! Lucky for us the tire on the back of the Toyo had some srot of latch this twist that configuration that was in decent shape. Thus the door would pop open but was held to six inches. We (two of us being pressed up against that rear door) would make it after all!
Don't get me wrong, our Toyo/monster truck did have three things going for it: Military grade beast status tires (that needed air every fifteen minutes), a nice little shiny radio, and a cute box of Kleenex tissues secured to the passanger flip down mirror. Those came in handy when beer began seeping down through the roof getting our hair a bit tipsy.
We threw our bags on the roof, crawled in to the truck arranging knees between legs, feet under over between butts close to ears, elbows in ribs, laughing all the way.
The drive took two and a half hours. The first hour and a bit was through Santa Marta, on paved 'comfortable' roads. The final hour (after passing a military checkpoint where sixteen year olds who barely had peach fuzz but strapped fully automatic rifles to their boyish chests, live ammo in pockets, cigarettes hanging from slim lips, menacing faces with hair +/- 0.034 cm long. One kid had two mortar rounds in his pockets. These guys were prepared for war!) was in the jungle, on a road taht would be a great spot in New York to test Hummers and military vehicles. Hair pin turns, boulders, ditches, river crossings, this beast got a workout as it bounced and tumbled along. I forgot to metion earlier while describing the Toyo that the steering wheel wasn't properly alligned, or perhaps it was, but in any event it took a LOT of work to maneuver the truck through the slightest turns. Hand over hand has never seen such a good day. Operating like a ferocious little dishwasher the driver had to turn the wheel almost one full rotation every time a slight turn came about. Jesse could have fixed it!!!
The drive out there was calm and relaxed. Our driver looked to be 50ish years old, slowed for every bump, cautious, efficient. The six of us smiled and had a good laugh as we conquered the road. The drive back was a different story.
This motherbtich was out of his go&%·%? mind! He drove SO fast, flew over bumps and ditches, literally slid around turns, one hand the entire time (in the same car!!!) and it moved so fast there was practically a strobe light effect. To make things worse, he blasted this terrible local music where 15 songs sounded exactly the same. A glimpse of that drive:
' ACORDIAN ACORDIAN my wife (BUMP! Jordan - WOOHOOO!!!) left me on the (EEEERRRRRRCCCHHHH! Driver - HHAANNGGG ONNN) farm with (ACORDIAN TRUMPET GUITAR - ROCK!) our children (BANG! Heads smash into roof maybe a nail or two), and now I sing to mourn (Mark - Haven't these motherfuckers ever heard of a piano!) FWOOMPH! we're all thrown to one side elbows hitting ribs cheeks kissing each other hands flailing trying to catch hold of something fixed - Joe - Yo where's the spliff?! Jordan - Army! Put it away! BANG another rock, OOP SPLASH, river crossing, water pouring into the back of the truck. More singing and accordian, Mark still furious about the poor quality of music.
Note - The driver's only two words of english were Hang On, and Mark was miserable every moment of the way, the music was another ant in his pants.
And so it went. We made the four hour jungle crazy road drive in under half an hour. We heard after returning from the trek that some paramilitary had stopped a similar tourist-filled truck on the same road and executed the driver, not harming a single tourist. Maybe that explains the new driver, and increased speed. Nevertheless, we made it back to Taganga, sore, smelly, certainly NOT in one piece.
The trek itself was dagone great! Set out on foot friday midday after a huge, tastey lunch. The walking took us up and down hills, very challanging inclines that had us working our butts off and sweating like animals within minutes. Stepping on stones to cross rivers, avoiding mud that was knee deep and swallowed shoes. Had it rained my K Swiss hole ridden old garbage appropriate sneaker wannabe hiking boots would have been eaten, by the mud, and gone forever. But they made it! Still intact, not really wearable, but still in a piece or two!
We hiked the following hours per day: Four, four, six, seven, four, stopping a few times during each set to swim, chow down on fresh fruit, candy, chocolate. Saw a few beautiful cascades, we visited a cocaine factory where a local (who was suspiciously good at what he did...) showed us the entire process of making blow. Didn't let us take pictures of him... little bit fishy....
The food was phenomenal. Portions that were too big, a variety of well prepared fresh meat, vegetables, the fruit was some of the best I have ever tasted. Chocolate milk and coffe every morning. Our guides and helpers worked tirelessly to make sure we were comfortable. They were fun, helpful, crazy, our guides Lalo and Gustavo (the latter is 18) made our trip unforgettable.
Bugs were an issue. Every hour of every day we were attacked. I found three ticks (in places I will not disclose), other people found more. Spiders in our beds, mosquitoes that bit through socks. Did I mention, bugs were an issue?!
The trek itself was more fun that the Lost City. 2500 steps (that I did barefoot!!!!!) circular foundations, breathtaking views, huge military presence, ok, that about wraps it up. Maybe I'm a bit too critical, it just didn't really do it for me.
Our six person group hooked up with another larger group midway through day two. Mostly laidback but wild stoners, certainly a fun group. It was wonderful to see the two groups slowly become one, as drinks and spliffs were passed, stories exchanged, friendships developed.
Overall it was an outstanding few days. Mentally and physically challanging, beautiful, out there, fun and stupid. Wild dogs following us, Lalo (and eventually all of us) screaming 'Vamos a la Playa!!!'. The indegenious people carrying packs twice or three times their size up inclines I had to do on all fours. The swimming, cliff jumping, laughing, tumbles while crossing rivers. Become close with Mark and Joe, as well as Bibian and Fernando. The lunch and drinks after reaching civilization after the five day trek. Powerful experience. Awesomeness.
We ended up shacking up in a small, new, unknown hostal for two nights after the trek. I was kind of hoping to end up on the streets. '
Mark Joe and I have stuck together since the trek, travelling south through Medillin, Popoyan, into Ecuador and Quito. Colombia is hands down the most beutiful country (people wise) I have been in thus far, I am refering to the women. Incredibly beautiful women, but not the arrogant, high fashion, expensive clothing type. These women were behind cashiers, washing the floor, serving lunch (or cooking it). A natural, exotic look mixed in with a turn your head down shyness, but keep eye contact boldness. Beautiful beautiful beautiful, I could not believe how attractive the women were. I had heard stories, but you really need to see it to believe it.
I've already written too much, so I'll wrap it up. I hope the journal entry wasn't too raw, I tried to edit it while leaving its spirit untouched. The past few weeks have truly been a trek, getting close with Mark and Joe has made it all so enjoyable. Mark left today for the Galapagos, just me and Joe for a bit. We'll be together down into Cuzco Peru, then its anymans game.
My health is where its been the entire time, more or less ok. I realize the key to traveling is standards. If you lower your standards enough everything is fantastic! My standards are below the ground, thats why I'm having such a good time :)
Hope to be in touch again soon. My love to you all.
SF
April 3 - 7, Ciudad Perdida
(Taganga, Colombia)
' Joe slept like a baby last night. I know that because I didn't! I was eaten alive by man-sized mosquitos! Joe and I shared a double bed that had a mosquito net but we were both too tired and drunk when we crawled in and lacked the good sense to tuck the net in under the mattres. We both suffered from this laziness, though I suffered in addition to not sleeping. I woke up with thirteen fat miserable sleeping mosquitos on the inside of the net.
I emerged from this den of sweat and bug-bites at 7:30, began unpacking my big bag, leaving just the necessities for the trek. Joe continued to sleep. Quick breakfast, Mark had left-over hard boiled eggs, oatmeal, milk in a bag, and fruit. Stored our bags at the hostal. Failed to lock down beds for when we returned in both Taganga and Medillin. Oh well, hope for the best. It's nearly Semana Santa, places will be booked, reserved, full, overflowing, streets crowded, drugs and alcohol everywhere, and we may end up on the street. Cool!
At 9:15 it arrived, the jeep that was to take us into the jungle where we would begin the trek of all treks! The Toyo (The 'ta' had either fallen offor been stolen) was an unbelievable mess of a sight - one side mirror was missing, the other dangling by the driver side door, the passanger door had no handle, drivers door had the long metal tool normally used when stealing cars as a permenant means of entering and exiting the vehicle,. had we been pulled over we could actually really claim to not know how fast we were going because the spedometer was broken, reading a consistant zero (negative five actually) kph. Furthermore, the engine was super hot!, and oil empty according to the two other gauges (that were both broken). Six of us sat like stuffed smelly olives facing each other on two benches behind the driver and passanger (this was the setup, I=, if thats not crystal clear...). The rof had been ripped up, gutted, leaving exposed nails and shredded insulation, to give us a bit of head room. To top off this hunky grade A Colombia Hoopdie, the rear door would pop open every time we began to drive. No matter how hard we or the driver slammed it, the door would break free! Lucky for us the tire on the back of the Toyo had some srot of latch this twist that configuration that was in decent shape. Thus the door would pop open but was held to six inches. We (two of us being pressed up against that rear door) would make it after all!
Don't get me wrong, our Toyo/monster truck did have three things going for it: Military grade beast status tires (that needed air every fifteen minutes), a nice little shiny radio, and a cute box of Kleenex tissues secured to the passanger flip down mirror. Those came in handy when beer began seeping down through the roof getting our hair a bit tipsy.
We threw our bags on the roof, crawled in to the truck arranging knees between legs, feet under over between butts close to ears, elbows in ribs, laughing all the way.
The drive took two and a half hours. The first hour and a bit was through Santa Marta, on paved 'comfortable' roads. The final hour (after passing a military checkpoint where sixteen year olds who barely had peach fuzz but strapped fully automatic rifles to their boyish chests, live ammo in pockets, cigarettes hanging from slim lips, menacing faces with hair +/- 0.034 cm long. One kid had two mortar rounds in his pockets. These guys were prepared for war!) was in the jungle, on a road taht would be a great spot in New York to test Hummers and military vehicles. Hair pin turns, boulders, ditches, river crossings, this beast got a workout as it bounced and tumbled along. I forgot to metion earlier while describing the Toyo that the steering wheel wasn't properly alligned, or perhaps it was, but in any event it took a LOT of work to maneuver the truck through the slightest turns. Hand over hand has never seen such a good day. Operating like a ferocious little dishwasher the driver had to turn the wheel almost one full rotation every time a slight turn came about. Jesse could have fixed it!!!
The drive out there was calm and relaxed. Our driver looked to be 50ish years old, slowed for every bump, cautious, efficient. The six of us smiled and had a good laugh as we conquered the road. The drive back was a different story.
This motherbtich was out of his go&%·%? mind! He drove SO fast, flew over bumps and ditches, literally slid around turns, one hand the entire time (in the same car!!!) and it moved so fast there was practically a strobe light effect. To make things worse, he blasted this terrible local music where 15 songs sounded exactly the same. A glimpse of that drive:
' ACORDIAN ACORDIAN my wife (BUMP! Jordan - WOOHOOO!!!) left me on the (EEEERRRRRRCCCHHHH! Driver - HHAANNGGG ONNN) farm with (ACORDIAN TRUMPET GUITAR - ROCK!) our children (BANG! Heads smash into roof maybe a nail or two), and now I sing to mourn (Mark - Haven't these motherfuckers ever heard of a piano!) FWOOMPH! we're all thrown to one side elbows hitting ribs cheeks kissing each other hands flailing trying to catch hold of something fixed - Joe - Yo where's the spliff?! Jordan - Army! Put it away! BANG another rock, OOP SPLASH, river crossing, water pouring into the back of the truck. More singing and accordian, Mark still furious about the poor quality of music.
Note - The driver's only two words of english were Hang On, and Mark was miserable every moment of the way, the music was another ant in his pants.
And so it went. We made the four hour jungle crazy road drive in under half an hour. We heard after returning from the trek that some paramilitary had stopped a similar tourist-filled truck on the same road and executed the driver, not harming a single tourist. Maybe that explains the new driver, and increased speed. Nevertheless, we made it back to Taganga, sore, smelly, certainly NOT in one piece.
The trek itself was dagone great! Set out on foot friday midday after a huge, tastey lunch. The walking took us up and down hills, very challanging inclines that had us working our butts off and sweating like animals within minutes. Stepping on stones to cross rivers, avoiding mud that was knee deep and swallowed shoes. Had it rained my K Swiss hole ridden old garbage appropriate sneaker wannabe hiking boots would have been eaten, by the mud, and gone forever. But they made it! Still intact, not really wearable, but still in a piece or two!
We hiked the following hours per day: Four, four, six, seven, four, stopping a few times during each set to swim, chow down on fresh fruit, candy, chocolate. Saw a few beautiful cascades, we visited a cocaine factory where a local (who was suspiciously good at what he did...) showed us the entire process of making blow. Didn't let us take pictures of him... little bit fishy....
The food was phenomenal. Portions that were too big, a variety of well prepared fresh meat, vegetables, the fruit was some of the best I have ever tasted. Chocolate milk and coffe every morning. Our guides and helpers worked tirelessly to make sure we were comfortable. They were fun, helpful, crazy, our guides Lalo and Gustavo (the latter is 18) made our trip unforgettable.
Bugs were an issue. Every hour of every day we were attacked. I found three ticks (in places I will not disclose), other people found more. Spiders in our beds, mosquitoes that bit through socks. Did I mention, bugs were an issue?!
The trek itself was more fun that the Lost City. 2500 steps (that I did barefoot!!!!!) circular foundations, breathtaking views, huge military presence, ok, that about wraps it up. Maybe I'm a bit too critical, it just didn't really do it for me.
Our six person group hooked up with another larger group midway through day two. Mostly laidback but wild stoners, certainly a fun group. It was wonderful to see the two groups slowly become one, as drinks and spliffs were passed, stories exchanged, friendships developed.
Overall it was an outstanding few days. Mentally and physically challanging, beautiful, out there, fun and stupid. Wild dogs following us, Lalo (and eventually all of us) screaming 'Vamos a la Playa!!!'. The indegenious people carrying packs twice or three times their size up inclines I had to do on all fours. The swimming, cliff jumping, laughing, tumbles while crossing rivers. Become close with Mark and Joe, as well as Bibian and Fernando. The lunch and drinks after reaching civilization after the five day trek. Powerful experience. Awesomeness.
We ended up shacking up in a small, new, unknown hostal for two nights after the trek. I was kind of hoping to end up on the streets. '
Mark Joe and I have stuck together since the trek, travelling south through Medillin, Popoyan, into Ecuador and Quito. Colombia is hands down the most beutiful country (people wise) I have been in thus far, I am refering to the women. Incredibly beautiful women, but not the arrogant, high fashion, expensive clothing type. These women were behind cashiers, washing the floor, serving lunch (or cooking it). A natural, exotic look mixed in with a turn your head down shyness, but keep eye contact boldness. Beautiful beautiful beautiful, I could not believe how attractive the women were. I had heard stories, but you really need to see it to believe it.
I've already written too much, so I'll wrap it up. I hope the journal entry wasn't too raw, I tried to edit it while leaving its spirit untouched. The past few weeks have truly been a trek, getting close with Mark and Joe has made it all so enjoyable. Mark left today for the Galapagos, just me and Joe for a bit. We'll be together down into Cuzco Peru, then its anymans game.
My health is where its been the entire time, more or less ok. I realize the key to traveling is standards. If you lower your standards enough everything is fantastic! My standards are below the ground, thats why I'm having such a good time :)
Hope to be in touch again soon. My love to you all.
SF
Monday, March 30, 2009
South America!
My watch read 4:10am. I double and triple checked the time, starting at the orange point that indicates 12:00, counting off the hours to the right. 12 to 1 is one hour, then comes two, I think thats three, four, yep, its 4:10am, time to go. The 4x4 to the coast would be by the hostal at 5, I was packed and good to go but worried I didn't have enough food. I made a quick run out to El Rey, the 24 hour grocery store around the corner, and picked up fruit and Oreos - if the rice beans and pasta failed me, at least I would have some sweets to fall back on. Six liters of water, three cans of pork n beans, two of mixed vegetables, a few apples and oranges, two pounds of pasta, medium size bag of rice, loaf of bread, and 24 oz of hot sauce - all set for five days on the water.
The 4x4 made a fantastic first impression. Man oh man, I thought, a Lexus to take us to the water, silver, shiney, looked clean, almost expensive. Is this really Panama? Once we piled in I realized it was no Lexus. The truck was some sort of stipped down plastic seats ash tray by your elbow no leg room lousy Panamanian off road high class wanna be beast, that feasted on diesel fuel. The two hour drive from El Congrejo, Panama City to the Golfo de San Blas would mark the beginning of a wild trip by sailboat from Panama to Colombia.
Trying to sleep for the first 45 minutes left me even more tired and with a bump on my head from banging into the driver side window each time I began to doze off. We conquered rocky roads, mud, small mountains, a two and a half foot deep river, a military check point, and made it under an electrical wire from which a sloth hung, cchhiilliinn, moving ever so slowly across the wire, one extremity at a time (paying absolutely no mind to we inferior humans and our miserable flashing cameras). For days I had been asking why we couldn't take a bus out to the San Blas Islands, our only option being this 25 dollar 4x4 drive. It quickly became clear that no bus, even with one of those classic out of control local drivers, could make the trek.
We reached the water. Mark, Joe, Gustav, and I stepped out of the truck and found ourself in the middle of nowhere. I mean n o w h e r e. Jungle, water, a few locals, not even a sign for Coca Cola - we had really made it out there. We were directed toward the lancha (small boat) that would take us across the gulf to Porvenir, where we hoped to connect with a larger sailboat. I had a nice moment, standing on the dock looking out into the gulf, heavy dark clouds over head, rays of sun peering through the clouds. The water was rough. I stood, back to land, front to water, so proud of getting here, proud to be out there doing something I would talk about for the next 70 years, proud to do something wild.
Lancha is an appropriate term to describe a small boat, what we were stepping into was more of a splinter than boat. Pretty much six slabs of wood thrown together, is there such thing as an 8 by 4? If there is, thats all the splinter was. Water crept in through the boards, drowning our poor little toes. The driver covered our bags with a plastic tarp, though the sight didn't boost my confidence. Three minutes into the ride we were drenched. Mark, sitting with his knees up against my back (the splinter was 1.4 persons wide), handed me a red plastic rose filled picnic bench table cover to stay dry. The covers came straight from that terrible, cheap restaurant with one waiter, three tables, and bugs!
The covers didn't work. At all. Not even a bit. I was drenched, thoroughly.
Who ever coined the phrase 'soaked to the bone' clearly wasn't that wet because I was soaked to the marrow, to the marrow of the bones forming the marrow of my bones, and wetter. It looked as though we gringos had just jumped into a pool fully clothed (with my camera in my pocket!). For half an hour I held my hands up (as though screaming Praise the Lord!) clutching my laminated table cloth trying to form some sort of a wall from the water. To Mark's advice I gave up and embraced the salt water as part of the experience. And that, it certainly was.
For an hour and a half, we sat single file in this miserable little splinter, getting soaked from the small waves, practically drowning in the medium waves, and laughing hysterically when the big mommas came, filing our boat with water and our soul with smiles.
At one point Mark (a forty some od year old Phys Ed teacher from Canada who loves to laugh and goes for the same crazy adventures as me)tapped me on the shoulder and spat 'Ey man, what happens if we don't make it?' I said 'Mark, let's be clear, we probably won't make it. Anyway, its even less likely that if (when!) we do capsize someone on land will hear of it and come to rescue us. If THAT happens, and some poor fellow does catch wind of our distress, it is VERY likely that he will send an equally shitty perhaps smaller splinter to come save us, which will 100 per cent absolutely not do us ANY good! Are you religious?' We laughed, during which salt water poured into our mouths, we pushed on.
In any event, we made it. I was actually somehow cleaner after the splinter ride than before. Dirt from under my nails and between my toes just up and disappeared with the waves. Sadly, the sailboat turned out to be a larger splinter - dirty, uncomfortable, crowded, far from sea worthy, but perfect for the adventure. We crawled aboard, dripping salt water, threw our (equally soaked) bags down below, and engaged in a fierce spanglish argument with the lancha captain over the price of our little salt water bath/ruinallyourstuff boat ride out here to El Porvenir.
That was Thursday Morning, March 26. We spent the next two days in the beautiful, picturesque San Blas Islands. Crystal clear, warm water, tiny islands home to just one or two palm trees, locals that paddle in their canoe up to one's boat to sell fresh fish, lobster, shark, or to haggle you for a magazine. We got dangerously sunburnt snorkling and doing absolutely nothing save soaking in the beauty and peace of the islands. From there it was a 50 hour journey in the open ocean to Cartagena, Colombia. Rough seas made heating up a can of beans (without spilling them EVERYWHERE) a chore. Most of us got sea sick, the Captain and his first mate drank every drop of our liquor the first night, so what we thought would be one long party turned into eight guys stuck in a cramped sailboat, sober, sick, and eating beans for four days - I LOVED IT!!!
Personally, I didn't think we would make it. I made peace with the fact that I would never see my family again. Alas, I was reassured by the fact that I am proud of my last blog entry, I had recently sent a few nice emails, and I had had an INCREDIBLE last few months - Not making it could have come at a worse time.
Never fear, I write this from a Hostal in the beautiful, lively, romantic city of Cartagena. The five guys from the boat and I have become very close. Most of us will continue to travel together up towards Ciudad Perdida, before heading south to Medillin.
I can't say I've done many things that rival taking a sailboat from Panama to Colombia on the 'wild' scale. I felt myself changing every step of the way. Ditched half of my clothing, nearly tossed my guide book overboard; maybe some of the recent desire to get out there and just be, doing whatever, with whoever, wherever, living, loving, finding life - comes from reading Keroac's On the Road. The other part of it is seeping out from somewhere within me, a place still undiscovered, a place I hope to dive into sooner rather than later.
Although I am not learning much spanish, I am learning the language of Travel. Be it speaking, sign language, body language, or some other form of communication, I am finally learning to let go and travel. Its thrilling. Scarey, funny, intense. Sensational.
My last blog was from Leon, Nicaragua. I spent a few days in Leon, followed by Granada and eventually Isla de Ometepe. I caught up with my good friends from Guatemala Edan and Kevin, spent nearly a week with them on the island. Shot down through San Jose, Costa Rica allllll the way (17 hour bus ride) to Panama City. There, for five days I marveled at the Casinos, found absolutely NO good local food, and wound up in a Club which I took to be heaven seeing as the male to female ratio was 1:5, and every single woman was drop dead gorgeous. Little old naive me, this was no heaven, it was a club full of prostitutes (lo mismo?). Squeezing back out through the same door I had entered, with a grin big enough to light up Central America, I was off in a few hours to the San Blas Islands, from there to Colombia!
I am healthy, happy, still smiling, still stinky. Reading and writing every day, enjoying the trip more and more. Missing home of course, reluctant to email. I dig drowning in this world, this place outside of my reality where people come to experience culture, color, life, through a completely different lens.
I think I'll head north from here. Who knows. I don't. I have some idea, but not much. Thats the way it should be, thats the way I like it.
Love Always
SF
The 4x4 made a fantastic first impression. Man oh man, I thought, a Lexus to take us to the water, silver, shiney, looked clean, almost expensive. Is this really Panama? Once we piled in I realized it was no Lexus. The truck was some sort of stipped down plastic seats ash tray by your elbow no leg room lousy Panamanian off road high class wanna be beast, that feasted on diesel fuel. The two hour drive from El Congrejo, Panama City to the Golfo de San Blas would mark the beginning of a wild trip by sailboat from Panama to Colombia.
Trying to sleep for the first 45 minutes left me even more tired and with a bump on my head from banging into the driver side window each time I began to doze off. We conquered rocky roads, mud, small mountains, a two and a half foot deep river, a military check point, and made it under an electrical wire from which a sloth hung, cchhiilliinn, moving ever so slowly across the wire, one extremity at a time (paying absolutely no mind to we inferior humans and our miserable flashing cameras). For days I had been asking why we couldn't take a bus out to the San Blas Islands, our only option being this 25 dollar 4x4 drive. It quickly became clear that no bus, even with one of those classic out of control local drivers, could make the trek.
We reached the water. Mark, Joe, Gustav, and I stepped out of the truck and found ourself in the middle of nowhere. I mean n o w h e r e. Jungle, water, a few locals, not even a sign for Coca Cola - we had really made it out there. We were directed toward the lancha (small boat) that would take us across the gulf to Porvenir, where we hoped to connect with a larger sailboat. I had a nice moment, standing on the dock looking out into the gulf, heavy dark clouds over head, rays of sun peering through the clouds. The water was rough. I stood, back to land, front to water, so proud of getting here, proud to be out there doing something I would talk about for the next 70 years, proud to do something wild.
Lancha is an appropriate term to describe a small boat, what we were stepping into was more of a splinter than boat. Pretty much six slabs of wood thrown together, is there such thing as an 8 by 4? If there is, thats all the splinter was. Water crept in through the boards, drowning our poor little toes. The driver covered our bags with a plastic tarp, though the sight didn't boost my confidence. Three minutes into the ride we were drenched. Mark, sitting with his knees up against my back (the splinter was 1.4 persons wide), handed me a red plastic rose filled picnic bench table cover to stay dry. The covers came straight from that terrible, cheap restaurant with one waiter, three tables, and bugs!
The covers didn't work. At all. Not even a bit. I was drenched, thoroughly.
Who ever coined the phrase 'soaked to the bone' clearly wasn't that wet because I was soaked to the marrow, to the marrow of the bones forming the marrow of my bones, and wetter. It looked as though we gringos had just jumped into a pool fully clothed (with my camera in my pocket!). For half an hour I held my hands up (as though screaming Praise the Lord!) clutching my laminated table cloth trying to form some sort of a wall from the water. To Mark's advice I gave up and embraced the salt water as part of the experience. And that, it certainly was.
For an hour and a half, we sat single file in this miserable little splinter, getting soaked from the small waves, practically drowning in the medium waves, and laughing hysterically when the big mommas came, filing our boat with water and our soul with smiles.
At one point Mark (a forty some od year old Phys Ed teacher from Canada who loves to laugh and goes for the same crazy adventures as me)tapped me on the shoulder and spat 'Ey man, what happens if we don't make it?' I said 'Mark, let's be clear, we probably won't make it. Anyway, its even less likely that if (when!) we do capsize someone on land will hear of it and come to rescue us. If THAT happens, and some poor fellow does catch wind of our distress, it is VERY likely that he will send an equally shitty perhaps smaller splinter to come save us, which will 100 per cent absolutely not do us ANY good! Are you religious?' We laughed, during which salt water poured into our mouths, we pushed on.
In any event, we made it. I was actually somehow cleaner after the splinter ride than before. Dirt from under my nails and between my toes just up and disappeared with the waves. Sadly, the sailboat turned out to be a larger splinter - dirty, uncomfortable, crowded, far from sea worthy, but perfect for the adventure. We crawled aboard, dripping salt water, threw our (equally soaked) bags down below, and engaged in a fierce spanglish argument with the lancha captain over the price of our little salt water bath/ruinallyourstuff boat ride out here to El Porvenir.
That was Thursday Morning, March 26. We spent the next two days in the beautiful, picturesque San Blas Islands. Crystal clear, warm water, tiny islands home to just one or two palm trees, locals that paddle in their canoe up to one's boat to sell fresh fish, lobster, shark, or to haggle you for a magazine. We got dangerously sunburnt snorkling and doing absolutely nothing save soaking in the beauty and peace of the islands. From there it was a 50 hour journey in the open ocean to Cartagena, Colombia. Rough seas made heating up a can of beans (without spilling them EVERYWHERE) a chore. Most of us got sea sick, the Captain and his first mate drank every drop of our liquor the first night, so what we thought would be one long party turned into eight guys stuck in a cramped sailboat, sober, sick, and eating beans for four days - I LOVED IT!!!
Personally, I didn't think we would make it. I made peace with the fact that I would never see my family again. Alas, I was reassured by the fact that I am proud of my last blog entry, I had recently sent a few nice emails, and I had had an INCREDIBLE last few months - Not making it could have come at a worse time.
Never fear, I write this from a Hostal in the beautiful, lively, romantic city of Cartagena. The five guys from the boat and I have become very close. Most of us will continue to travel together up towards Ciudad Perdida, before heading south to Medillin.
I can't say I've done many things that rival taking a sailboat from Panama to Colombia on the 'wild' scale. I felt myself changing every step of the way. Ditched half of my clothing, nearly tossed my guide book overboard; maybe some of the recent desire to get out there and just be, doing whatever, with whoever, wherever, living, loving, finding life - comes from reading Keroac's On the Road. The other part of it is seeping out from somewhere within me, a place still undiscovered, a place I hope to dive into sooner rather than later.
Although I am not learning much spanish, I am learning the language of Travel. Be it speaking, sign language, body language, or some other form of communication, I am finally learning to let go and travel. Its thrilling. Scarey, funny, intense. Sensational.
My last blog was from Leon, Nicaragua. I spent a few days in Leon, followed by Granada and eventually Isla de Ometepe. I caught up with my good friends from Guatemala Edan and Kevin, spent nearly a week with them on the island. Shot down through San Jose, Costa Rica allllll the way (17 hour bus ride) to Panama City. There, for five days I marveled at the Casinos, found absolutely NO good local food, and wound up in a Club which I took to be heaven seeing as the male to female ratio was 1:5, and every single woman was drop dead gorgeous. Little old naive me, this was no heaven, it was a club full of prostitutes (lo mismo?). Squeezing back out through the same door I had entered, with a grin big enough to light up Central America, I was off in a few hours to the San Blas Islands, from there to Colombia!
I am healthy, happy, still smiling, still stinky. Reading and writing every day, enjoying the trip more and more. Missing home of course, reluctant to email. I dig drowning in this world, this place outside of my reality where people come to experience culture, color, life, through a completely different lens.
I think I'll head north from here. Who knows. I don't. I have some idea, but not much. Thats the way it should be, thats the way I like it.
Love Always
SF
Friday, March 13, 2009
March, Eight Weeks Yesterday
Hola Hola!!!
During the days and weeks before I left for Mexico I was quick to say 'Ahh I'll travel for four, five, or six months. I'll get through all of Central and South America,' so on and so forth. I realize now how naive and blind that attitude was. A third of a year is a long time! More like VERY long! I look at how far I have come (I write this blog from Leon, Nicaragua), at my destination (Lima, Peru), try to think of the time away from home in a general sense, and I am left feeling that four months is an incredibly long time, though not nearly enough to see (properly) the countries I am travelling through. Alas... I've adopted the classic (Arnold Schwartzasomething)attitude 'I'll be back... within the next thirty years, come back to these regions and explore what I missed when I was young and restless.'
My last entry came from San Pedro, by Lago de Atitlan in Western Guatemala. It would not be kosher of me to say I don't have the words to describe the past two weeks, because although thats how I feel, the next painful hour and a half will be devoted to that task alone. Nevertheless, if my experience up until the last entry had been an eight out of ten (discomfort adds points in my eyes), its has now reached at least an 11.73. The food, the travel, the people, the sights, cities, vibes, volcanoes, cliffs, beaches, all of it, unreal. I have finally become very comfortable, so much so that I have begun to tell myself - Its ok to want to go home, Its not out of homesickness or lonliness, its simply out of wanting to be back home in your routine, its ok jordan, there there - . From the Lago de Atitlan, I traveled over through Antigua and Guatemala City up to Coban, where I spent a few days exploring the caves and waterfalls of Semuc Chempey near Lanquin. The trip from Coban north to Rio Dulce was easily the most memorable day of travel so far (Monday March 2, 2009). I thought after that day to devote this entire blog to the one short trip, copying the six page journal entry to the net. Being the lazy bum I am, I waited nearly two weeks during which I had many similar experiences in transit, so copying that entry didn't seem appropriate. From Rio Dulce it was a quick jump up to Livingston, followed by Puerto Barrios and the Honduran frontier alllll the way south (in one day) through San Pedro (second largest city in Honduras, San Pedro from Lago de Atitlan's daddy)down to Agua Caliente, a city on the boarder between Honduras and Guatemala, but very close to El Salvador. After one night in Agua Caliente it was crossing the small corner of Honduras down into El Salvador via El Poy. Two more buses In El Salvador got me south to Apopa where I caught an onward bus to Santa Ana. A few nights there before the coast for one miserable, lousy, expensive night by Playa Tunca. One night in San Salvador got me on the bus to Managua, Nicaragua early early early the next morning, from which I got off in Leon - Landing me where I am now! WHOA, quite a trek.
The literal transit, the buses, camionetas, cars and trucks for hitchhiking, boats, has become a continual highlight of the trip. Getting stuffed into a twenty year old yellow school bus (that is certainly not yellow, it most likely has flames, crome horns, a shiny grill, things hanging from every nail window and opening) outfitted as part church, with quotes from the bible on every wall, pictures of Jesus, colors, images, trinkets (none of which cover the mandatory 'your child's safety is our primary concern,' and the 'how's my driving?' signs bolted above the driver seat) and part human stuff sack with seats and standing room that fit roughly 75 people when 45 would be the US legal maximum capacity.
And those are just the buses...
Camionetas are the old vans that serve as public, multi person taxis. They FLYY around, doors and windows WIDE open with the driver hanging out of his window screaming and honking, while his partner (the man in the back who gets out to harass people, collects money, and handles luggage) literally hangs out of the van the entire ride yelling at everyone standing on the street, climbing up on the roof while we drive at lord knows what speed, all the while the driver pulls U Turns, slams on the breaks, spins the tires (Jesse on a bad day perhaps? :) ), pulls out the cell phone, and the latin music is loud enough to pop an ear drum or two.
It was wild. Chaos. My first time in a Camioneta was making a transition that wonderful day between Coban and Rio Dulce. Got off the bus from Coban in a bustling, orderless, frantic, beautiful in some odd sense junction El Ranchon. 'Got off' deserves some explanation because the bus only slowed down, never stopped. Two seconds after I had jumped down I realized the bus that was driving away had my bag underneath. With lightning reflexes I ran after and banged on the bus until someone got out to give me my bag - even then the driver didn't stop!!! Then came the Camioneta.
I was taken (literally) by the arm from a guy who ran over to me screaming Gringo, Ay Gringo, where you going, where you going!!! Shit if I could turn this guy down, I told him Rio Dulce (four hours away) to which he replied Direct Direct and pushed me into a van. There I sat, in the back row clutching a bag with my valuables, as the volume was turned up, pedal pushed to the floor, rules of the road disobayed, doors not closed, and destination in NO WAY achieved. Still a thrilling ride!
The story of that day gets much much better (forgotten passport, hitch hiking away from a police checkpoint) but there is too much else to talk about.
Every day I meet new people. There is never a bus ride, night in a hostal, internet cafe, or tourist atttraction without a new encounter. Although its easy to find down time to be alone, read, write, reflect, there is certainly no shortage of company. I have made good friends and met people I hope to keep in touch with; not just one or two day friends, forgotten immediatly after parting ways.
A few quick highlights -
In Santa Ana I went to the same street vendor two nights in a row for Pupusas. Margharita, the chef, stood behind a small table with delicious food, and arranged three little tables with a few chairs for people like me (not gringos, or travellers, just other hungry folk). The first night was simply nice, she and I spoke a little bit, I ate WAY too much, a little connection was made. The second night I arrived to find each seat occupied save for one, at a table across from an older man who appeared very poor, tattered clothing, sunken cheeks, dirty hands and face, but warm eyes. When he (Josef) saw me look at the open chair, he immediatly smiled and beckoned me to sit with him. I did not hesitate and soon found myself speaking to a wonderful man. We spoke and ate, spoke some more while eating, Margharita sat down and chimed in, her two (adult) sons showed up and joined in, family pictures were brought out, stories exchanged, free food and drink brought to the table. It was unforgettable.
Broken spanish and english, smiles, laughter, these were charming, endearing people, so quick to bring me into their small community.
I walked away glowing - two hours later.
That experience has not been a single occurance. I have had so many encounters with hospitable people, helping me to navigate bus systems, directing me to local streetside restaurants, joining me for walks through the city. Almost daily I can tell a story with this underlying element of human connection, openness, warmth, or however else one may describe it.
I have written too much but could easily continue for hours.
Throughout the past few weeks I have found myself stepping in and out of cultures, getting a hint of this, a glimpse of that. I love the fact that I am jumping around, getting a bit of every flavor. Though the next few weeks are going to be even more hectic. I found a very inexpensive flight out of Lima to New York. Thats the destination and I don't have too much time. It'll be a challange, finding the balance between moving toward a destination quickly, knowing time is of the essance, but making sure to enjoy every moment, not passing up on any of these experiences. Im excited, energized at the thought of what is to come, anxious, missing home, loving Central America, eager to read and write, full of love and happiness, and proud of what I am doing.
The cities I visit, the roads I travel and places I flop, are not less travelled. I am not (as I had so naively predicted) falling off the grid, escaping civilization, braving new frontier, though I am on a personal level.
I would love to write about the music down here; the music from the stores and restaurants, from the buses, from their brakes, their smog producing engines. Music in the faces gazing curiously at the gringo entering their territory, from the sickly animals prowling the street that eye longingly when you sit down to a meal. Music in the foods that are brought to you sitting on a sidewalk. Different in every country, different in every city. Music that sounds very different from the rhythm of New York City. But music that is music, however foreign to the ear. Music is everywhere, and when one learns to quiet down and listen up, wonderful sensations are experienced.
I am healthy (Not sure how thats possible, you should see my diet! holy moly the things that have gone through me. I'll spare you the details), as always suffering from a slight funky smell, feet are in TERRIBLE condition, but getting me from point A to B without fail.
All is well by me. I enjoy SO MUCH reading your emails, and still give myself a hard time for not responding. I am less and less inclined to enter the cafe, sorta just want to be... though I welcome every bit of news from home.
Another blog to come, not soon, but it'll appear this year.
My love and affection to all
sf
During the days and weeks before I left for Mexico I was quick to say 'Ahh I'll travel for four, five, or six months. I'll get through all of Central and South America,' so on and so forth. I realize now how naive and blind that attitude was. A third of a year is a long time! More like VERY long! I look at how far I have come (I write this blog from Leon, Nicaragua), at my destination (Lima, Peru), try to think of the time away from home in a general sense, and I am left feeling that four months is an incredibly long time, though not nearly enough to see (properly) the countries I am travelling through. Alas... I've adopted the classic (Arnold Schwartzasomething)attitude 'I'll be back... within the next thirty years, come back to these regions and explore what I missed when I was young and restless.'
My last entry came from San Pedro, by Lago de Atitlan in Western Guatemala. It would not be kosher of me to say I don't have the words to describe the past two weeks, because although thats how I feel, the next painful hour and a half will be devoted to that task alone. Nevertheless, if my experience up until the last entry had been an eight out of ten (discomfort adds points in my eyes), its has now reached at least an 11.73. The food, the travel, the people, the sights, cities, vibes, volcanoes, cliffs, beaches, all of it, unreal. I have finally become very comfortable, so much so that I have begun to tell myself - Its ok to want to go home, Its not out of homesickness or lonliness, its simply out of wanting to be back home in your routine, its ok jordan, there there - . From the Lago de Atitlan, I traveled over through Antigua and Guatemala City up to Coban, where I spent a few days exploring the caves and waterfalls of Semuc Chempey near Lanquin. The trip from Coban north to Rio Dulce was easily the most memorable day of travel so far (Monday March 2, 2009). I thought after that day to devote this entire blog to the one short trip, copying the six page journal entry to the net. Being the lazy bum I am, I waited nearly two weeks during which I had many similar experiences in transit, so copying that entry didn't seem appropriate. From Rio Dulce it was a quick jump up to Livingston, followed by Puerto Barrios and the Honduran frontier alllll the way south (in one day) through San Pedro (second largest city in Honduras, San Pedro from Lago de Atitlan's daddy)down to Agua Caliente, a city on the boarder between Honduras and Guatemala, but very close to El Salvador. After one night in Agua Caliente it was crossing the small corner of Honduras down into El Salvador via El Poy. Two more buses In El Salvador got me south to Apopa where I caught an onward bus to Santa Ana. A few nights there before the coast for one miserable, lousy, expensive night by Playa Tunca. One night in San Salvador got me on the bus to Managua, Nicaragua early early early the next morning, from which I got off in Leon - Landing me where I am now! WHOA, quite a trek.
The literal transit, the buses, camionetas, cars and trucks for hitchhiking, boats, has become a continual highlight of the trip. Getting stuffed into a twenty year old yellow school bus (that is certainly not yellow, it most likely has flames, crome horns, a shiny grill, things hanging from every nail window and opening) outfitted as part church, with quotes from the bible on every wall, pictures of Jesus, colors, images, trinkets (none of which cover the mandatory 'your child's safety is our primary concern,' and the 'how's my driving?' signs bolted above the driver seat) and part human stuff sack with seats and standing room that fit roughly 75 people when 45 would be the US legal maximum capacity.
And those are just the buses...
Camionetas are the old vans that serve as public, multi person taxis. They FLYY around, doors and windows WIDE open with the driver hanging out of his window screaming and honking, while his partner (the man in the back who gets out to harass people, collects money, and handles luggage) literally hangs out of the van the entire ride yelling at everyone standing on the street, climbing up on the roof while we drive at lord knows what speed, all the while the driver pulls U Turns, slams on the breaks, spins the tires (Jesse on a bad day perhaps? :) ), pulls out the cell phone, and the latin music is loud enough to pop an ear drum or two.
It was wild. Chaos. My first time in a Camioneta was making a transition that wonderful day between Coban and Rio Dulce. Got off the bus from Coban in a bustling, orderless, frantic, beautiful in some odd sense junction El Ranchon. 'Got off' deserves some explanation because the bus only slowed down, never stopped. Two seconds after I had jumped down I realized the bus that was driving away had my bag underneath. With lightning reflexes I ran after and banged on the bus until someone got out to give me my bag - even then the driver didn't stop!!! Then came the Camioneta.
I was taken (literally) by the arm from a guy who ran over to me screaming Gringo, Ay Gringo, where you going, where you going!!! Shit if I could turn this guy down, I told him Rio Dulce (four hours away) to which he replied Direct Direct and pushed me into a van. There I sat, in the back row clutching a bag with my valuables, as the volume was turned up, pedal pushed to the floor, rules of the road disobayed, doors not closed, and destination in NO WAY achieved. Still a thrilling ride!
The story of that day gets much much better (forgotten passport, hitch hiking away from a police checkpoint) but there is too much else to talk about.
Every day I meet new people. There is never a bus ride, night in a hostal, internet cafe, or tourist atttraction without a new encounter. Although its easy to find down time to be alone, read, write, reflect, there is certainly no shortage of company. I have made good friends and met people I hope to keep in touch with; not just one or two day friends, forgotten immediatly after parting ways.
A few quick highlights -
In Santa Ana I went to the same street vendor two nights in a row for Pupusas. Margharita, the chef, stood behind a small table with delicious food, and arranged three little tables with a few chairs for people like me (not gringos, or travellers, just other hungry folk). The first night was simply nice, she and I spoke a little bit, I ate WAY too much, a little connection was made. The second night I arrived to find each seat occupied save for one, at a table across from an older man who appeared very poor, tattered clothing, sunken cheeks, dirty hands and face, but warm eyes. When he (Josef) saw me look at the open chair, he immediatly smiled and beckoned me to sit with him. I did not hesitate and soon found myself speaking to a wonderful man. We spoke and ate, spoke some more while eating, Margharita sat down and chimed in, her two (adult) sons showed up and joined in, family pictures were brought out, stories exchanged, free food and drink brought to the table. It was unforgettable.
Broken spanish and english, smiles, laughter, these were charming, endearing people, so quick to bring me into their small community.
I walked away glowing - two hours later.
That experience has not been a single occurance. I have had so many encounters with hospitable people, helping me to navigate bus systems, directing me to local streetside restaurants, joining me for walks through the city. Almost daily I can tell a story with this underlying element of human connection, openness, warmth, or however else one may describe it.
I have written too much but could easily continue for hours.
Throughout the past few weeks I have found myself stepping in and out of cultures, getting a hint of this, a glimpse of that. I love the fact that I am jumping around, getting a bit of every flavor. Though the next few weeks are going to be even more hectic. I found a very inexpensive flight out of Lima to New York. Thats the destination and I don't have too much time. It'll be a challange, finding the balance between moving toward a destination quickly, knowing time is of the essance, but making sure to enjoy every moment, not passing up on any of these experiences. Im excited, energized at the thought of what is to come, anxious, missing home, loving Central America, eager to read and write, full of love and happiness, and proud of what I am doing.
The cities I visit, the roads I travel and places I flop, are not less travelled. I am not (as I had so naively predicted) falling off the grid, escaping civilization, braving new frontier, though I am on a personal level.
I would love to write about the music down here; the music from the stores and restaurants, from the buses, from their brakes, their smog producing engines. Music in the faces gazing curiously at the gringo entering their territory, from the sickly animals prowling the street that eye longingly when you sit down to a meal. Music in the foods that are brought to you sitting on a sidewalk. Different in every country, different in every city. Music that sounds very different from the rhythm of New York City. But music that is music, however foreign to the ear. Music is everywhere, and when one learns to quiet down and listen up, wonderful sensations are experienced.
I am healthy (Not sure how thats possible, you should see my diet! holy moly the things that have gone through me. I'll spare you the details), as always suffering from a slight funky smell, feet are in TERRIBLE condition, but getting me from point A to B without fail.
All is well by me. I enjoy SO MUCH reading your emails, and still give myself a hard time for not responding. I am less and less inclined to enter the cafe, sorta just want to be... though I welcome every bit of news from home.
Another blog to come, not soon, but it'll appear this year.
My love and affection to all
sf
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
First From Guatemala
Good Evening Good Evening!
This post comes from a tiny internet cafe in the ever so small city of San Pedro, a community along the shore of Lago de Atitlan, Guatemala. I have been here four days, spending almost all of each day in a hammock by the water. The atmosphere here is tranquil, healthy, beautiful, enriching, purifying, the list goes on. San Pedro is well known in Guatemala, but has remained out of sight to most of the world. Lago de Atitlan is incredibly beautiful, protected by sleeping volcanoes, towering mountains, and providing shelter for a very small indigenous population. It is no wonder travellers get stuck here for weeks on end.
From San Cristobal I took a shuttel to Antigua, Guatemala. It was a true day of travel; four buses, two sets of immigration facilities, six cities, 13 hours, seven roadside hold-ups, one meal, and two bathroom breaks. I slept like a baby that first night in Antigua.
I was not so excited to see Antigua. From what I heard, read, and ultimately witnessed, Antigua is nothing like Guatemala. Clean manicured streets, endless restaurants, fashionable shops, more tourists than locals, expensive meals, theater, the notion that life is good and easy, Antigua is simply a little paradise city. One does not spend time there in search of the 'real' Guatemala. However, the city does boast nearly 75 language schools, which is precisely why I chose to spend nine days there. I enrolled in a language school almost immediatly. For one week, five days, it was back to the books; four hours of class, four hours of homework and self-study, not being able to hide in the back of a classroom because it was one on one, the week was long but fun and well worth every moment of study.
Even though it took me a while to warm up to Antigua, I found myself sad to leave the city. Antigua is cozy, very warm with people that are both helpful and fun, the surrounding volcanoes make for a stunning backdrop, and it has a generally good feel to it. I had trouble with Antigua because I found it to exhibit a false sense of Guatemala, nevertheless, I enjoyed my time there very much. I had a wonderful experience in the hostal for nearly one and a half weeks, I met new people every day, and the class gave me a real push forward in learning the language.
I have spent the past few days here in San Pedro with three great guys - two Germans and an Israeli. One of the Germans, Kevin, is 19 years old (the youngest backpacker I have met thus far!!!). He and I immediatly clicked, and we've been having a great time together. Kevin started in Panama City five months ago, and just pushed his flight back for another four months. I envy what he has done and will do, though I'll be happy coming home after just a few months.
Tomorrow I'm jumping on a bus from San Pedro over to Guatemala City and up to Coban. I look forward to passing through Guatemala City as fast as possible. Coban should be a nice city for a few days, though the nearby waterfalls and cliff-jumping of Semuc Champey are the real visions in mind.
I continue to read and write, and read and write all the time. The emotions have quieted as I have become comfortable with the changing environment, with the backpack, and with myself. Part of me wishes I could be home tomorrow. This trip has brought me to understand the idea of - valuing what one has only after he has lost it - under a completely new light. I miss just about everything from home, though not enough to cut this trip short for even a moment!
Growth and maturity are an every day occurance. Finding the strength to do certain things, overcome various emotions, finding the inner peace and tranquility to breath, relax, take in my surroundings, these are objects of my every day.
I look upon the people I meet with wide eyes and respect. The stories Shared between me and friends, both comedic and serious, have given shape to my time away from home.
I am learning and have learned more during this year off than I have ever learned in six months time. I feel rich, healthy, and ready for all that is coming my way between here and South America.
I miss you all and look forward to being in touch again soon.
Hope everyone is well, in good health, and in good spirits.
I've been in the lake a lot so my feet don't stink right now -
(notso) SF
This post comes from a tiny internet cafe in the ever so small city of San Pedro, a community along the shore of Lago de Atitlan, Guatemala. I have been here four days, spending almost all of each day in a hammock by the water. The atmosphere here is tranquil, healthy, beautiful, enriching, purifying, the list goes on. San Pedro is well known in Guatemala, but has remained out of sight to most of the world. Lago de Atitlan is incredibly beautiful, protected by sleeping volcanoes, towering mountains, and providing shelter for a very small indigenous population. It is no wonder travellers get stuck here for weeks on end.
From San Cristobal I took a shuttel to Antigua, Guatemala. It was a true day of travel; four buses, two sets of immigration facilities, six cities, 13 hours, seven roadside hold-ups, one meal, and two bathroom breaks. I slept like a baby that first night in Antigua.
I was not so excited to see Antigua. From what I heard, read, and ultimately witnessed, Antigua is nothing like Guatemala. Clean manicured streets, endless restaurants, fashionable shops, more tourists than locals, expensive meals, theater, the notion that life is good and easy, Antigua is simply a little paradise city. One does not spend time there in search of the 'real' Guatemala. However, the city does boast nearly 75 language schools, which is precisely why I chose to spend nine days there. I enrolled in a language school almost immediatly. For one week, five days, it was back to the books; four hours of class, four hours of homework and self-study, not being able to hide in the back of a classroom because it was one on one, the week was long but fun and well worth every moment of study.
Even though it took me a while to warm up to Antigua, I found myself sad to leave the city. Antigua is cozy, very warm with people that are both helpful and fun, the surrounding volcanoes make for a stunning backdrop, and it has a generally good feel to it. I had trouble with Antigua because I found it to exhibit a false sense of Guatemala, nevertheless, I enjoyed my time there very much. I had a wonderful experience in the hostal for nearly one and a half weeks, I met new people every day, and the class gave me a real push forward in learning the language.
I have spent the past few days here in San Pedro with three great guys - two Germans and an Israeli. One of the Germans, Kevin, is 19 years old (the youngest backpacker I have met thus far!!!). He and I immediatly clicked, and we've been having a great time together. Kevin started in Panama City five months ago, and just pushed his flight back for another four months. I envy what he has done and will do, though I'll be happy coming home after just a few months.
Tomorrow I'm jumping on a bus from San Pedro over to Guatemala City and up to Coban. I look forward to passing through Guatemala City as fast as possible. Coban should be a nice city for a few days, though the nearby waterfalls and cliff-jumping of Semuc Champey are the real visions in mind.
I continue to read and write, and read and write all the time. The emotions have quieted as I have become comfortable with the changing environment, with the backpack, and with myself. Part of me wishes I could be home tomorrow. This trip has brought me to understand the idea of - valuing what one has only after he has lost it - under a completely new light. I miss just about everything from home, though not enough to cut this trip short for even a moment!
Growth and maturity are an every day occurance. Finding the strength to do certain things, overcome various emotions, finding the inner peace and tranquility to breath, relax, take in my surroundings, these are objects of my every day.
I look upon the people I meet with wide eyes and respect. The stories Shared between me and friends, both comedic and serious, have given shape to my time away from home.
I am learning and have learned more during this year off than I have ever learned in six months time. I feel rich, healthy, and ready for all that is coming my way between here and South America.
I miss you all and look forward to being in touch again soon.
Hope everyone is well, in good health, and in good spirits.
I've been in the lake a lot so my feet don't stink right now -
(notso) SF
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Final Moments in Mexico
Good morning friends and family
I write you from San Cristobal de las Casas, the final gem city in the highlands of Chiapas. The days here have been sunny and comfortable, but the nights incredibly cold. The city is roughly 2100 meters above sea level, so not only has each hill (stair) winded me, but the nights have given real meaning to the thought of winter in Mexcio.
I stepped off the bus here with my pants rolled up, tank top loosly hanging from my shoulders, skin the color of a tomato, and flip flops. Within ten minutes I had bought a hat, scarf, and put on every bit of clothing in my possession (including pjs under my pants, two pairs of socks, and three shirts, I wasn´t playing around!).
Time on the beach was nice and relaxing, but nothing special. I am more interested in the rich Mexican culture than the surfer dude sleep all day drink all night be a bum lifestyle, which is very present in Puerto Escondido. I´m glad I was there, the scenery is beautiful and fish delicious, but I was happy to leave after a few days.
I arrived in San Cristobal early morning on February 5, after taking an overnight bus from the coast. While Oaxaca has become the favorite city of many tourists, San Cristobal earns just as many points in my book. The city is small and personal, warm faces of beautiful young children smile at you from their classroom windows, the early morning chill is refreshing, and the auroma of authentic coffee is irrisistable (even for me; my coffee career for the past 19 years has consisted of coffee ice cream and going to a Starbucks for tea!).
There are four language schools and an assortment of other universities, highschools, and primary schools here in Cristobal. I found that the vibe here is similar to Boston, a sort of young, hip, lets be alive and have fun sort of feeling. There is also a huge political fervor here seeing as the city used to be a hot bed for Zapatistas. All over town one can read political graffiti on the walls. Phrases like 'Bush Genocide,' 'Free the Political Prisoners,' and 'Iraq is for Petrol, not Terrorists,' can be seen in almost every side street and back ally. Occasionally one catches a glimpse of a young child wearing a red bandana over his or her face, a classic image of the Zapatista Revolution.
After three days here I left for the jungle and Mayan ruins in Palanque with a Finnish lady friend. We hunkered down in a Cabana for two nights in some heavy duty jungle. Don't let anybody tell you different; if you run out of Marvin, candles, and don't have a deep, baratone voice, there are no substitutions like a mosquito net, savage monkies, and the jungle to create that desired romantic setting. Nevertheless, being with someone for four days is more than enough time to have fun and get sick of each other. When she decided to head East to the Yucatan rather than come back to San Cristobal, I protested, a little, quietly, with as much energy as a cat meowing, and left her no time to change her mind when she made her decision!
The ruins and waterfalls near Palanque are magnificant. Such a wonderful demonstration of what we are capable of. I wonder, in 1500 years will some humble fellow unearth the tip of the Emire State Building? Or the Eiffel Tower? Or a MacDonald's M? What will they say about us? How we did not sacrifice the loser in every tennis match or football game. Interesting thought to ponder.
I was expecting a package today with a few more articles of clothing. Of course, customs this, lazy mexicans that(No offense, I love the people here, though when anything goes wrong, its always at the fault of those damn llaaazzzyyy Mexicans! The phrase has given me and a few friends some good laughs in miserable times), the package won't arrive for at least one week, IF I send a copy of my passport, itinerary, list of vaccinations, why and what I am doing here, a few candies, some more money, and an autobiography. No Sir E Bob! Maybe the Guatemalans won´t care about my two T-Shirts and guide book! Really dissappointed because even after I wash my clothing (very rare occurance) there is still this slight funk. Ah well, it is what it is. A friend compared that smell to our stomachs, because I haven't felt totally normal in about three weeks. It's just something to get used to. No worries, it could be worse.
I am about to pick up a bus ticket to Guatemala. I'm dropping big pesos to make the journey from San Cristobal to Antigua relatively easy. I am going to miss Mexico very much. The people here have been helpful and fun, the food delicious and forgiving, the travel easy, and overall experience unbelievable. Part of me hopes something will go wrong that sends me back to Mexico for two more months. One just isn't nearly enough time.
The past few days have really been pivotal for me. I reflect on the first two weeks and realize how hectic and difficult they were. I was on a bus nearly every other day because in transit I never felt homesick or lonely. I wrote about many of these emotions in my journal, and a simple image came to mind; me in the backseat of a car. That has been my life, someone driving and me following, being told what to do, occasionally getting out for a pee, but really just chillin in the backseat enjoying the ride. As soon as I got on the plane to Mexico, that was me getting behind the wheel. Being responsible for every single action, decision, move, was a lot to handle at first, and still is. Jesse always called it 'Seat Time.' ' Dad lemme drive, I need seat time!' is what Jesse would say when he was still a new driver (ahh the day!). I have now had a bit of seat time and am beginning to get comfortable, not quite there, but I can see the light. The bus rides for the first two weeks symbolized the re-entry into my comfort zone, letting someone else be responsible, make the decisions, all I had to do was sit and observe.
There is so much more to say, so many little anecdotes, emotions I would love to pour out, people I should tell you about, but this has already been a long enough blog. So much for terse!
I leave you with what I wrote my first night in Hermosillo. Afer realizing how unsetteling the first two weeks had been, I could feel the nerves within these few lines.
January 15, Night 1
It is just after nine pm as I lay down and begin to write this. The room is comfortable, with red tiles and a colorful bed sheet. The bathoom is moldy but has all the proper faculties, including an almost warm shower. There aren't too many bugs, though I try hard not to look into the dark corners because when I do, something moves.
My love to everyone and many thanks for all of the wonderful messages!
SF
I write you from San Cristobal de las Casas, the final gem city in the highlands of Chiapas. The days here have been sunny and comfortable, but the nights incredibly cold. The city is roughly 2100 meters above sea level, so not only has each hill (stair) winded me, but the nights have given real meaning to the thought of winter in Mexcio.
I stepped off the bus here with my pants rolled up, tank top loosly hanging from my shoulders, skin the color of a tomato, and flip flops. Within ten minutes I had bought a hat, scarf, and put on every bit of clothing in my possession (including pjs under my pants, two pairs of socks, and three shirts, I wasn´t playing around!).
Time on the beach was nice and relaxing, but nothing special. I am more interested in the rich Mexican culture than the surfer dude sleep all day drink all night be a bum lifestyle, which is very present in Puerto Escondido. I´m glad I was there, the scenery is beautiful and fish delicious, but I was happy to leave after a few days.
I arrived in San Cristobal early morning on February 5, after taking an overnight bus from the coast. While Oaxaca has become the favorite city of many tourists, San Cristobal earns just as many points in my book. The city is small and personal, warm faces of beautiful young children smile at you from their classroom windows, the early morning chill is refreshing, and the auroma of authentic coffee is irrisistable (even for me; my coffee career for the past 19 years has consisted of coffee ice cream and going to a Starbucks for tea!).
There are four language schools and an assortment of other universities, highschools, and primary schools here in Cristobal. I found that the vibe here is similar to Boston, a sort of young, hip, lets be alive and have fun sort of feeling. There is also a huge political fervor here seeing as the city used to be a hot bed for Zapatistas. All over town one can read political graffiti on the walls. Phrases like 'Bush Genocide,' 'Free the Political Prisoners,' and 'Iraq is for Petrol, not Terrorists,' can be seen in almost every side street and back ally. Occasionally one catches a glimpse of a young child wearing a red bandana over his or her face, a classic image of the Zapatista Revolution.
After three days here I left for the jungle and Mayan ruins in Palanque with a Finnish lady friend. We hunkered down in a Cabana for two nights in some heavy duty jungle. Don't let anybody tell you different; if you run out of Marvin, candles, and don't have a deep, baratone voice, there are no substitutions like a mosquito net, savage monkies, and the jungle to create that desired romantic setting. Nevertheless, being with someone for four days is more than enough time to have fun and get sick of each other. When she decided to head East to the Yucatan rather than come back to San Cristobal, I protested, a little, quietly, with as much energy as a cat meowing, and left her no time to change her mind when she made her decision!
The ruins and waterfalls near Palanque are magnificant. Such a wonderful demonstration of what we are capable of. I wonder, in 1500 years will some humble fellow unearth the tip of the Emire State Building? Or the Eiffel Tower? Or a MacDonald's M? What will they say about us? How we did not sacrifice the loser in every tennis match or football game. Interesting thought to ponder.
I was expecting a package today with a few more articles of clothing. Of course, customs this, lazy mexicans that(No offense, I love the people here, though when anything goes wrong, its always at the fault of those damn llaaazzzyyy Mexicans! The phrase has given me and a few friends some good laughs in miserable times), the package won't arrive for at least one week, IF I send a copy of my passport, itinerary, list of vaccinations, why and what I am doing here, a few candies, some more money, and an autobiography. No Sir E Bob! Maybe the Guatemalans won´t care about my two T-Shirts and guide book! Really dissappointed because even after I wash my clothing (very rare occurance) there is still this slight funk. Ah well, it is what it is. A friend compared that smell to our stomachs, because I haven't felt totally normal in about three weeks. It's just something to get used to. No worries, it could be worse.
I am about to pick up a bus ticket to Guatemala. I'm dropping big pesos to make the journey from San Cristobal to Antigua relatively easy. I am going to miss Mexico very much. The people here have been helpful and fun, the food delicious and forgiving, the travel easy, and overall experience unbelievable. Part of me hopes something will go wrong that sends me back to Mexico for two more months. One just isn't nearly enough time.
The past few days have really been pivotal for me. I reflect on the first two weeks and realize how hectic and difficult they were. I was on a bus nearly every other day because in transit I never felt homesick or lonely. I wrote about many of these emotions in my journal, and a simple image came to mind; me in the backseat of a car. That has been my life, someone driving and me following, being told what to do, occasionally getting out for a pee, but really just chillin in the backseat enjoying the ride. As soon as I got on the plane to Mexico, that was me getting behind the wheel. Being responsible for every single action, decision, move, was a lot to handle at first, and still is. Jesse always called it 'Seat Time.' ' Dad lemme drive, I need seat time!' is what Jesse would say when he was still a new driver (ahh the day!). I have now had a bit of seat time and am beginning to get comfortable, not quite there, but I can see the light. The bus rides for the first two weeks symbolized the re-entry into my comfort zone, letting someone else be responsible, make the decisions, all I had to do was sit and observe.
There is so much more to say, so many little anecdotes, emotions I would love to pour out, people I should tell you about, but this has already been a long enough blog. So much for terse!
I leave you with what I wrote my first night in Hermosillo. Afer realizing how unsetteling the first two weeks had been, I could feel the nerves within these few lines.
January 15, Night 1
It is just after nine pm as I lay down and begin to write this. The room is comfortable, with red tiles and a colorful bed sheet. The bathoom is moldy but has all the proper faculties, including an almost warm shower. There aren't too many bugs, though I try hard not to look into the dark corners because when I do, something moves.
My love to everyone and many thanks for all of the wonderful messages!
SF
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Day of birth; 19 years later
To those of you who still remember me -
I have been on the Pacific coast of Oaxaca for the past three days soaking up a mixture of sun, cervesa, and culture. I am still healthy, all bowel movements are in order, completed my first successful wash four days ago (meaning the tattered dirty rags I consider shirts are now tattered clean rags), and I continue to meet awesome people.
My last blog was posted from a hostal in Puerto Vallarta, since then I have been over and up to the city of Zacatecas (via Guadalajara), down through Mexico City to the city of Oaxaca, and am now on the beach allll the way down on the coast of Oaxaca.
In the past week I feel like I finally settled in to what will become a four or five month trip. At first I was a bit all over the place, finding it difficult to stay in one location (possibly because I felt lonely, maybe I felt pressed for time, who knows!) for more than a day or two, but I am now settling down and will progress a bit slower.
Everywhere I go I meet people, very simple. In Oaxaca I had a close group of friends, consisting of five or six (significantly) older folk, here along the coast I´ve been with the same few guys for two days and hope to see them again in Puerto Escondido tomorrow or the following day. I want to get out to San Cristobal de las Casas within the next five days so I can reconnect with a few people. The travel social scene is so alive and so attractive. The people I am meeting are passionate, energetic, cool people who really seem to do what makes them feel good; I have great respect for that.
I decided to begin working hard to improve my spanish. From the two and a half week here and by the look of a few people I have bumped into, its apparent that I can get by these next few months with very little improvement. The basics which I have from highschool are very valuable, but unless I work at it, I will not get any better. With that conclusion comes the recent realization of how important language is. I am so impresssed when I meet someone who is bi if not trilingual. Being proficient in multiple languages is admirable, as well as powerful. I hope to be very comfortable with Spanish after my time here (and all about), especially after one or two week long classes in Guatemala where it is very cheap. If all works out well, a third will become a new challenge at Brandeis.
Thus the story goes that this blog is more of an 'I am OK and still having a good time' than a 'this is what I have done every moment of every day' sorta thing.
Dan, I appreciate your insightful, constructive criticism and would like to inform you that the clear liquid you speak of remains a mystery, but the cheapest mezcal (which is also clear) is considered to be the mexican moonshine, and is WICKED! Cheap booze and travellers don't make a good combination.... or do they?
I love hearing from you guys. I am so sorry I don't respond quickly, if at all. Its not the 8 pesos an hour at the internet cafe that I dislike, but rather me being a lazy bum. Nevertheless, its great to hear about whats going on at home. I hear nothing of the news from the states (barely a murmer about the inaguration!), so when I hear about what you grandma, or you Lee are up to, I really enjoy every bit of it.
Pop, your emails are the funnest nicest (but very blunt) shortest emails a grandson could ever ask for. I write everyday, all the time, thoughts, emotions, a regular journal, all of it. I am alone close to 50 percent of the time, the journal has become a real companion.
I love you and miss you all very much. Seems like I made it to 19 years without tooo many scratches. Hope to fill the time between now and when those numbers are reversed with exciting, enriching experiences, which you will all hear about!
All the best, from the one with the stinkiest feet of them all.
x
I have been on the Pacific coast of Oaxaca for the past three days soaking up a mixture of sun, cervesa, and culture. I am still healthy, all bowel movements are in order, completed my first successful wash four days ago (meaning the tattered dirty rags I consider shirts are now tattered clean rags), and I continue to meet awesome people.
My last blog was posted from a hostal in Puerto Vallarta, since then I have been over and up to the city of Zacatecas (via Guadalajara), down through Mexico City to the city of Oaxaca, and am now on the beach allll the way down on the coast of Oaxaca.
In the past week I feel like I finally settled in to what will become a four or five month trip. At first I was a bit all over the place, finding it difficult to stay in one location (possibly because I felt lonely, maybe I felt pressed for time, who knows!) for more than a day or two, but I am now settling down and will progress a bit slower.
Everywhere I go I meet people, very simple. In Oaxaca I had a close group of friends, consisting of five or six (significantly) older folk, here along the coast I´ve been with the same few guys for two days and hope to see them again in Puerto Escondido tomorrow or the following day. I want to get out to San Cristobal de las Casas within the next five days so I can reconnect with a few people. The travel social scene is so alive and so attractive. The people I am meeting are passionate, energetic, cool people who really seem to do what makes them feel good; I have great respect for that.
I decided to begin working hard to improve my spanish. From the two and a half week here and by the look of a few people I have bumped into, its apparent that I can get by these next few months with very little improvement. The basics which I have from highschool are very valuable, but unless I work at it, I will not get any better. With that conclusion comes the recent realization of how important language is. I am so impresssed when I meet someone who is bi if not trilingual. Being proficient in multiple languages is admirable, as well as powerful. I hope to be very comfortable with Spanish after my time here (and all about), especially after one or two week long classes in Guatemala where it is very cheap. If all works out well, a third will become a new challenge at Brandeis.
Thus the story goes that this blog is more of an 'I am OK and still having a good time' than a 'this is what I have done every moment of every day' sorta thing.
Dan, I appreciate your insightful, constructive criticism and would like to inform you that the clear liquid you speak of remains a mystery, but the cheapest mezcal (which is also clear) is considered to be the mexican moonshine, and is WICKED! Cheap booze and travellers don't make a good combination.... or do they?
I love hearing from you guys. I am so sorry I don't respond quickly, if at all. Its not the 8 pesos an hour at the internet cafe that I dislike, but rather me being a lazy bum. Nevertheless, its great to hear about whats going on at home. I hear nothing of the news from the states (barely a murmer about the inaguration!), so when I hear about what you grandma, or you Lee are up to, I really enjoy every bit of it.
Pop, your emails are the funnest nicest (but very blunt) shortest emails a grandson could ever ask for. I write everyday, all the time, thoughts, emotions, a regular journal, all of it. I am alone close to 50 percent of the time, the journal has become a real companion.
I love you and miss you all very much. Seems like I made it to 19 years without tooo many scratches. Hope to fill the time between now and when those numbers are reversed with exciting, enriching experiences, which you will all hear about!
All the best, from the one with the stinkiest feet of them all.
x
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Made it to day 7!!
Hey all
I've made it to day seven, my toes aren't quite caked with dirt, my shirts are relatively clean, and my spirits are high.
I write this from a hostel in Puerto Vallerta, the Oasis Hostel, roughly one mile from the picturesque, popular beaches. This traveller's home away from home rests on the outskirts of an intimate working class city. I was hesitant to choose this hostel due to its isolation, but now recognize its great location. The twenty minute walk to the beach takes one from narrow cobblestone streets and crumbling buildings, to a bustling city with resturaunts and shops lining the street. Its interesting to see two completely different standards of living so close to each other, clashing in both appearance and atmosphere. It reminds me of the eight minute drive between the center of Cape Town and Khayelitsha, a nearby Township.
Quick rundown of the trip thus far, read this in one breath!
Flew into Hermosillo thursday night where I spent the night in the tiny, bug-filled Hotel Washington. Getting myself out of the hotel to dinner was a bit tough, but I grew some chesticles and took the city by storm! Bus west the next day to a tiny beachfront village Bahia de Kino. Absolutely breathtaking views, zero tourists, no english, very few anything to be precise. I spent two nights there, soaking up the peace and quite of the first true paradise I had ever been to. On Sunday morning I jumped on a bus back to Hermosillo (rode next to a man with a chicken), afterwhich I took a second bus 130km south to the port city Guaymas. I got off the bus in a seemingly rough part of Guaymas, bear in mind this is Mexico, most of the country is rough, but this part of Guaymas was very unattractive. After a half hour walk I said 'you know what, lets just keep going.' Walked back to the station and grabbed another bus south to Los Mochis, a city comparable in size (and intimidation) to Hermosillo.
Hotel here, restaurant there, from Los Mochis I moved south to Mazatlan, and from there further south to where I am now, Puerto Vallarta.
I have been walking everywhere; my clothing may stink and my hair may resemble a rug, but my calves GLISTEN in the sun! I think I take after Pop in that I refuse to take any form of a taxi.
To wrap this up, I know you are all busy busy bees out there, I should say that I have been alone the entire time, but have found myself feeling safe and secure in almost every environment. I am often overcome with a feeling of intensity when I think about what I am doing, and that has made this experience that much more powerful. I am glad to be alone, I sense myself growing and maturing each day.
I promise to have a few pictures and a more detailed, crass posting up as soon as the trip permits. I do not know where I'll be tomorrow, or even tonight, but I hope to make it over to Zacatecas safely and soon.
Hope all is well on the homefront, wherever that may be.
Regards,
Stinkyfeet (a most accurate description of my current condition)
I've made it to day seven, my toes aren't quite caked with dirt, my shirts are relatively clean, and my spirits are high.
I write this from a hostel in Puerto Vallerta, the Oasis Hostel, roughly one mile from the picturesque, popular beaches. This traveller's home away from home rests on the outskirts of an intimate working class city. I was hesitant to choose this hostel due to its isolation, but now recognize its great location. The twenty minute walk to the beach takes one from narrow cobblestone streets and crumbling buildings, to a bustling city with resturaunts and shops lining the street. Its interesting to see two completely different standards of living so close to each other, clashing in both appearance and atmosphere. It reminds me of the eight minute drive between the center of Cape Town and Khayelitsha, a nearby Township.
Quick rundown of the trip thus far, read this in one breath!
Flew into Hermosillo thursday night where I spent the night in the tiny, bug-filled Hotel Washington. Getting myself out of the hotel to dinner was a bit tough, but I grew some chesticles and took the city by storm! Bus west the next day to a tiny beachfront village Bahia de Kino. Absolutely breathtaking views, zero tourists, no english, very few anything to be precise. I spent two nights there, soaking up the peace and quite of the first true paradise I had ever been to. On Sunday morning I jumped on a bus back to Hermosillo (rode next to a man with a chicken), afterwhich I took a second bus 130km south to the port city Guaymas. I got off the bus in a seemingly rough part of Guaymas, bear in mind this is Mexico, most of the country is rough, but this part of Guaymas was very unattractive. After a half hour walk I said 'you know what, lets just keep going.' Walked back to the station and grabbed another bus south to Los Mochis, a city comparable in size (and intimidation) to Hermosillo.
Hotel here, restaurant there, from Los Mochis I moved south to Mazatlan, and from there further south to where I am now, Puerto Vallarta.
I have been walking everywhere; my clothing may stink and my hair may resemble a rug, but my calves GLISTEN in the sun! I think I take after Pop in that I refuse to take any form of a taxi.
To wrap this up, I know you are all busy busy bees out there, I should say that I have been alone the entire time, but have found myself feeling safe and secure in almost every environment. I am often overcome with a feeling of intensity when I think about what I am doing, and that has made this experience that much more powerful. I am glad to be alone, I sense myself growing and maturing each day.
I promise to have a few pictures and a more detailed, crass posting up as soon as the trip permits. I do not know where I'll be tomorrow, or even tonight, but I hope to make it over to Zacatecas safely and soon.
Hope all is well on the homefront, wherever that may be.
Regards,
Stinkyfeet (a most accurate description of my current condition)
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Day Negative One, 21 Hours to Go
The pack is packed and I am ready to go.
About two weeks ago I managed to get over the nerves, you know, not speaking the language, not having a plan, not nearly enough underwear or socks, and just general concerns surrounding a lone voyage into a third world country.
My flight leaves tomorrow morning at 9am from JFK. I'm flying from NYC to Mexico City, where I will catch a second, smaller plane (hopefully not duct-taped together) back north, to the small city of Hermosillo. My 27 lb pack is carry on size, but being that I have 1.7 fl (does the 'fl' imply full, as in you have a FULL 1.7 oz, not like a bag of Doritos where the bag is half full, or does it mean fluid. Head & Shoulders finds it necessary to say on a bottle of shampoo, that it is liquid. What a world.) oz of shampoo, and .85 oz of toothpaste, I'm probably safer giving all of my belongings to strange airport staff, who had better NOT take any of my shampoo, leaving the container not full, than attempting to smuggle it on board.
My mindset while packing was pretty simple, pack as though I will be away for one week (a quick trip from the beach to the desert to the mountains), then strip those items down fifty percent. The result is an adequate pack for five months.
In addition to the bare minimum of clothing and toiletries, I am bringing something wonderful for entertainment! Plato's Republic. I have never read or studied much philosophy, I figure I'll be reading all the time, why not?! I may be crazy, and end up burning the text three days into the trip, but at least I am going to give it a shot.
I have no expectations going into this trip. Since I was twelve or thirteen years old I have told myself, "one day I will pack a small backpack and travel the world not caring about hygiene or personal image, I will put myself in unforgiving environments, and I will leap outside my comfort zone." (I never actually said anything like that, but my thought process was something along those lines) The motto I try to live by is:
"Be Modest, Be Disciplined, Be Wild"
I look forward to seeing how this experience falls within that personal philosophy.
I cannot predict what the content of this blog will be. I assure you, I will not hold back or censor myself :) It occurs to me that mass emails are sooo last week, so I'm going to give it a go with this web blogging nonsense.
I'll try to keep my entries terse and border-line appropriate. I was called crass by my 11th grade English teacher, whom I love still today. I will steer away from those tendencies.
I hope you all find these entries interesting, and do get a chance to glance over them every now and then. I'll do my best to update once a week or so.
While most people find it necessary to wish me luck, I deem it more important to wish YOU luck; surviving that calc exam or a long stressful day at that same old job is far more challenging than the journey I am about to embark on.
Just make sure you enjoy what you do, I'll try to do the same.
Much Love -
(soon to be) Stinky Feet
About two weeks ago I managed to get over the nerves, you know, not speaking the language, not having a plan, not nearly enough underwear or socks, and just general concerns surrounding a lone voyage into a third world country.
My flight leaves tomorrow morning at 9am from JFK. I'm flying from NYC to Mexico City, where I will catch a second, smaller plane (hopefully not duct-taped together) back north, to the small city of Hermosillo. My 27 lb pack is carry on size, but being that I have 1.7 fl (does the 'fl' imply full, as in you have a FULL 1.7 oz, not like a bag of Doritos where the bag is half full, or does it mean fluid. Head & Shoulders finds it necessary to say on a bottle of shampoo, that it is liquid. What a world.) oz of shampoo, and .85 oz of toothpaste, I'm probably safer giving all of my belongings to strange airport staff, who had better NOT take any of my shampoo, leaving the container not full, than attempting to smuggle it on board.
My mindset while packing was pretty simple, pack as though I will be away for one week (a quick trip from the beach to the desert to the mountains), then strip those items down fifty percent. The result is an adequate pack for five months.
In addition to the bare minimum of clothing and toiletries, I am bringing something wonderful for entertainment! Plato's Republic. I have never read or studied much philosophy, I figure I'll be reading all the time, why not?! I may be crazy, and end up burning the text three days into the trip, but at least I am going to give it a shot.
I have no expectations going into this trip. Since I was twelve or thirteen years old I have told myself, "one day I will pack a small backpack and travel the world not caring about hygiene or personal image, I will put myself in unforgiving environments, and I will leap outside my comfort zone." (I never actually said anything like that, but my thought process was something along those lines) The motto I try to live by is:
"Be Modest, Be Disciplined, Be Wild"
I look forward to seeing how this experience falls within that personal philosophy.
I cannot predict what the content of this blog will be. I assure you, I will not hold back or censor myself :) It occurs to me that mass emails are sooo last week, so I'm going to give it a go with this web blogging nonsense.
I'll try to keep my entries terse and border-line appropriate. I was called crass by my 11th grade English teacher, whom I love still today. I will steer away from those tendencies.
I hope you all find these entries interesting, and do get a chance to glance over them every now and then. I'll do my best to update once a week or so.
While most people find it necessary to wish me luck, I deem it more important to wish YOU luck; surviving that calc exam or a long stressful day at that same old job is far more challenging than the journey I am about to embark on.
Just make sure you enjoy what you do, I'll try to do the same.
Much Love -
(soon to be) Stinky Feet
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