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