I am far too exhausted to write, but here are some photos from this weekend–the best three days of the trip so far:
http://picasaweb.google.com/eekauppi/AtitlanTeAmo?feat=directlink
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| Atitlan, te amo |
I’ll write soon…some explanation of the cross-dressing men will doubtless be needed. 
If you’ve ever been hiking with me, you know that I find it impossible to resist the lure of an interesting-looking…well, anything. A rock to climb, a hole to investigate, a path to explore. (Apparently, it runs in the family.)
The gorgeous hills on the edge of Xela have been driving me nuts. They’re all different heights, they have interesting little valleys that are just out of sight, they occasionally have mist rolling through, and they’re just low enough to be easily climbed. It’s maddening, looking at them and wondering what I’d be able to see from the top of one. Do people live up there? Are there more hills behind it?
It seems that I am fated never to find out. Today, I took a different route that led directly to the most interesting section–no pussyfooting around for me, thankyouverymuch–and found a dirt path that led right where I wanted to go. I was thrilled, and practically skipped up the hill, giddy at the thought of getting to the top. I stopped to take some pictures, nosily looked at two little shacks on the slope, and continued up. JUST when the top was in sight, four dogs came racing down the hill at me, barking and snarling.
Two things: 1) I am terrified of barking dogs (the angry kind, not the harmless barking) 2) Most dogs in Central America completely ignore people.
Caught off guard, I tried talking to the dogs. In English. Then, as they continued to run toward me, teeth bared, I remembered what my dear Canadian friend from Nepal told me last year–”In Nepal, the dogs don’t fear people. In Central America, they’re trained to run if you pick up a stick or a rock.” (Thanks, Steve!) Sure enough, when I knelt down to pick up a rock, the dogs slowed down. When I raised my arm, they stopped. But they kept barking and snarling. At this point, my heart was racing and my knees were weak at the thought of four dogs latched on to my extremities with no one around to help. So I backed down the hill, rock still held high, praying that they wouldn’t see through my bluff.
Eventually, they went back up the hill, and I retreated. Bloody dogs.
Defeated, I decided to stop by the little market near my apartment to buy some lovely fruits and vegetables. They’re sold by little Mayan women in brightly-colored clothing, and I just love walking through the rows. For a measly four dollars, I bought three mangoes, three peaches, a bunch of spinach so fresh the roots were still on it, some tomatoes, and two cucumbers. Back at my apartment, I took a mango up to the roof of my building(which is amazing) and had a lovely snack. It was amazing, perfectly ripe.
From the roof, it was easy to see the different construction periods and styles. Xela is funny–it has these beautiful old European-style buildings that are surrounded by the cement-block construction that is common to so many developing countries. (Walking down the street here, I might be in Kathmandu or Nicaragua or India, or the poorer parts of Sharjah.) The lovely building across the street, which has amazing pillars, has a tin roof. (see pictures)
Photos from today’s adventures:
http://picasaweb.google.com/eekauppi/Xelaju02?feat=directlink
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| Xelaju |
Okay, I KNOW I shouldn’t post this, but it’s part of what Guatemala is:
http://www.statenews.com/index.php/article/2009/03/students_robbed_at_gunpoint_during_spring_break_guatemala_trip
I read that on Saturday night before I hopped my shuttle to Xela, and I admit to being slightly nervous. However, as I am not part of a large tour group who will obviously have valuables, and because I almost always take local transportation (chicken buses), it’s not really a concern.
And I’m in Xela! The after-effects of the food poisoning episode are still with me–the idea of food makes me nauseous, and I’ve only eaten a granola bar and one meal since Friday night–but I’m here and alive. AND I found an apartment–well, a room in an apartment–with internet and a kitchen and cable and a balcony. And, since no one else is living there at the moment, I have it to myself. I move in tomorrow, so expect pictures to follow. If you’re surprised that I’m excited about a kitchen, try eating in so-so Central American restaurants for three meals a day. Ugh.
Xela (pronounced “shay-la”), the Mayan name, or Quetzaltenango, the Spanish name, is the second largest city in Guatemala (And I prefer small towns–HOW do I find myself in cities? :), but it doesn’t have a city kind of vibe. There is a fairly decent Spanish school scene here, but the place isn’t overrun with tourists like Antigua. Today after work, I took off in search of the lovely hills you can see from the city. (I do love a good hill to explore.) Dodging the cars that race over the narrow cobblestone streets and getting covered in oil-truck exhaust fumes (so bad, I couldn’t breathe), I finally made it up above the city and found a little road to climb. As you’ll see from my photos, Xela is nothing to look at from above. If I’d been wearing something other than flip-flops, I would have climbed further. Another day. Instead, I chatted with some Mayan people climbing the hill (that’s a generous use of “chatted,” btw) and headed back into town.
This week, I’ll be hunting for a Spanish school, checking out the yoga classes at the gringo-run Yoga House, and booking a weekend hiking trip with Quetzaltrekkers, who I discovered online ages ago and have been looking forward to supporting. Can’t wait!
http://picasaweb.google.com/eekauppi/Xela?feat=directlink
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| Xela |
One day, I’ll learn not to eat Asian food in Central America. Last night, I had “Thai” food at a little restaurant, and came back to the guest house to pack for the Xela bus this morning. I never finished the packing because dinner came back to haunt me, and I threw up repeatedly from 9pm to 4am.
Nothing like sharing gastrointestinal details with the internet.
Oh, it was miserable. And this morning at 7, the idea of riding a bus on a twisty road for four hours was just too much to handle, so I went downstairs to let the shuttle driver know. The front desk guy was there, and when I told him I was sick and wouldn’t be leaving, he sent me back to bed and took care of talking to the bus driver. Later, he brought me up a cup of tea, and his mother came up just to check on me and see if I needed any water or a doctor or anything. SUCH a sweet family.
I slept all day and now I’m feeling well enough to re-book the bus for tomorrow. Oy.
People ask me all the time if it’s safe to travel alone–and you see, there are always kind people around to look after me.
Coming back from my “afternoon office” today, I walked along a street in Antigua amidst the general Central American chaos–tuk-tuks rattling by over the cobblestones, police vehicles blaring their horns, men plying me with tourist brochures, women yelling “mangos, mangos, mangos” as they sold their fruit–and I found myself smiling at a little old man hanging out in his doorway. “Buenas tardes,” he said cheerfully, and I replied with the same. Two indigenous women passed by, their dark skin, dark hair, brightly-colored traditional clothing, and baskets of fruit on their heads a comical contrast to my jeans, laptop bag, and pale skin. I bought a couple of avocados–conducting the transaction in Spanish–and continued on my way.
For some reason, I thought of my first trip to Guatemala, over four years ago. It was my first solo international trip, and I was terrified about 90% of the time. I was too scared to use much Spanish, convinced that I’d get it wrong. I didn’t know how the bus system worked. Each element of the noise and visual chaos stood out in sharp relief. At that point, Guatemala was the single most foreign place I’d ever experienced. It was exciting and overwhelming and exotic.
Remembering that and comparing it to the casual, comfortable way I interact with Antigua now, I suddenly felt like an old and jaded traveler–and I panicked a bit. What if it’s like a drug, I thought? What if I have to keep hunting and hunting for that high of an unfamiliar place until there’s nothing left? What will I do then? Where will I go? The tourist-friendly amenities of Antigua started to close in on me. Everywhere I looked, there were Americans and travel agencies and overpriced clothing boutiques and western restaurants.
I fought the urge to escape.
And then, I realized that Antigua is a place for tourists, not travelers, and I calmed down. It’s a “culture light” kind of city, where people can come and be comfortable while getting a little taste of a foreign culture without the inherent discomforts. (Tourists vacation; travelers travel.) Now, there’s nothing wrong with this–and all travelers have their tourist moments, me included–but it’s not the kind of place I seek out. Large numbers of tourists ,and the inevitable infrastructure that follows, dilute the culture shock and excitement of a foreign place. I love the challenge of figuring out the chicken bus schedule, or of being the only westerner in sight, or wandering alone through a new city.
There are certainly times when there’s nothing in sight but rice and beans, so I’m going to enjoy the comforts of Antigua while they’re so readily available. For the rest of the week, I’m going to relish the little routine I’ve established. In the morning, I work from my hotel. At lunch, I head to the Bagel Barn cafe (the aforementioned afternoon office), order a pizza bagel, and work for a couple of hours with the other laptop-toting tourists. In the evenings, I wander around the market, watch locals in the parque central, or walk up back streets to escape the crowds.
And this weekend, I’m leaving Antigua to find adventure. Maybe I’ll climb a volcano, or go kayaking in Lake Atitlan, and then I’ll head to less-touristy Xela for next week.
I have no doubt that there will be a time when I’ll have to resort to doing a Heart of Darkness kind of trip to get the travel high…thankfully, the world is full of exciting places.
I’m in Guatemala!
As you may have guessed, the Nicaraguan machismo was starting to get to me–evidenced by the unprecedented yelling at men in the street, which is a big no-no–and I decided to roll out. No sense in creating some kind of international incident.
I brought Nikki to the airport on Friday, and then checked into a sketchy hotel near the Tica Bus station. Managua has a reputation for crime, so I skipped the exploring and headed for the mall (the safest place I could think of) for a movie. After boarding the bus at 4am, I slept through Nicaragua, waking up at the border, and slept through a good part of Honduras. (Thus far, my experience of Honduras has been some super-salty chicken strips at a gas station in the middle of nowhere.)
Once we crossed over into El Salvador, it was impossible to ignore the bizarre duality of smiling people and crazy governmental play-acting. Civilian men walked cheerfully on the side of the road with enormous machine guns slung over their shoulders. From the border to San Salvador, we were stopped at no less than five checkpoints, and at least 15 people looked at my passport. Sometimes, four uniformed “officials” would get on at once, and would come down the aisle of the bus checking our documentation. Each one of them took my passport, flipped through it, and handed it back. Not one of them checked it against a list, or looked for my entry stamp, or anything–they clearly had no idea what they were supposed to be looking for, but they knew that the act of looking made it official. Despite all of the pretension, there wasn’t even a hint of aggression or danger–more like a funny charade played by clueless actors.
Side note: does anyone know what happens when there’s no more space for stamps in your passport? All I have left is two visa pages (the entry/departure spaces are full !!), so I’m hoping I can sweet-talk immigration officials into using those pages for the rest of this trip.
In San Salvador, I checked into the ever-so-sketchy Hotel San Carlos (definitely a loose interpretation of “hotel”), which has cell-like rooms but is quite clean. Taking heed of Lonely Planet’s warnings about the neighborhood at dark, I decided to make the most of the daylight and explore a bit. After 15 alarming minutes, I hopped into a taxi to get away from the creepy, creepy crowds of jeering men. Although I didn’t know a single place in San Salvador, I took a chance and asked the taxi driver to go to the metrocentro–5 minutes later, I was at the mall. Now, I don’t make it a practice of mall-hopping when I travel, but it’s my go-to option when nothing else seems particularly safe. Plus, the movies always have AC, which is a rare blessing down here.
On Sunday, after an uneventful and unexpectedly short bus ride, I arrived in sprawling Guatemala City (can’t believe how big it is), and a hair-raising chicken-bus ride later, made it to Antigua–the tourist capital of Central America.
Man, there are a lot of tourists.
My plan was to stay at a Spanish School for two weeks–I’d even reserved a lovely private room with internet–but sadly, the internet there was not high speed, as advertised. Quite to the contrary, it was the single slowest connection I’ve ever experienced. I need quick internet for work, so this morning I moved to the Posada Don Quijote. Oh, and I bought a cell phone that, according to a darling Tennessee man I met in the store, has rates of 3 cents per minute for calls to the US.
And that’s all I’ve got for the where-did-I-go-and-when details. Photos and Antigua stuff to come!
This week, in little chunks:
- Nikki and I tried to go to Ometepe, with no success. Apparently, the wind was too high, and ferries weren’t running.
- So, we went to San Juan del Sur instead. It was a hole. There was a lovely fish dinner, Nikki got confrontational with some Nicaraguan prostitutes :), the wind was high, the water was cold, and we left in the morning.
- Yesterday, we kayaked on Lago Cocibolca. It was lovely. I was in search of a mango tree, because I really wanted to pick one. Sadly, they were not ripe or reachable. Kayaking was wonderful, though. I can’t wait to get out on the Great Salt Lake this summer.
- I was sitting by our hostel pool, reading, not really listening to a group of girls chatting at a table nearby. Then, I heard “mita” (can’t make the symbol above the a)–they were Finns! We chatted for a while, and I told them the Finnish words I know–sophisticated ones, like “busca” and “saatana.” They got a kick out of that. I find that Finns are always surprised when someone’s been to their country. I always love to hear their accents.
- If you are ever in Granada, you MUST stay at the most amazing hostel ever (even those of you who are not exactly hostel travelers :), Hostel Oasis. Visit the website, even though it’s not a good representation. Make reservations in advance, because they are super popular.
- I’m in Managua right now. I’ve spent about $20 on four taxis so far today, and gotten completely screwed over by two of them. They know I’m going to pay rather than put up some kind of fuss. Just WAIT till my Spanish is better, taxi drivers.
- Congratulations to Dad on his certification in the state of Nevada!
- I have exciting travel news, but it’s going to have to wait until Sunday. I promise a more interesting update! Until then, some photos:
http://picasaweb.google.com/eekauppi/Granada2?feat=directlink
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| Granada 2 |
Some days, traveling in Central America is downright difficult.
As a woman traveling alone, I have a highly-developed “bubble”–a vital survival technique. It allows me to walk peacefully through chaos, untouched by hawkers and street vendors and leering men and staring women and beggars and stray dogs and all of the other elements common to developing countries. In that space, I can observe the environment without being completely overwhelmed. On many occasions, it’s the only thing that preserves my sanity; it is impossible to notice the good when you’re preoccupied with the bad.
Some days, the bubble just doesn’t bloody function. Today was one of those days. Everything got to me. A man walking by made some kind of sleazy comment in Spanish, and instead of ignoring him (first rule: never engage), I fixed him with a look intended to communicate all of my disgust and anger. A block later, a “hey baby, mi amor” came my way, and I snapped, “I’m not your amor, asshole.” (Witty, huh?) Although these reactions probably didn’t have an effect on either man, they just reinforced my irritation. And in that state of mind, the sun was suddenly hotter, the streets dirtier, the drivers more dangerous, the vendors more obnoxious, the poverty more heartbreaking. I was making eye contact with the wrong characters (it’s like a sixth sense, knowing when to avoid meeting someone’s eyes), glaring at people who got in my way.
In those moments, I missed out on the joy of of a crazy market street in Nicaragua–I missed the opportunity to be grateful for the privilege of simply being there.
So you see, the bubble is a necessity.
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In other news, I had a near-death experience in the jungle yesterday. (How’s that for a transition?)
Nikki and I went on a zip-line canopy tour on the slopes of Mombacho, a volcano outside of Granada. It’s a fairly straightforward affair–they strap you into a climbing harness, clip you onto a cable, and send you zooming through the treetops to another platform, where a guide catches you. We made it through a few platforms successfully, even going upside down and in the “superman” position (head first, arms out). Then, the guides clipped us in together, with me in back and Nikki superman-ing in front. My job was to slow us down near the end of the line; no problem.
Then, they had us switch. Nikki is tiny, and wasn’t able to slow us down. So there I was, head-first, barreling toward an enormous tree at top speed, unable to stop. In the space of a few seconds, I realized we were going to hit, and somehow managed to turn so that my side would take most of the impact.
We slammed hard into the tree and swung back on the cable, surprisingly alive and unbroken. In the chaos of “are you all right?” that followed, we didn’t immediately notice one of the guides slumped down on the platform. When he realized that we were not going to stop, he literally jumped in front of us, absorbing most of the impact. The man saved me from at very least a broken arm, leg, and possibly some ribs–and, realistically, prevented a serious neck or back injury. As it is, I walked away with only a sore ankle and a painful shoulder. AND he finished the tour! Thankfully, he was all right, but I suspect he may be bruised today.
Always adventuring.
Hola! No time to write; I put photos up instead.
Direct link: http://picasaweb.google.com/eekauppi/Granada?feat=directlink
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| Granada |
