Winter is fast approaching here on Cape Cod and, as last year, we are packing up and heading South. Well, South East, that is. And across the International Dateline. Destination: Bangkok, Thailand. The plan is to spend the next five months in and around Thailand. With adventures in Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos, and Bali... or wherever our passports happen to take us.
Date of departure: Tuesday, November 8.
Stay tuned for more ridiculous and absurd tales from a world away!
laa kawn (good bye), USA, and sawatdee (hello) Thailand!
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Chicken Bus Game
We are up early and off to Panajachel, on the banks of Lago Atitlan. The tourist mini-buses are far too steep for our budget - 75Q each! - so we have begrudgingly resigned ourselves to three hours on another Chicken Bus. As long as I can have the window seat. And be seated towards the front, as far away from the stereo speakers at the rear incessantly blaring Latin pop. And not too close to the front where many passengers tend to crowd the aisle near the door. There are very specific survival rules to The Chicken Bus Game. And we must sit with our legs spread apart to discourage a third person (or a farm animal) from sharing our seat - originally made for two. Two children, that is. Never forget that these are ancient school buses with just enough leg room to accommodate an eight year-old. I'm 6'1". One of my legs is the size of a whole second grader. By now, I am painfully used to riding with my knees planted in my face.
We leave Hostel Umma Gumma in Antigua around 6:30 AM before anyone else has awoken. And by "leave," I mean "sneak out." We did not pay for our last night. No one asked and so we didn't offer. the people running the place are a little scattered and I'm still bitter about being promised breakfast from the in-house restaurant that promptly shut down two hours after our arrival. Not jsut shut down. But closed. Completely. In fact, it disappeared. No more tables. No more bar. No menu. Evaporated into the Guatemalan night.
So we "leave," place our key on the front desk and let ourselves out the gate. We are giddy at having saved 120Q and I am already planning eight different ways to spend it when I hear the patter of tiny Guatemalan feet trotting over the cobblestones behind us. It is the guy from the hostel. He has chased us down the block. Panting, he tells me we did not pay for our last night. I look surprised and question him. This is all an act, of course, one that I rehearsed while lying in bed this morning, in the event of such a confrontation.
"What do you mean we owe you for another night? I thought we paid you for two nights already?"
"Yes, but you stayed three."
"We did?" I am not going to win an Oscar here.
"Yes." And he proceeds to count the days of the week.
"Oh my. It appears that you are correct. Lo siento, lo siento." I pull out 120Q and hand it over, awkwardly bowing and apologizing. I even throw in a "Yo soy estupido" to further debase myself.
Oh well. Moving on. You can't really be too upset when you are caught trying to cheat a poor third world hostel out of 13 dollars.
On our way to the bus we stop at a bakery and cafe which is just about the only place open at this hour. It is an accomplishment to find a cup of coffee before 8AM in this country. the cafe is full of gringos with mountains of luggage. Of course, the cafe is also a travel agency and we notice a big sign for a cheap direct bus service to Panajachel at 7AM. There is an inviting picture of a luxurious Pullman bus with plush, comfy reclining seats, TVs and other creature comforts - all for the unbelievable price of 36Q. We wonder if it is a misprint. Maybe they mean 36 dollars? This must be what all the other gringos are doing here. I ask the man behind the bakery counter. "Yes, yes. Direct bus to Panajachel. Leaves in 15 minutes."
"Ooohh! I want that!" I say. Like it is a delicious pastry. Only 36Q. That is half the price quoted to us for a minivan.... and we will dodge the Chicken Bus! Oh happy day!
"But I don't have tickets," I tell him.
"Do not worry. Get them later."
"There are seats available?"
"Yes, yes." He manages to be both reassuring and dismissive at the same time.
A few minutes later, our coffees drained, we are herded out of the cafe with shouts of "Panajachel! Panajachel!" Now, the bus is not, in fact, waiting outside in front of the cafe as one would reasonably expect. "Down the street, one block away," we are told.
Watch how they play the game.
We load ourselves up with our backpacks and suitcases and various bags and parcels and hustle down the street, our glorious, comfortable bus awaiting. Except it isn't. Not exactly. We make a left, walk a bit further and pass through a pair of iron gates into a parking lot where we see a gleaming, brightly painted... Chicken Bus. "Panajachel" is printed above the front window shield. This is our bus. There is no mistaking it. Everyone balks at the sight and a collective groan is issued from our gringo ranks. We all look at each other, a mixture of disbelief, anger, and resignation. For those of us who have been travelling awhile, this is only part of the game. And they have won again.
Before anyone has a chance to seriously object, our luggage is loaded onto the roof and we are prodded into our seats, brumbling to ourselves about our promised fancy bus. A brave Spaniard attempts to confront the conductor. It is an exercise in futility.
"Excuse me, señor. We bought tickets for a Pullman bus."
"This is the bus to Panajachel."
"Yes, OK, but this is not the bus we paid for."
"This bus is directo."
"Fine. But the travel agency advertised a Pullman bus."
"This is the only direct bus to Panajachel."
"But we did not want a local bus. We bought tickets for..."
"This is the direct bus to Panajachel."
And on and on.
There is no arguing with him. No apologies for the disappointment, no acknowledgement of the obvious scam. Pay your money and sit down. We are better at this game than you are.
Perhaps this really is a direct bus to Panajachel. No stops. No three hundred extra Guatemalans packed in along the way. But we know better. The Book says the direct Chicken Bus to Panajachel leaves at 7AM from the market. And as soon as everyone is settled, our pulls pulls out of its secret location and drives directly to, you guessed it, the market. Where we begin the all too familiar ritual of stopping for every Guatemalan on the side of the road. Directo, my ass.
We still have a chance to win this game, though. Unlike the other gringos, we did not pay for our tickets in advance from a dishonest travel agency. This is, in fact, the exact bus we would have caught from the market had we not stumbled upon the cafe scam. "We are not paying 36Q for this bus," William says. "No we are not. Watch the locals and see what they pay. And spread your legs." We assume the position, knees spread wide so as to leave no illusion of extra space in our mini-seat. I quickly teach William the Spanish for "sorry, there is no room here." Lo siento, no hay espacio aqui. I realize this is evil and very American of us, but if we are going to be duped and pay extra, then we should at least have the tiny seat to ourselves. This is Justice. American or not.
When the conductor comes down the aisle collecting fares, we try to see how much the locals in front of us are paying. It most certianly isn't 35Q, but you can never be sure. It is entirely possible they are not riding to the final destination, in which case they would pay less than full fare. The conductor approaches us. William hands him a 20Q note. The conductor looks at it like it were a dirty kleenex. "How much?" I ask. "76 for two," he says, bored. We have been over this already.
"But we did not buy tickets from the agency. And the other people..."
"76." He cuts me off.
"But why? The other people...
"Because 76 is the price." And that is the end of that. And honestly, how can you argue with that? It is like having a discussion with a two year old:
"Where are you going?"
"To work."
"Why?"
"Because I have to make money."
"Why?"
"Because we need to eat."
"Why?"
"Because we need to eat to stay alive."
"Why?"
"Because that is the way it is."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
"Why?"
And the bus rolls on through the Guatemalan countryside, stopping every few feet to pile on more passengers.
"You can play the game, but you will never win," observes William. It's like a carnival ring toss. You know deep down that te damn rings are too small to fit over the bottles, but you keep playing anyway, throwing your dollars away with every flick of the wrist.
Congratulations, Chicken Bus. You have won again.
We leave Hostel Umma Gumma in Antigua around 6:30 AM before anyone else has awoken. And by "leave," I mean "sneak out." We did not pay for our last night. No one asked and so we didn't offer. the people running the place are a little scattered and I'm still bitter about being promised breakfast from the in-house restaurant that promptly shut down two hours after our arrival. Not jsut shut down. But closed. Completely. In fact, it disappeared. No more tables. No more bar. No menu. Evaporated into the Guatemalan night.
So we "leave," place our key on the front desk and let ourselves out the gate. We are giddy at having saved 120Q and I am already planning eight different ways to spend it when I hear the patter of tiny Guatemalan feet trotting over the cobblestones behind us. It is the guy from the hostel. He has chased us down the block. Panting, he tells me we did not pay for our last night. I look surprised and question him. This is all an act, of course, one that I rehearsed while lying in bed this morning, in the event of such a confrontation.
"What do you mean we owe you for another night? I thought we paid you for two nights already?"
"Yes, but you stayed three."
"We did?" I am not going to win an Oscar here.
"Yes." And he proceeds to count the days of the week.
"Oh my. It appears that you are correct. Lo siento, lo siento." I pull out 120Q and hand it over, awkwardly bowing and apologizing. I even throw in a "Yo soy estupido" to further debase myself.
Oh well. Moving on. You can't really be too upset when you are caught trying to cheat a poor third world hostel out of 13 dollars.
On our way to the bus we stop at a bakery and cafe which is just about the only place open at this hour. It is an accomplishment to find a cup of coffee before 8AM in this country. the cafe is full of gringos with mountains of luggage. Of course, the cafe is also a travel agency and we notice a big sign for a cheap direct bus service to Panajachel at 7AM. There is an inviting picture of a luxurious Pullman bus with plush, comfy reclining seats, TVs and other creature comforts - all for the unbelievable price of 36Q. We wonder if it is a misprint. Maybe they mean 36 dollars? This must be what all the other gringos are doing here. I ask the man behind the bakery counter. "Yes, yes. Direct bus to Panajachel. Leaves in 15 minutes."
"Ooohh! I want that!" I say. Like it is a delicious pastry. Only 36Q. That is half the price quoted to us for a minivan.... and we will dodge the Chicken Bus! Oh happy day!
"But I don't have tickets," I tell him.
"Do not worry. Get them later."
"There are seats available?"
"Yes, yes." He manages to be both reassuring and dismissive at the same time.
A few minutes later, our coffees drained, we are herded out of the cafe with shouts of "Panajachel! Panajachel!" Now, the bus is not, in fact, waiting outside in front of the cafe as one would reasonably expect. "Down the street, one block away," we are told.
Watch how they play the game.
We load ourselves up with our backpacks and suitcases and various bags and parcels and hustle down the street, our glorious, comfortable bus awaiting. Except it isn't. Not exactly. We make a left, walk a bit further and pass through a pair of iron gates into a parking lot where we see a gleaming, brightly painted... Chicken Bus. "Panajachel" is printed above the front window shield. This is our bus. There is no mistaking it. Everyone balks at the sight and a collective groan is issued from our gringo ranks. We all look at each other, a mixture of disbelief, anger, and resignation. For those of us who have been travelling awhile, this is only part of the game. And they have won again.
Before anyone has a chance to seriously object, our luggage is loaded onto the roof and we are prodded into our seats, brumbling to ourselves about our promised fancy bus. A brave Spaniard attempts to confront the conductor. It is an exercise in futility.
"Excuse me, señor. We bought tickets for a Pullman bus."
"This is the bus to Panajachel."
"Yes, OK, but this is not the bus we paid for."
"This bus is directo."
"Fine. But the travel agency advertised a Pullman bus."
"This is the only direct bus to Panajachel."
"But we did not want a local bus. We bought tickets for..."
"This is the direct bus to Panajachel."
And on and on.
There is no arguing with him. No apologies for the disappointment, no acknowledgement of the obvious scam. Pay your money and sit down. We are better at this game than you are.
Perhaps this really is a direct bus to Panajachel. No stops. No three hundred extra Guatemalans packed in along the way. But we know better. The Book says the direct Chicken Bus to Panajachel leaves at 7AM from the market. And as soon as everyone is settled, our pulls pulls out of its secret location and drives directly to, you guessed it, the market. Where we begin the all too familiar ritual of stopping for every Guatemalan on the side of the road. Directo, my ass.
We still have a chance to win this game, though. Unlike the other gringos, we did not pay for our tickets in advance from a dishonest travel agency. This is, in fact, the exact bus we would have caught from the market had we not stumbled upon the cafe scam. "We are not paying 36Q for this bus," William says. "No we are not. Watch the locals and see what they pay. And spread your legs." We assume the position, knees spread wide so as to leave no illusion of extra space in our mini-seat. I quickly teach William the Spanish for "sorry, there is no room here." Lo siento, no hay espacio aqui. I realize this is evil and very American of us, but if we are going to be duped and pay extra, then we should at least have the tiny seat to ourselves. This is Justice. American or not.
When the conductor comes down the aisle collecting fares, we try to see how much the locals in front of us are paying. It most certianly isn't 35Q, but you can never be sure. It is entirely possible they are not riding to the final destination, in which case they would pay less than full fare. The conductor approaches us. William hands him a 20Q note. The conductor looks at it like it were a dirty kleenex. "How much?" I ask. "76 for two," he says, bored. We have been over this already.
"But we did not buy tickets from the agency. And the other people..."
"76." He cuts me off.
"But why? The other people...
"Because 76 is the price." And that is the end of that. And honestly, how can you argue with that? It is like having a discussion with a two year old:
"Where are you going?"
"To work."
"Why?"
"Because I have to make money."
"Why?"
"Because we need to eat."
"Why?"
"Because we need to eat to stay alive."
"Why?"
"Because that is the way it is."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
"Why?"
And the bus rolls on through the Guatemalan countryside, stopping every few feet to pile on more passengers.
"You can play the game, but you will never win," observes William. It's like a carnival ring toss. You know deep down that te damn rings are too small to fit over the bottles, but you keep playing anyway, throwing your dollars away with every flick of the wrist.
Congratulations, Chicken Bus. You have won again.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
You Betta BELIZE It!
The pushy Third World-ness of Guatemala follows us all the way to the border. Just as we approach the Belizean officials, William is attacked by Guatemala's youngest hustler. "Por favor meester!" he says in his saddest voice, gesturing with a basket of pumpkin seeds and nuts. "You buy. I hungry."
"No, gracias." They are the two must spoken words in the Spanish language.
"Meester! Meester! You buy!" He is mean.
"No, GRACIAS." This means please go away now. But he is relentless, nipping at William's heels like a scrappy puppy.
"Hongree!"
"Then eat some of your damn peanuts." We have become hardened.
"Well, no one's gonna mistake us for Angelina Jolie," I say.
We cross the border into Belize and immediately the people are nicer, English is spoken, lights shine down from the heavens, moods lift. Actually, it looks just like Guatemala. Except people really are nicer. I can't tell if it is the abolition of the language barrier but everyone, from the immigration officials to our cab driver greets us with smiles and "have a nice days." The official cab fares are even posted on an official government sign right next to the taxi stand. This is a very welcome sight indeed. We splurge on a taxi - mostly because the guy is nice and honest - and also because we have no vague clue how to find a bus - and travel about fifteen minutes to the town of San Ignacio, the largest in Western Belize, something of a jungle outpost on the banks of the Macal River. It is bustling, rough around the endges, ramshackle. The word "ramshackle" was invented for Belize. Every clapboard building and faded shack is its very definition. The two main streets are packed with guest houses, bars, travel agents and a disproportionate number of Chinese restaurants. It is a great amount of commerce for the middle of nowhere - and everything in English. We trudge the dusty streets looking for an affordable place to stay. Prices are significantly higher here. We decide on the comically named "Hi-Et" Hotel for 50 Belize dollars a night. Except this is not a multi-national hotel chain high-rise with turndown service. This is a wooden Caribbean-looking two story home painted maroon and yellow. To get to our room we must first enter the living area of the owner's house, pass through their kitchen and dining room and up a back staircase. It is an odd arrangement and feels intrusive. We are interrupting Grandpa's TV time. But hey, its Belize, and I guess no one really seems to mind.
Much like Guatemala, everyone is trying to sell you something here - whether it be a caving expedition, a guided jungle tour, a bushel of bananas, or ganja (especially ganja.) We are literally offered ganja from every single Bob Marley devotee standing on the street. They appear from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It is the unofficial cash crop of Belize. I wonder if this whole tourist industry is a just a drug front. Sure, we'll sell you a tour, mon, but what you're really buying is a big ol' bag of weed. Possibly because of the prevelance of the ganja, the selling tactics aren't nearly as severe as in Guatemala and its all done with a very laid-back "ohwell maybeyawill, maybeyawon´t" attitude that is beyond refreshing. And it is all wrapped up in that lilting, melodic Creole that instantly evokes reggae and white sand beaches and, well, weed.
"Hey mon, we got stew chicken and rice n beans for ya."
"No thanks. Maybe later."
"Ok mon. Ya have a nice day then."
What?! Where is the used car salesman sleaze? We love Belize.
After our arduous journey, we decide we deserve to splurge on a meal and a few beers which, truthfully, is what we always feel we deserve after a difficult day of travel, which is at least three or four times a week. Which is why we cannot stay on budget. Which is why I will never be a responsible adult. Which is why I take insane trips like this in the first place. We have discovered that we are not people who can restrict ourselves. We cannot resist beer. So we end up in a Chinese restaurant. There are plenty to choose from. This one looks like a vacant wooden barn that should have bloodstains on the wall. There are a few plastic tables arranged around a bar that is being tended by a twelve year old boy. We are promptly brought two Belikins - the national beer of Belize - delicious, cool, and refreshing. William orders a fish burger and I go for broke on the shrimp curry, a massive pile of stir fried prawns and mixed veggies, some of them actually greenm all swimming in a rich, yellowy curry sauce. It is divine. A revelation. I lick the plate.
We are now over four weeks into our journey. I wonder if William is getting tired of me. Curry dripping from my bottom lip, I ask him.
"Yes."
We decide to celabrate our new good moods. We stumble upon happy hour at Mr. Greedy´s, a bar with a sand floor populated entirely by tourists - Australians, English, Canadians - and us. All here for what is surely the country´s best drink special: local Belizean rum and Coke for 2 Belize Dollars ($1 USD). We have six. Each.
We love Belize. We love everything and everybody. We meet two vacationing Americans from California who gladly hop on our happy hour train and ride it into the wee hours of the morning. We talk about what every backpacker talks about: Where are you from? Where have you been? Where are you going? Rarely are you asked what you do. Everyone assumes if you had something to do you would be back home doing it. We are lost children, all of us. Trying to find ourselves on the dusty roads of some crazy banana republic.
The night is a blur. I vaguely remember being at a reggae bar with a dirt floor and a thatched roof and huge thumping speakers. And at another Chinese restaurant sitting in front of mountains of conch and fried rice. And at a glistening new casino, wildly out of place in the middle of Belize where we drunkenly played roulette and tried our luck at the slots. We lose, horribly. I try to get a cash advance on my credit card. Which is hilarious for many reasons. Thankfully neither I nor the casino banker can manage the transaction. And by the way, what is a slick Vegas-y casino doing in the middle of the jungle?!
But the night is a success. Our moods have elevated and we feel welcomed into a new country. We go off to sleep, full, satisfied, and very happy to be here.
"No, gracias." They are the two must spoken words in the Spanish language.
"Meester! Meester! You buy!" He is mean.
"No, GRACIAS." This means please go away now. But he is relentless, nipping at William's heels like a scrappy puppy.
"Hongree!"
"Then eat some of your damn peanuts." We have become hardened.
"Well, no one's gonna mistake us for Angelina Jolie," I say.
We cross the border into Belize and immediately the people are nicer, English is spoken, lights shine down from the heavens, moods lift. Actually, it looks just like Guatemala. Except people really are nicer. I can't tell if it is the abolition of the language barrier but everyone, from the immigration officials to our cab driver greets us with smiles and "have a nice days." The official cab fares are even posted on an official government sign right next to the taxi stand. This is a very welcome sight indeed. We splurge on a taxi - mostly because the guy is nice and honest - and also because we have no vague clue how to find a bus - and travel about fifteen minutes to the town of San Ignacio, the largest in Western Belize, something of a jungle outpost on the banks of the Macal River. It is bustling, rough around the endges, ramshackle. The word "ramshackle" was invented for Belize. Every clapboard building and faded shack is its very definition. The two main streets are packed with guest houses, bars, travel agents and a disproportionate number of Chinese restaurants. It is a great amount of commerce for the middle of nowhere - and everything in English. We trudge the dusty streets looking for an affordable place to stay. Prices are significantly higher here. We decide on the comically named "Hi-Et" Hotel for 50 Belize dollars a night. Except this is not a multi-national hotel chain high-rise with turndown service. This is a wooden Caribbean-looking two story home painted maroon and yellow. To get to our room we must first enter the living area of the owner's house, pass through their kitchen and dining room and up a back staircase. It is an odd arrangement and feels intrusive. We are interrupting Grandpa's TV time. But hey, its Belize, and I guess no one really seems to mind.
Much like Guatemala, everyone is trying to sell you something here - whether it be a caving expedition, a guided jungle tour, a bushel of bananas, or ganja (especially ganja.) We are literally offered ganja from every single Bob Marley devotee standing on the street. They appear from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It is the unofficial cash crop of Belize. I wonder if this whole tourist industry is a just a drug front. Sure, we'll sell you a tour, mon, but what you're really buying is a big ol' bag of weed. Possibly because of the prevelance of the ganja, the selling tactics aren't nearly as severe as in Guatemala and its all done with a very laid-back "ohwell maybeyawill, maybeyawon´t" attitude that is beyond refreshing. And it is all wrapped up in that lilting, melodic Creole that instantly evokes reggae and white sand beaches and, well, weed.
"Hey mon, we got stew chicken and rice n beans for ya."
"No thanks. Maybe later."
"Ok mon. Ya have a nice day then."
What?! Where is the used car salesman sleaze? We love Belize.
After our arduous journey, we decide we deserve to splurge on a meal and a few beers which, truthfully, is what we always feel we deserve after a difficult day of travel, which is at least three or four times a week. Which is why we cannot stay on budget. Which is why I will never be a responsible adult. Which is why I take insane trips like this in the first place. We have discovered that we are not people who can restrict ourselves. We cannot resist beer. So we end up in a Chinese restaurant. There are plenty to choose from. This one looks like a vacant wooden barn that should have bloodstains on the wall. There are a few plastic tables arranged around a bar that is being tended by a twelve year old boy. We are promptly brought two Belikins - the national beer of Belize - delicious, cool, and refreshing. William orders a fish burger and I go for broke on the shrimp curry, a massive pile of stir fried prawns and mixed veggies, some of them actually greenm all swimming in a rich, yellowy curry sauce. It is divine. A revelation. I lick the plate.
We are now over four weeks into our journey. I wonder if William is getting tired of me. Curry dripping from my bottom lip, I ask him.
"Yes."
We decide to celabrate our new good moods. We stumble upon happy hour at Mr. Greedy´s, a bar with a sand floor populated entirely by tourists - Australians, English, Canadians - and us. All here for what is surely the country´s best drink special: local Belizean rum and Coke for 2 Belize Dollars ($1 USD). We have six. Each.
We love Belize. We love everything and everybody. We meet two vacationing Americans from California who gladly hop on our happy hour train and ride it into the wee hours of the morning. We talk about what every backpacker talks about: Where are you from? Where have you been? Where are you going? Rarely are you asked what you do. Everyone assumes if you had something to do you would be back home doing it. We are lost children, all of us. Trying to find ourselves on the dusty roads of some crazy banana republic.
The night is a blur. I vaguely remember being at a reggae bar with a dirt floor and a thatched roof and huge thumping speakers. And at another Chinese restaurant sitting in front of mountains of conch and fried rice. And at a glistening new casino, wildly out of place in the middle of Belize where we drunkenly played roulette and tried our luck at the slots. We lose, horribly. I try to get a cash advance on my credit card. Which is hilarious for many reasons. Thankfully neither I nor the casino banker can manage the transaction. And by the way, what is a slick Vegas-y casino doing in the middle of the jungle?!
But the night is a success. Our moods have elevated and we feel welcomed into a new country. We go off to sleep, full, satisfied, and very happy to be here.
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Gringo Tax
Even though we have been in Belize for over a week and are now back in Guatemala, the cost and availability of internet has kept me from writing. So now... a bit of a flashback...
The road out of Guatemala is bumpy, dusty, full of potholes and paved with... well, it isn't paved. Not even with good intentions. We're leaving Flores for the English-speaking Caribbean nation of Belize, a mere 160-iah kilometers and a whole world away. And, as always, we are attempting to do it for as little money as possible. There are a couple things you learn very quickly about travel in Guatemala. You can go one of two ways. There is the Tourist Route, which is always more expensive, mariginally more comfortable, and usually quicker and more direct. Then there is the Local Route. This is dirt cheap, crowded, slower and may involve farm animals. The Guatemalans assume that as "wealthy" Americans or Canadians or whatever, you will naturally be travelling "in style." And by "in style" they mean you will get to your destination within five hours of your scheduled arrival time and you will not have to share your seat with a live turkey. Even if you opt for the money-saving Local Route, you may find, in fact, that the Guatemalans have other plans for you. From the moment you cross the border, the Guatemalans begin their well-honed campaign to relieve you of the heavy burden of your bank account. Now, I'm not saying that Guatemalans are dishonest. Many who work in the tourist trade are simply, poor, desperate, and creative with the truth. It is survival. But it is wildly frustrating.
Crossing the border fromMexico we are asked for 20 pesos each as an "entrance fee" - which is Spanish for "extortion." We know full well this is illegal but when a man with a gun asks you for two dollars, you usually just go ahead and give it to him. Lonely Planet says to ask for a "receipt" as a possible deterrent since not only do they not have receipts, they don't even have a cash register. Our money is immediately and unabashedly stuffed into the border guard's pocket. Again, no arguements here, but we walk away defeated, vowing to never let it happen again.
But it does. Again and again.
See, the Guatemalans are employing an age-old capitalistic income-contingent technique known as The Gringo Tax. It works like this:
You want to buy a couple of avocados at the market. But there is no price listed. There are almost never prices listed. Anywhere. For anything. The Guatemalan woman in front of you buys a bag full and you notice she pays with a 10 quetzal note. And she gets change. Now its your turn. The sweet-looking avocado merchant weighs your fruit. You ask "cuanto?" "20 quetzales," she says. If you know enough Spanish you can always says, "but you just charged the lady before me less than 10 quetzales." This will illicit one of two responses:
1. She will be ashamed to have been caught lying. She might huff and puff a bit and pretend to be offended. But the price will still be 20 quetzales.
2. She will coldly stare right at you, her steely gaze saying "oh yeah, and what are you going to do about it?" Price? 20 quetzales.
In the end it is just quicker to pay up.
We have been cheated and swindled and nicle and dimed and gringo taxed to death. We are fed up. We choose the cheapest way into Belize - a local bus from Santa Elena to Melchor de Mencos, the town right before the Belizean border. For a laugh, we hail one of Flores' noisy tuk-tuks, which is not really big enough to fit both of us and our bags, and we put-put across the bridge to Santa Elena. I am very clear with our driver. We are taking the public bus to the border. Please take us to the bus terminal. To complicate matters, though, there are actually two bus terminals in Santa Elena. The Terminal Viejo and the Terminal Nuevo. Lonely Planet says to go to the Old Terminal but only says that the bus stop is located "somewhere" in the chaotic marketplace. Thanks for that.
Our driver assures me he knows where to take us and in a matter of minutes we are pulling up in front of the Terminal Nuevo. And here is where they get you: before I can even get my long legs extradited from that stupid buggy, two guys have already descended upon us, grabbing our bags and heading off with them.
"Wait! Stop" We shout.
"A donde van?"
"Bus to the border. Melchor de Mencos! Un momentito!"
"OK, OK, sure. Melchor de Mencos. Si Si." We are friendly people...relax, they seem to say. We are just here to help. But they have our bags and we know this for certain: when someone carries your bags, it is gonna cost you. We have no choice but to chase them into the terminal. We don't even have time to look around before we aredeposited into a dark little roomadvertising itself as a travel agency. Sure, why not? Every place else is. Or was. Or could be. The Guatemalan Don Corleone is seated behind the desk. Big and brooding.
"Where are you going? He slowly mumbles. He is going to make us an offer we don't understand.
"Melchor de Mencos. Then on to Belize." He starts to write out a bus ticket. "No, no, no! We just want the public bus. The cheapest way. Mas barato." Our motto.
"This is the public bus. Private transport is more expensive."
I know this isn't right and that he isn't playing fair.
"Ok. How much?"
"50 quetzales each." ($7 USD)
That's a bit expensive. For a three hour bus ride. It doesn't sound it, but it is all relative here. I don't know what to do. the guidebook has given no indication as to the expected cost of the ticket.
"The bus leaves in twelve minutes." Don Corleone is impatient. He is already planning how he is going to spend our mone. Seeing no other alternative and anxious to get out of this situation, we pay up. The bus is one of the familiar white mini vans with three short rows of seats. There are a few other well-dressed Guatemalans aboard. We wonder if maybe they paid 50Q as well. Perhaps this is the "first class" bus. Not what we asked for, but at least the ride won't be so bad.
Ha, ha. Stupid gringos.
We depart the terminal and bee-line directly for the Terminal Viejo which is, in fact, "somewhere" in the middle of the market. This is tres Third World. This is the movie version of a Third World marketplace. Dirt. Poor people. Livestock. Coca-Cola. The bus parks and instantly the door slides open, exposing us to the teeming masses. Peole begin pushing and shoving their way onto the tiny bus, old ladies are stepping on children, men are elbowing women, suitcases and garbage bags full of clothes are stuffed into every available space. This is the last airlift out of Saigon.
We are in the back row of seats. Horrified. And snapping photos. Vendors are shoving their bootleg wares into the open windows and women are shouting "aguas, aguas, aguas!" There is no space to move, to escape. I would have had a full-blown panic attack, but there was no room. The bus has filled up. William counts 24 people. There are seats for 12. We are laughing because we do not want to cry. "Now I know for a fact that none of these people paid 50Q for a bus ticket," I say, gesturing to shoeless old woman with no teeth.
The bus pulls away and stops soon afterwards at a gas station on the outskirts of town. The driver gets out, opens the sliding door and collects fares from the new passengers. No one hands over more than 15Q ($2USD). We've been cheated out of 70Q to ride in a cattlecar.
The other thing about Guatemala is that personal space is an entirely foreign concept. People will sit in your lap if you let them. And not even 70Q can buy you an extra inch of space. Everyone is treated like cargo and no one really seems to mind. As we sweat and cramp and look at each other in disbelief, the Guatemalans smile and throw another kid on the pile. One woman is forced to stand up, hunkered over in the low ceilinged van for the entire three hour trip. I would have given my seat up, but then where would the live chicken sit?
Mercifully, we finally arrive at the border town of Melchor de Mencos. We are unceremoniously shoved off the bus only to be bombarded by a batallion of sleazy guys all shouting "taxi!" and "cambio!" We are both completely over it.
"Uno momento, por favor!"
They are grabbing at our bags, waving wads of Belizean dollars in our faces. We repeat our pleas, each time more annoyed and insistant.
"Amigo! Taxi? Taxi?! Taxi?!?!?"
We've just ridden for three hours in a sardine can, back the fuck up for a minute!
And they do back up.
"Why don't you go back to your own country with your backpack," one of them says, insulted. As if "backpack" is a four-letter word. They all retreat across the road, pouting. Literally pouting. And now the taxi driver is refusing to drive us anywhere.
Look, buddy, I want to say. I like your country. But I don't like being cheated. Or pushed around. I am a valuable contributor to your local economy. And I did not vote for Bush and I never eat at McDonald's!!
But instead I stay silent and take matters into our own hands. We'll show them. We get our stuff together and march off up the street. In the total wrong direction, as it turns out. They are laughing at us. We find another taxi and ask him to take us to the border. He is happy to oblige but fails to tell us that the border is only a few hundred feet away. There's another 10Q gone.
Damn you, you tricky little bastards! They are formidible opponents. We cannot win at this game.
We suffer our final indignity when the Guatemalan border guard asks us for 40 quetzales for the pleasure of leaving his country. Try though you might, you cannot fight The Gringo Tax. We pay up and happily cross over into Belize.
The road out of Guatemala is bumpy, dusty, full of potholes and paved with... well, it isn't paved. Not even with good intentions. We're leaving Flores for the English-speaking Caribbean nation of Belize, a mere 160-iah kilometers and a whole world away. And, as always, we are attempting to do it for as little money as possible. There are a couple things you learn very quickly about travel in Guatemala. You can go one of two ways. There is the Tourist Route, which is always more expensive, mariginally more comfortable, and usually quicker and more direct. Then there is the Local Route. This is dirt cheap, crowded, slower and may involve farm animals. The Guatemalans assume that as "wealthy" Americans or Canadians or whatever, you will naturally be travelling "in style." And by "in style" they mean you will get to your destination within five hours of your scheduled arrival time and you will not have to share your seat with a live turkey. Even if you opt for the money-saving Local Route, you may find, in fact, that the Guatemalans have other plans for you. From the moment you cross the border, the Guatemalans begin their well-honed campaign to relieve you of the heavy burden of your bank account. Now, I'm not saying that Guatemalans are dishonest. Many who work in the tourist trade are simply, poor, desperate, and creative with the truth. It is survival. But it is wildly frustrating.
Crossing the border fromMexico we are asked for 20 pesos each as an "entrance fee" - which is Spanish for "extortion." We know full well this is illegal but when a man with a gun asks you for two dollars, you usually just go ahead and give it to him. Lonely Planet says to ask for a "receipt" as a possible deterrent since not only do they not have receipts, they don't even have a cash register. Our money is immediately and unabashedly stuffed into the border guard's pocket. Again, no arguements here, but we walk away defeated, vowing to never let it happen again.
But it does. Again and again.
See, the Guatemalans are employing an age-old capitalistic income-contingent technique known as The Gringo Tax. It works like this:
You want to buy a couple of avocados at the market. But there is no price listed. There are almost never prices listed. Anywhere. For anything. The Guatemalan woman in front of you buys a bag full and you notice she pays with a 10 quetzal note. And she gets change. Now its your turn. The sweet-looking avocado merchant weighs your fruit. You ask "cuanto?" "20 quetzales," she says. If you know enough Spanish you can always says, "but you just charged the lady before me less than 10 quetzales." This will illicit one of two responses:
1. She will be ashamed to have been caught lying. She might huff and puff a bit and pretend to be offended. But the price will still be 20 quetzales.
2. She will coldly stare right at you, her steely gaze saying "oh yeah, and what are you going to do about it?" Price? 20 quetzales.
In the end it is just quicker to pay up.
We have been cheated and swindled and nicle and dimed and gringo taxed to death. We are fed up. We choose the cheapest way into Belize - a local bus from Santa Elena to Melchor de Mencos, the town right before the Belizean border. For a laugh, we hail one of Flores' noisy tuk-tuks, which is not really big enough to fit both of us and our bags, and we put-put across the bridge to Santa Elena. I am very clear with our driver. We are taking the public bus to the border. Please take us to the bus terminal. To complicate matters, though, there are actually two bus terminals in Santa Elena. The Terminal Viejo and the Terminal Nuevo. Lonely Planet says to go to the Old Terminal but only says that the bus stop is located "somewhere" in the chaotic marketplace. Thanks for that.
Our driver assures me he knows where to take us and in a matter of minutes we are pulling up in front of the Terminal Nuevo. And here is where they get you: before I can even get my long legs extradited from that stupid buggy, two guys have already descended upon us, grabbing our bags and heading off with them.
"Wait! Stop" We shout.
"A donde van?"
"Bus to the border. Melchor de Mencos! Un momentito!"
"OK, OK, sure. Melchor de Mencos. Si Si." We are friendly people...relax, they seem to say. We are just here to help. But they have our bags and we know this for certain: when someone carries your bags, it is gonna cost you. We have no choice but to chase them into the terminal. We don't even have time to look around before we aredeposited into a dark little roomadvertising itself as a travel agency. Sure, why not? Every place else is. Or was. Or could be. The Guatemalan Don Corleone is seated behind the desk. Big and brooding.
"Where are you going? He slowly mumbles. He is going to make us an offer we don't understand.
"Melchor de Mencos. Then on to Belize." He starts to write out a bus ticket. "No, no, no! We just want the public bus. The cheapest way. Mas barato." Our motto.
"This is the public bus. Private transport is more expensive."
I know this isn't right and that he isn't playing fair.
"Ok. How much?"
"50 quetzales each." ($7 USD)
That's a bit expensive. For a three hour bus ride. It doesn't sound it, but it is all relative here. I don't know what to do. the guidebook has given no indication as to the expected cost of the ticket.
"The bus leaves in twelve minutes." Don Corleone is impatient. He is already planning how he is going to spend our mone. Seeing no other alternative and anxious to get out of this situation, we pay up. The bus is one of the familiar white mini vans with three short rows of seats. There are a few other well-dressed Guatemalans aboard. We wonder if maybe they paid 50Q as well. Perhaps this is the "first class" bus. Not what we asked for, but at least the ride won't be so bad.
Ha, ha. Stupid gringos.
We depart the terminal and bee-line directly for the Terminal Viejo which is, in fact, "somewhere" in the middle of the market. This is tres Third World. This is the movie version of a Third World marketplace. Dirt. Poor people. Livestock. Coca-Cola. The bus parks and instantly the door slides open, exposing us to the teeming masses. Peole begin pushing and shoving their way onto the tiny bus, old ladies are stepping on children, men are elbowing women, suitcases and garbage bags full of clothes are stuffed into every available space. This is the last airlift out of Saigon.
We are in the back row of seats. Horrified. And snapping photos. Vendors are shoving their bootleg wares into the open windows and women are shouting "aguas, aguas, aguas!" There is no space to move, to escape. I would have had a full-blown panic attack, but there was no room. The bus has filled up. William counts 24 people. There are seats for 12. We are laughing because we do not want to cry. "Now I know for a fact that none of these people paid 50Q for a bus ticket," I say, gesturing to shoeless old woman with no teeth.
The bus pulls away and stops soon afterwards at a gas station on the outskirts of town. The driver gets out, opens the sliding door and collects fares from the new passengers. No one hands over more than 15Q ($2USD). We've been cheated out of 70Q to ride in a cattlecar.
The other thing about Guatemala is that personal space is an entirely foreign concept. People will sit in your lap if you let them. And not even 70Q can buy you an extra inch of space. Everyone is treated like cargo and no one really seems to mind. As we sweat and cramp and look at each other in disbelief, the Guatemalans smile and throw another kid on the pile. One woman is forced to stand up, hunkered over in the low ceilinged van for the entire three hour trip. I would have given my seat up, but then where would the live chicken sit?
Mercifully, we finally arrive at the border town of Melchor de Mencos. We are unceremoniously shoved off the bus only to be bombarded by a batallion of sleazy guys all shouting "taxi!" and "cambio!" We are both completely over it.
"Uno momento, por favor!"
They are grabbing at our bags, waving wads of Belizean dollars in our faces. We repeat our pleas, each time more annoyed and insistant.
"Amigo! Taxi? Taxi?! Taxi?!?!?"
We've just ridden for three hours in a sardine can, back the fuck up for a minute!
And they do back up.
"Why don't you go back to your own country with your backpack," one of them says, insulted. As if "backpack" is a four-letter word. They all retreat across the road, pouting. Literally pouting. And now the taxi driver is refusing to drive us anywhere.
Look, buddy, I want to say. I like your country. But I don't like being cheated. Or pushed around. I am a valuable contributor to your local economy. And I did not vote for Bush and I never eat at McDonald's!!
But instead I stay silent and take matters into our own hands. We'll show them. We get our stuff together and march off up the street. In the total wrong direction, as it turns out. They are laughing at us. We find another taxi and ask him to take us to the border. He is happy to oblige but fails to tell us that the border is only a few hundred feet away. There's another 10Q gone.
Damn you, you tricky little bastards! They are formidible opponents. We cannot win at this game.
We suffer our final indignity when the Guatemalan border guard asks us for 40 quetzales for the pleasure of leaving his country. Try though you might, you cannot fight The Gringo Tax. We pay up and happily cross over into Belize.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Marooned in Paradise
We are alive and well (well, somewhat. More adventures with Third World Healthcare to come!) and on the tiny Belizean island of Caye Caulker. The water is clear blue and a whole grilled lobster is only $10. But internet costs 5$ an hour!! So we're screwing the web for the shellfish. I am busy writing future blog posts long hand by the light of a single candle, like Abe Lincoln.
( we are right up there, north of Belize City, floating out in the Caribbean.)
Who knows when we may leave... but we will eventually.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Isla de Flores
Flores is a small, circular island in the middle of Lago de Peten Itza, surrounded by the dense forests and jungle of the remote Peten region of Guatemala. It is something of a tourist Mecca with its undeniable Old World charm, rocky cobblestone streets, pastel cubist buildings, and tropical foliage all set against the backdrop of the bluish lake. Every building it seems is a potential hotel. Or restaurant. Or travel agency. Or hybrid of all three. I think we might have had dinner on some woman's back porch the other night. It is an easy and forgiveable error. Everything is for sale in Guatemala.
Flores is a revolving door of international tourism, everyone coming here to eventually see one of Central America's greatest attractions, the ruins of the ancient Mayan city of Tikal. But we decide to put off the ruins for a few days. We are hot, tired, and smelly and Flores is a welcoming little island paradise. Almost European-feeling with its cafes and restaurants and idyllic scenery. Our money buys us a real vacation pad at the Hotel La Union - a clean, private room with a private bath, a ceiling fan, and a balcony that boasts sunset views over the lake. For only $17 a night it is a few dollars more than we should spend, but we are still happily within budget. It is a vacation from our vacation life.
We dive into the refreshing waters on the lake, soak up some sun, eat, drink some real coffee and local Guatemalan beer (El Gallo) and spiritually recharge. We also have our clothes washed. This was a way overdue and most necessary chore. When boarding the bus in Mexico, William looks at me, pauses and says: "No offense, but can you find another seat? You stink."
Our clothes are filthy, wrinkled, mildewy. William sweat through most of his wardrobe during his jungle fevers. My t-shirts are like greasy car wash rags. When the laundry lady (do people still say "laundress?") returns our clothes to us, it is akin to receiving a bag full of freshly picked cotton. Nothing has ever been fresher or cleaner. Now we can rest.
Except we can't. For a tiny little place, Flores is offensively noisy. Afternoon naps are an impossibility and, we soon discover, sleeping in is a Herculean task. Flores wakes up at 4:30. In the morning.
There are few actual cars here, which is logical, as one can easily walk the entire circumfrence of the island in fifteen minutes or less. But despite this, the streets are overrun with dozens and dozens of little moto-taxis, like Asian tuk-tuks - basically a motorcycle pulling a covered backseat - their engines constantly revving and puttering and sputtering at all hours of the day and night. They are bright red with lots of Jesus stickers. "Cristo Salvo," "Jesus es mi conductor," and other hilariously ironic sayings emblazoned across the front windows as they dangerously whip around the bumpy streets, an army of angry bugs, mostly driving no one to no where because, honestly, where is there to go?! When they aren't threatening to mow you down, they are beeping horns at you to advertise their availability. Of course they are available. Everyone who is able is walking the fifteen feet to their destination. The only people I ever see riding these things are old Guatemalan grannies coming from the neighboring market town of Santa Elena on the mainland.
The good news is that they mostly stop running around 10 at night, as Flores is not particularly known for its nightlife. Most tourists turn in early because, as we found out, everyone wakes up at the ungodly hour of 4:30 to catch the sunrise buses to Tikal. The minibuses with their ancient, creaking diesel engines begin their orbit of the island in the pre-dawn darkness, stopping every few feet to yell, "TIKAL!!" Even if you have not planned a trip, you cannot help but be awake. At the urging of some French friends that we met back in San Cristobal, we agree to take the early trip to Tikal, arriving at the jungle park around 6:30 in the morning, early enough to miss the oppressive heat of midday. We are also treated to an amazing wildlife show. In the early morning mist and clouds, the jungle is alive with sounds and calls and bird tweets. Almost immediately we spot a spider monkey swinging high in the jungle canopy, feasting on leaves and fruit.
(In the interest of full disclosure, we did not take this photo. These suckers are fast and my Wal-Mart digital camera did not come equipped with a tele-photo zoom lense. But it's cute anyway, yeah?)
We also saw Toucans, howler monkeys, big crazy jungle turkeys (not their official name), cotamundis...
(thought you might need a visual of that one...)
...and some weird mammal that looked like a giant hamster. We didn't get a picture of the giant hamsters. But they were kind of upsetting. Like a big ol' jungle rat.
Tikal was impressive and vast and, like Palenque, in the middle of the jungle. I call it the New York City of the ancient Mayan world.
(Yup, there she is....)
But after a few hours roaming and climbing and trekking, we were exhausted and kind of over it. And only three hours left until our bus was scheduled to travel back to Flores. We both passed out reclined on top of a stone wall. Intrepid travellers.
Next stop: San Ignacio, Belize. A few hours from Flores. And then we'll have the Carribbean in our sights at last.
Flores is a revolving door of international tourism, everyone coming here to eventually see one of Central America's greatest attractions, the ruins of the ancient Mayan city of Tikal. But we decide to put off the ruins for a few days. We are hot, tired, and smelly and Flores is a welcoming little island paradise. Almost European-feeling with its cafes and restaurants and idyllic scenery. Our money buys us a real vacation pad at the Hotel La Union - a clean, private room with a private bath, a ceiling fan, and a balcony that boasts sunset views over the lake. For only $17 a night it is a few dollars more than we should spend, but we are still happily within budget. It is a vacation from our vacation life.
We dive into the refreshing waters on the lake, soak up some sun, eat, drink some real coffee and local Guatemalan beer (El Gallo) and spiritually recharge. We also have our clothes washed. This was a way overdue and most necessary chore. When boarding the bus in Mexico, William looks at me, pauses and says: "No offense, but can you find another seat? You stink."
Our clothes are filthy, wrinkled, mildewy. William sweat through most of his wardrobe during his jungle fevers. My t-shirts are like greasy car wash rags. When the laundry lady (do people still say "laundress?") returns our clothes to us, it is akin to receiving a bag full of freshly picked cotton. Nothing has ever been fresher or cleaner. Now we can rest.
Except we can't. For a tiny little place, Flores is offensively noisy. Afternoon naps are an impossibility and, we soon discover, sleeping in is a Herculean task. Flores wakes up at 4:30. In the morning.
There are few actual cars here, which is logical, as one can easily walk the entire circumfrence of the island in fifteen minutes or less. But despite this, the streets are overrun with dozens and dozens of little moto-taxis, like Asian tuk-tuks - basically a motorcycle pulling a covered backseat - their engines constantly revving and puttering and sputtering at all hours of the day and night. They are bright red with lots of Jesus stickers. "Cristo Salvo," "Jesus es mi conductor," and other hilariously ironic sayings emblazoned across the front windows as they dangerously whip around the bumpy streets, an army of angry bugs, mostly driving no one to no where because, honestly, where is there to go?! When they aren't threatening to mow you down, they are beeping horns at you to advertise their availability. Of course they are available. Everyone who is able is walking the fifteen feet to their destination. The only people I ever see riding these things are old Guatemalan grannies coming from the neighboring market town of Santa Elena on the mainland.
The good news is that they mostly stop running around 10 at night, as Flores is not particularly known for its nightlife. Most tourists turn in early because, as we found out, everyone wakes up at the ungodly hour of 4:30 to catch the sunrise buses to Tikal. The minibuses with their ancient, creaking diesel engines begin their orbit of the island in the pre-dawn darkness, stopping every few feet to yell, "TIKAL!!" Even if you have not planned a trip, you cannot help but be awake. At the urging of some French friends that we met back in San Cristobal, we agree to take the early trip to Tikal, arriving at the jungle park around 6:30 in the morning, early enough to miss the oppressive heat of midday. We are also treated to an amazing wildlife show. In the early morning mist and clouds, the jungle is alive with sounds and calls and bird tweets. Almost immediately we spot a spider monkey swinging high in the jungle canopy, feasting on leaves and fruit.
We also saw Toucans, howler monkeys, big crazy jungle turkeys (not their official name), cotamundis...
...and some weird mammal that looked like a giant hamster. We didn't get a picture of the giant hamsters. But they were kind of upsetting. Like a big ol' jungle rat.
Tikal was impressive and vast and, like Palenque, in the middle of the jungle. I call it the New York City of the ancient Mayan world.
But after a few hours roaming and climbing and trekking, we were exhausted and kind of over it. And only three hours left until our bus was scheduled to travel back to Flores. We both passed out reclined on top of a stone wall. Intrepid travellers.
Next stop: San Ignacio, Belize. A few hours from Flores. And then we'll have the Carribbean in our sights at last.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Palenque, or One Dose of Cipro Does Not Make One Laura Croft:Tomb Raider
It is a relief that William is feeling better. And he really has been a trouper through all of this. My short fuse and penchant for the dramatic would have already sent me far over the proverbial edge had I been in his shoes. I would have demanded an emergency airlift evacuation and full CNN coverage.
"I can't believe this! You've made a 180 degree turn-around."
"More like 162 degrees, " William retorts. Whatever. We'll take it.
We move out of the Ritz Carlton to what had been our original destination, the neo-hippie jungle camps of El Panchan, a few kilometers outside of town on the road to the famed ruins. Here we pay 120 pesos for a hut at El Jaguar, a sort of eco-lodge of rustic cabañas set amongst some truly beautiful jungle scenery. Our hut actually has no walls, just mosquito netting and a domed palm-thatched roof. A wobbly ceiling fan and a bare light bulb hang over the beds nd the view is pretty priceless. There is a murky green stream snaking in front of us (despite the cliche´, it is literally a babbling brook) and thick jungle foliage all round, hanging vines, broad palm fronds, brilliant red and yellow blooms, accmpanied by the squeaks and squawks of birds and insects and the chirps of unknown jungle creatures. And there are monkeys. Specifically, black howler monkeys. Their deep, raspy, throaty calls are unlike anything you've ever heard. Unless you've heard, um, howler monkeys before. They sound other-wordly. Not like animals. They are damn loud. And angry. Scary angry. Like a jet engine. Or Bea Arthur.
In the late afternoon there isa heavy mist that hangs low in the trees and we get a bit of hot rain. It is supremely relaxing and I cannot help but feel very far away from the rest of the world. In a sort of Henry David Thoreau way.
Having injested a dose of the miraculous Cipro, William feels well enough to conquer the ruins, and since I'm no Florence Nightingale, I say why not? So we rise early the next morning, have a small breakfast of papaya, granola, yogurt, and bread, and begin our jungle trek. Now, unlike most people, we opt to walk the two plus miles to the ruins directly through the hot and humid jungle. Forgettin that William was flatlining a mere 24 hours ago, we push on as dozens of shuttle buses and taxis pass us on the road, offering us rides that we flatly refuse. OK, looking back, it is probably I tat flatly refuse. William wants a ride and is too noble to insist. Apparently, I'm Indiana Jones. 20 pesos for a bus?! Why waste money when we can walk ourselves?
The walk is, of course, tuher andlonger than Ihad anticipated and by the time we reach the entrance to the ruins, William is beat. I feel awful and he feels worse. We sit/collapse on the ground and try to regroup. William suggests that he return to our hut and sleep, which is probably the smartest thing to do, but it would be a shame to miss the ruins, seeing as how we have come to the middle of the jungle and all.
Rest. Agua. Pep Talk.
He decides he can do it if he takes it easy. No climbing, frequent pit stops in the shade. I think it was the right decision, all things considered. The ruins are truly spectacular. This is one of those magical places that words and pictures fail to do justice. William´s spirits seem to soar almost right away as we get our first glimpse of the stone temples and pyramids rising from the jungle floor, landscaped by well-manicured emerald green grass and hemmed in on all sides by the mighty, dense, and encroaching jungle. Groups of tourists, like ants, climb and swarm the ruins. It is a United Nations of plump and sweaty fanny-pack toting seniors, clamboring over each other to snap one impossibly gorgeous photo after another. Tour groups trail in obedient single file and a crazy symphony of languages entertwine in a foreign tossed salad of French, German, English, Spanish, Japanese.
At one point we approach the towering Temple of the Cross, rising dozens of meters into the sky.
In the interest of health, Wlliam offers to sit this one out as I take the camera and climb the hundred or so tiny steep steps. Almost to the top, I look down to find William, who is waving his hands at me and screaming something I cannot possibly make out from this far away. He points at me, behind me... I can't figure out what he is doing. From up here he is tiny. I turn my back to him for a second and before I know it, he is bounding up the temple steps, running, taking them two, three at a time.
"MONKEYS!!!!!"
He has just sprinted up the side of this huge pyramid in ten seconds. (See above photo for what an achievement this was.) So much for taking it easy...
"MONKEYS!!!!"
And there they are, a family of monkeys playing in the trees that overhang the top of the temple. Right there, almost close enough to touch. The little baby, hanging by his tail, climbing on his mother, swinging from vine to vine. This is our Gorillas in the Mist moment.
The day at the ruins is an unqualified success.
Totally awesome. In the true sense of the word. Not the 1983 version.
We leave Palenque ad Mexico behind us but not before another ridiculous day of travel. At 8AM we take a mini bus out of Palenque a few hours away to the town of Tenosique. Our bus unceremoniously drops us off on the side of the road and we are rushed by a taxi driver who offers to drive us. I tell him we are taking a bus to the Guatemalan border and need to go to the bus terminal. He ignores this, throws our packs in his trunk, and drives off. After a few minutes, we notice we are heading away from town. I ask him where he is going and he says he is taking us to Guatemala. What?! How much does that cost? "200 pesos." Oh no, Señor. We want the bus. He sulks and pouts but takes us back into town and drops us off at the bus for El Ceibo, the Mexican border town. We board the hot, airless bus and wait. Almost immediately I am surprised by a short little man standing over me. OK, he's a dwarf. Little Person. Whatever. And he has Down Syndrome. He grins and holds his hand out for money and I think he is selling the bus tickets. Heis literally on top of me. I hand him 10 pesos and he leaps acrss the aisle to William who looks at me and does the same. "Is this for the bus tickets?", I ask. He grins and runs off the bus. Everyone else on the bus laughs at us. We just got swindled. How was I supposed to know? I wasn't going to fight with him, for chrissake. He was a midget!
"Guess we just paid the retarded tax," says William.
Two or three hours on the bus to El Ceibo where we get off, walk across the border and step foot for the first time on Guatemalan soil.
The Guatemalan officials happily accept (demand) a 40 peso bribe to let us into their country. We pay up. Another mini-bus takes us the remaining four hours to Santa Elena where we take a quick taxi to the charming and beautiful Isla de la Flores, in the middle of Lago de Peten Itza, in the northern Peten region of Guatemala.
And it is here we will stay and happily rest for a few days...
"I can't believe this! You've made a 180 degree turn-around."
"More like 162 degrees, " William retorts. Whatever. We'll take it.
We move out of the Ritz Carlton to what had been our original destination, the neo-hippie jungle camps of El Panchan, a few kilometers outside of town on the road to the famed ruins. Here we pay 120 pesos for a hut at El Jaguar, a sort of eco-lodge of rustic cabañas set amongst some truly beautiful jungle scenery. Our hut actually has no walls, just mosquito netting and a domed palm-thatched roof. A wobbly ceiling fan and a bare light bulb hang over the beds nd the view is pretty priceless. There is a murky green stream snaking in front of us (despite the cliche´, it is literally a babbling brook) and thick jungle foliage all round, hanging vines, broad palm fronds, brilliant red and yellow blooms, accmpanied by the squeaks and squawks of birds and insects and the chirps of unknown jungle creatures. And there are monkeys. Specifically, black howler monkeys. Their deep, raspy, throaty calls are unlike anything you've ever heard. Unless you've heard, um, howler monkeys before. They sound other-wordly. Not like animals. They are damn loud. And angry. Scary angry. Like a jet engine. Or Bea Arthur.
In the late afternoon there isa heavy mist that hangs low in the trees and we get a bit of hot rain. It is supremely relaxing and I cannot help but feel very far away from the rest of the world. In a sort of Henry David Thoreau way.
Having injested a dose of the miraculous Cipro, William feels well enough to conquer the ruins, and since I'm no Florence Nightingale, I say why not? So we rise early the next morning, have a small breakfast of papaya, granola, yogurt, and bread, and begin our jungle trek. Now, unlike most people, we opt to walk the two plus miles to the ruins directly through the hot and humid jungle. Forgettin that William was flatlining a mere 24 hours ago, we push on as dozens of shuttle buses and taxis pass us on the road, offering us rides that we flatly refuse. OK, looking back, it is probably I tat flatly refuse. William wants a ride and is too noble to insist. Apparently, I'm Indiana Jones. 20 pesos for a bus?! Why waste money when we can walk ourselves?
The walk is, of course, tuher andlonger than Ihad anticipated and by the time we reach the entrance to the ruins, William is beat. I feel awful and he feels worse. We sit/collapse on the ground and try to regroup. William suggests that he return to our hut and sleep, which is probably the smartest thing to do, but it would be a shame to miss the ruins, seeing as how we have come to the middle of the jungle and all.
Rest. Agua. Pep Talk.
He decides he can do it if he takes it easy. No climbing, frequent pit stops in the shade. I think it was the right decision, all things considered. The ruins are truly spectacular. This is one of those magical places that words and pictures fail to do justice. William´s spirits seem to soar almost right away as we get our first glimpse of the stone temples and pyramids rising from the jungle floor, landscaped by well-manicured emerald green grass and hemmed in on all sides by the mighty, dense, and encroaching jungle. Groups of tourists, like ants, climb and swarm the ruins. It is a United Nations of plump and sweaty fanny-pack toting seniors, clamboring over each other to snap one impossibly gorgeous photo after another. Tour groups trail in obedient single file and a crazy symphony of languages entertwine in a foreign tossed salad of French, German, English, Spanish, Japanese.
At one point we approach the towering Temple of the Cross, rising dozens of meters into the sky.
"MONKEYS!!!!!"
He has just sprinted up the side of this huge pyramid in ten seconds. (See above photo for what an achievement this was.) So much for taking it easy...
"MONKEYS!!!!"
And there they are, a family of monkeys playing in the trees that overhang the top of the temple. Right there, almost close enough to touch. The little baby, hanging by his tail, climbing on his mother, swinging from vine to vine. This is our Gorillas in the Mist moment.
The day at the ruins is an unqualified success.
Totally awesome. In the true sense of the word. Not the 1983 version.
We leave Palenque ad Mexico behind us but not before another ridiculous day of travel. At 8AM we take a mini bus out of Palenque a few hours away to the town of Tenosique. Our bus unceremoniously drops us off on the side of the road and we are rushed by a taxi driver who offers to drive us. I tell him we are taking a bus to the Guatemalan border and need to go to the bus terminal. He ignores this, throws our packs in his trunk, and drives off. After a few minutes, we notice we are heading away from town. I ask him where he is going and he says he is taking us to Guatemala. What?! How much does that cost? "200 pesos." Oh no, Señor. We want the bus. He sulks and pouts but takes us back into town and drops us off at the bus for El Ceibo, the Mexican border town. We board the hot, airless bus and wait. Almost immediately I am surprised by a short little man standing over me. OK, he's a dwarf. Little Person. Whatever. And he has Down Syndrome. He grins and holds his hand out for money and I think he is selling the bus tickets. Heis literally on top of me. I hand him 10 pesos and he leaps acrss the aisle to William who looks at me and does the same. "Is this for the bus tickets?", I ask. He grins and runs off the bus. Everyone else on the bus laughs at us. We just got swindled. How was I supposed to know? I wasn't going to fight with him, for chrissake. He was a midget!
"Guess we just paid the retarded tax," says William.
Two or three hours on the bus to El Ceibo where we get off, walk across the border and step foot for the first time on Guatemalan soil.
The Guatemalan officials happily accept (demand) a 40 peso bribe to let us into their country. We pay up. Another mini-bus takes us the remaining four hours to Santa Elena where we take a quick taxi to the charming and beautiful Isla de la Flores, in the middle of Lago de Peten Itza, in the northern Peten region of Guatemala.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Susan Boil and the Virtues of Mexican Healthcare
We make it to the town of Palenque.
Like everyone else, we are here to see the ruins. Said to be one of the most impressive and important Mayan sights in Meso-America, Palenque is literally in the middle of the jungle. Steamy, hot, humid, misty, full of monkeys and huge insects and plants from the garden center at Home Depot. A real live Rainforest. Just like on the Discovery Channel.
But before we can even entertain a trip to the ruins, we have to deal with William's bizarre Mexican disease.
Heading down from the high altitude of San Cristobal turns out to be the right solution to the soroche problem. Well, for me anyways. I feel good. Headache gone. Aches disappeared. Yay Mexico! But William is running a fever again. He feels awful. We hop off the bus and check in to the first hotel we come to, across the street from the bus terminal. La Posada Los Angeles. It is basically the Ritz-Carlton. There's a ceiling fan and we have a private bathroom (or first ever!) with... wait for it... wait for it... HOT WATER?! Yes! I figure William will either make a full recovery in this luxurious suite, or he will die here. Either way... it's a pretty good deal.
But things aren't looking good for the full recovery option. William´s gums are now bleeding and he has an upsetting boil growing in his mouth. It's gross. And black-ish red. And leaking all kinds of fluids. I affectionately call it Susan Boil, but I guess we're not quite ready to laugh about it yet.
So, just to get everyone up to speed:
We are in a small Mexican town in the jungle of Chiapas, the biggest city is a world away, our collective grasp of the Spanish language is intermediate at best, and we have, perhaps, a few thousand pesos and an emergency stash of 300 U.S. Dollars in cash (all in ones). William's fever is off the charts, he is foaming at the mouth, and I'm making Susan Boyle jokes. Perfect.
We have two choices: sleep or panic. William chooses the former - or, well, okay... by "choose" I mean he more or less passes out. I opt for the latter. Full-on panic.
By morning, Susan Boil has fully moved in. William is in a good deal of pain and bloody hunks are coming out of his mouth. Last night, in an ill-advised act of self-remedy, William hacked at his gums with dental floss, hoping to dislodge whatever foreign object may have taken residence in his mouth. Surprisingly, this only seems to have angered Susan Boil. She's infected now and totally pissed off. At this point, I think we can officially qualify this as an emergencia.
Armed with my First Grade Spanish (and fifteen minutes of internet research: fever is el feibre, antibiotico, penicillo, and, just in case, Madre de Dios, El esta muriendo! (Mother of God, he is dying!), we find a farmacia and plead our case.
Now, a lot has been said about healthcare in recent years. And Mexican pharmacies have become the stuff of legend. We always hear that it is a drug free-for-all down here. Valium with no prescription? Yes, please. Senior Citizens stuffing their pockets with cheapo Viagra and enough Ambien to put down an elephant. Well, it's all true. The main drag of Palenque town has at least a dozen clean, sparkling white pharmacies, inviting you with huge garish signs ("Insulin 2x1!") like some macabre medical happy hour and blaring PA systems mixing happy dance music with periodic announcements like "Your blood pressure is low but our prices are lower!"
It's even free to see a doctor. OK, maybe he isn't a doctor. But he says he is. "Mi amigo esta enfermo," I say.
William, show him your mouth. William opens his mouth to reveal black and bloody Susan Boil and both the doctor and the lady behind the counter visibly gag. So much for bedside manner.
"And he has a fever. Un fiebre, " I say, and hold my hand to my forehead as if a dramatic pantomime will make my Spanish more understandable. The doctor looks at me and asks me how this happened. Well, I don't know, isn't that your job?! He asks me if William has been in a fight. "Did you punch him in the mouth?"
Oh. Jesus Christ.
No, no, no. He has had a fever for two days and this thing in his mouth is a ... um, um, una sopresa? A surprise. He is very sick, I add again. And then I toss out my new internet words - antibiotico? penicillo? Just give me the fucking drugs!!
The doctor goes behind the counter, picks out two packets of pills and hands them over. One is for fever and pain and the other is for the infection. I recognize this one. Cipro. Isn't that what you have to take if you work in the White House mail room?
I turn to William. This one´s good, I say, holding up the Cipro. This kills anthrax.
"Take these three times a day and he should be OK," the doctor says.
Grand total: 130 pesos. Less than $11.00.
And here's the best part. It works. Totally. 24 hours later, Susan Boil's brief career is over. She is gone and so is the pain and the fever.
Now, had we been back home, things would have been a bit different. First of all, even with our good healthcare plans in Massachusetts, we would have never been able to get a doctor's appointment right away. "Sure, we have an opening three weeks from next Thursday." If you are luck y enough to have a good doctor you might be able to get in on short notice, but more likely you will be forced to go to the Emergency Room. Which, with insurance, will run you at least $50 and untold hours of waiting. Plus the cost of the prescriptions. Without insurance? Start looking for a second job.
Or, you know, just book a flight to Mexico. It will probably be cheaper.
(R.I.P. Susan Boil. 2011.)
Like everyone else, we are here to see the ruins. Said to be one of the most impressive and important Mayan sights in Meso-America, Palenque is literally in the middle of the jungle. Steamy, hot, humid, misty, full of monkeys and huge insects and plants from the garden center at Home Depot. A real live Rainforest. Just like on the Discovery Channel.
But before we can even entertain a trip to the ruins, we have to deal with William's bizarre Mexican disease.
Heading down from the high altitude of San Cristobal turns out to be the right solution to the soroche problem. Well, for me anyways. I feel good. Headache gone. Aches disappeared. Yay Mexico! But William is running a fever again. He feels awful. We hop off the bus and check in to the first hotel we come to, across the street from the bus terminal. La Posada Los Angeles. It is basically the Ritz-Carlton. There's a ceiling fan and we have a private bathroom (or first ever!) with... wait for it... wait for it... HOT WATER?! Yes! I figure William will either make a full recovery in this luxurious suite, or he will die here. Either way... it's a pretty good deal.
But things aren't looking good for the full recovery option. William´s gums are now bleeding and he has an upsetting boil growing in his mouth. It's gross. And black-ish red. And leaking all kinds of fluids. I affectionately call it Susan Boil, but I guess we're not quite ready to laugh about it yet.
So, just to get everyone up to speed:
We are in a small Mexican town in the jungle of Chiapas, the biggest city is a world away, our collective grasp of the Spanish language is intermediate at best, and we have, perhaps, a few thousand pesos and an emergency stash of 300 U.S. Dollars in cash (all in ones). William's fever is off the charts, he is foaming at the mouth, and I'm making Susan Boyle jokes. Perfect.
We have two choices: sleep or panic. William chooses the former - or, well, okay... by "choose" I mean he more or less passes out. I opt for the latter. Full-on panic.
By morning, Susan Boil has fully moved in. William is in a good deal of pain and bloody hunks are coming out of his mouth. Last night, in an ill-advised act of self-remedy, William hacked at his gums with dental floss, hoping to dislodge whatever foreign object may have taken residence in his mouth. Surprisingly, this only seems to have angered Susan Boil. She's infected now and totally pissed off. At this point, I think we can officially qualify this as an emergencia.
Armed with my First Grade Spanish (and fifteen minutes of internet research: fever is el feibre, antibiotico, penicillo, and, just in case, Madre de Dios, El esta muriendo! (Mother of God, he is dying!), we find a farmacia and plead our case.
Now, a lot has been said about healthcare in recent years. And Mexican pharmacies have become the stuff of legend. We always hear that it is a drug free-for-all down here. Valium with no prescription? Yes, please. Senior Citizens stuffing their pockets with cheapo Viagra and enough Ambien to put down an elephant. Well, it's all true. The main drag of Palenque town has at least a dozen clean, sparkling white pharmacies, inviting you with huge garish signs ("Insulin 2x1!") like some macabre medical happy hour and blaring PA systems mixing happy dance music with periodic announcements like "Your blood pressure is low but our prices are lower!"
It's even free to see a doctor. OK, maybe he isn't a doctor. But he says he is. "Mi amigo esta enfermo," I say.
William, show him your mouth. William opens his mouth to reveal black and bloody Susan Boil and both the doctor and the lady behind the counter visibly gag. So much for bedside manner.
"And he has a fever. Un fiebre, " I say, and hold my hand to my forehead as if a dramatic pantomime will make my Spanish more understandable. The doctor looks at me and asks me how this happened. Well, I don't know, isn't that your job?! He asks me if William has been in a fight. "Did you punch him in the mouth?"
Oh. Jesus Christ.
No, no, no. He has had a fever for two days and this thing in his mouth is a ... um, um, una sopresa? A surprise. He is very sick, I add again. And then I toss out my new internet words - antibiotico? penicillo? Just give me the fucking drugs!!
The doctor goes behind the counter, picks out two packets of pills and hands them over. One is for fever and pain and the other is for the infection. I recognize this one. Cipro. Isn't that what you have to take if you work in the White House mail room?
I turn to William. This one´s good, I say, holding up the Cipro. This kills anthrax.
"Take these three times a day and he should be OK," the doctor says.
Grand total: 130 pesos. Less than $11.00.
And here's the best part. It works. Totally. 24 hours later, Susan Boil's brief career is over. She is gone and so is the pain and the fever.
Now, had we been back home, things would have been a bit different. First of all, even with our good healthcare plans in Massachusetts, we would have never been able to get a doctor's appointment right away. "Sure, we have an opening three weeks from next Thursday." If you are luck y enough to have a good doctor you might be able to get in on short notice, but more likely you will be forced to go to the Emergency Room. Which, with insurance, will run you at least $50 and untold hours of waiting. Plus the cost of the prescriptions. Without insurance? Start looking for a second job.
Or, you know, just book a flight to Mexico. It will probably be cheaper.
Monday, January 24, 2011
On Backpacking...
Backpacking isn´t glamorous. Sure, it can be unbelievably fun and rewarding, but it is often stressful, dirty, and uncomfortable. Travel is almost always looked upon (in America, anyways) as a bit of a luxury. A way to escape the nine to five hum drum of our day to day lives. To live, well, luxuriously. Or at least better than usual. That´s why we head off to southern beaches in the winter or all-inclusive resorts, leaving all the messy little details of daily living up to someone else.
But why do we go backpacking? It isn´t travel in most people´s definition of the word. In a way, it goes against all standards of good sense. Instinctively, most people want to settle down, to have a home, to feel secure. We need our three meals a day and a roof over our heads - some place safe and comfortable to come home to. Psychologists always say that change is one of the most stressful factors on the human psyche. Packing, moving, new environments... all right up there.
So why do some of us choose to stay on the move? Never in the same place for more than a few days, eschewing comfort and sanitation (at least by our rather posh U.S. standards)? It is wanderlust, it is adventure, it is restlessness. As I write this, I am conscious of sounding "precious." By that I mean, it is not my intention to sound as if I am complaining or focusing on the negative aspects of this invigorating/insane experience. Sure we are obscenely dirty and smelly and sometimes tired and run down and hungry or sick-ish. But we are living. I never want to condescend either to the people we meet or to the places we visit. My way is not right, it is simply the only way I know. This story is, for lack of a better term, a fish out of water tale. Highlighting our differences - be they cultural, culinary, or sanitary - just makes a good story. Sometimes a very funny story. There is nothing more delicious to me than the absurdity of human life, and at no time is it more evident than on an adventure such as this...
It is the cacophony of dog howls and rooster crows outside your window at four in the morning, preventing not only your sleep (who paid $150 pesos for your room) but also the suckers trying to escape the third world two doors down at the modern chain hotel who plunked down $1,500.
It is discovering that it is easier and quicker to buy prescription drugs in Mexico than it is to purchase a ball-point pen.
It is being served four slices of white Wonder bread with your fried rice at a Mexican Chinese restaurant. And hot salsa with your pizza.
It is drinking a sad cup of instant coffee in one of the world´s richest coffee growing regions, while the fresh beans down the street are all being shipped to Starbucks and sold for $4 a cup.
Is this starting to sound like a bad Alanis Morrisette song?
I guess we travel because there is nothing more exhilarating, stimulating, educational, or hilarious.
And like all good things - cooking, sex - it is messy and you have to get your hands dirty to really enjoy yourself.
I love what we´re doing and I´m grateful everyday that we have the opportunity to do it. Just don´t expect me to stop complaining about it....
But why do we go backpacking? It isn´t travel in most people´s definition of the word. In a way, it goes against all standards of good sense. Instinctively, most people want to settle down, to have a home, to feel secure. We need our three meals a day and a roof over our heads - some place safe and comfortable to come home to. Psychologists always say that change is one of the most stressful factors on the human psyche. Packing, moving, new environments... all right up there.
So why do some of us choose to stay on the move? Never in the same place for more than a few days, eschewing comfort and sanitation (at least by our rather posh U.S. standards)? It is wanderlust, it is adventure, it is restlessness. As I write this, I am conscious of sounding "precious." By that I mean, it is not my intention to sound as if I am complaining or focusing on the negative aspects of this invigorating/insane experience. Sure we are obscenely dirty and smelly and sometimes tired and run down and hungry or sick-ish. But we are living. I never want to condescend either to the people we meet or to the places we visit. My way is not right, it is simply the only way I know. This story is, for lack of a better term, a fish out of water tale. Highlighting our differences - be they cultural, culinary, or sanitary - just makes a good story. Sometimes a very funny story. There is nothing more delicious to me than the absurdity of human life, and at no time is it more evident than on an adventure such as this...
It is the cacophony of dog howls and rooster crows outside your window at four in the morning, preventing not only your sleep (who paid $150 pesos for your room) but also the suckers trying to escape the third world two doors down at the modern chain hotel who plunked down $1,500.
It is discovering that it is easier and quicker to buy prescription drugs in Mexico than it is to purchase a ball-point pen.
It is being served four slices of white Wonder bread with your fried rice at a Mexican Chinese restaurant. And hot salsa with your pizza.
It is drinking a sad cup of instant coffee in one of the world´s richest coffee growing regions, while the fresh beans down the street are all being shipped to Starbucks and sold for $4 a cup.
Is this starting to sound like a bad Alanis Morrisette song?
I guess we travel because there is nothing more exhilarating, stimulating, educational, or hilarious.
And like all good things - cooking, sex - it is messy and you have to get your hands dirty to really enjoy yourself.
I love what we´re doing and I´m grateful everyday that we have the opportunity to do it. Just don´t expect me to stop complaining about it....
Coming Down With Soroche Up in San Cristobal
The award (so far) for our most third world/creative mode of transport goes to riding in the back of a packed pick-up truck from Zipolite to Pochutla. The pick-up looked able to fit about six, but we had at least twice that at any given time, not including our two backpacks which are easily as big as two people themselves. We are really earning our backpacker merit badges now.
We wander the crowded main street of Pochutla, wearing shoes for the first time in five days and sweating in our pants and t-shirts, looking for the bus terminal. We are clueless but are rescued by a stranger who approaches us in English - with beards and hiking boots we never have to worry about blending in - and asks where we are going. Turns out he used to live in my old neighborhood in Brooklyn where he worked as a cook in an Italian restaurant. He´s helpful and chatty and he walks us all the way to the terminal and even arranges the tickets for us. He makes the world feel like a bit of a smaller, friendlier place.
Yet another bus ride in the dead of night brings us to the mountain highlands of Chiapas, in the town of San Cristobal de las Casas. We are high up now and you can feel it. It is quite cold at 6:30 when we get off the bus and the air is crisp, clean, and thin - a definite change from the blistering heat of the Pacific shore. Our hostel - Le Gite del Sol - is lovely and cheap and very clean and has a floor. And five thick woolen blankets folded at the end of the bed. An ominous sign, indeed. But we can´t check in to our room until 11AM. So we are turned out onto the streets to wander and eat and snap photos. Fine. This is what we do best. If we were getting paid, this would be our job.
San Cristobal is touristy and for a reason. The streets are of cobblestone and the buildings are every color of the rainbow. The town is like a wonderfully woven quilt. It is also a political hotbed of revolutionary activity. This is where the Zapatista movement began. I love a good story involving gun-toting liberals who are mad as hell and not gonna take it anymore. Power to the people, down with the wealthy land owners and all that. So, you know, this place is right up my alley. I consider buying a hand-sewn Zapatista figurine, but they look upsettingly like terrorist voodoo dolls. And I don´t need the hastle back at US Immigration. Honestly, when you are sporting passport stamps from Mexico, Guatemala, Nicaragua and Colombia, you really need all the help you can get.
After our fourth or fifth artesania crafts market, a few cups of Chiapan coffee with brandy, and a whirl through the fruit and veggie market, we both start to feel pretty run down. Despite our five day chill out in Zipolite, we have been keeping a pretty hectic pace. And being slaves to the Almighty Budget, we don´t always get the best night´s sleep on those grueling overnight buses. So we decide to rest in the late afternoon. We both have headaches and I wake up from a short nap feeling ache-y and irritable (which William will probably tell you is actually not that abnormal). We attempt to get some dinner, but after a few minutes outside we start to crash. Back in the room, William is running a high fever and alternating between sweats and chills. We mentally go back through everything we have eaten in the last two days and can come up with nothing out of the ordinary (well, for us, anyway). We are either both dying slow Mexican deaths or we may have soroche. Altitude Sickness. Without webmd.com to self-diagnose, this is what we come up with. Our guidebook even warns against rapidly ascending to high altitudes. Seeing as how we have just skyrocketed from sea level to 2000 meters (about 6,600 feet) this seems to be a reasonable bet. Except William is really sick. His fever is really off the charts and he is having trouble breathing. We don´t need those wool blankets because William is generating enough heat to warm the entire hostel. I am worried but have no idea what to do. We are both scarfing down fistfulls of aspirin with little affect. I can´t remember anything about home health care from my childhood. Do you feed a fever and starve a cold? Take a hot shower or a cold shower? Drink a fifth of whisky and pray for death?? I don´t know. I went to theatre school. I can act like a nurse, but that´s as far as I go.
By morning, I feel better and William´s fever has mysteriously broken, though we are both still weak and sore. No rest for the weary, though, as we push on to our next destination, Palenque. My un-trained, non-medical opinion (which William calls "my bullshit") is that we need to get back to a lower altitude. Palenque fits the bill - it is in the middle of the jungle. And, healthy or not, we´re headed there. On another damned bus....
We wander the crowded main street of Pochutla, wearing shoes for the first time in five days and sweating in our pants and t-shirts, looking for the bus terminal. We are clueless but are rescued by a stranger who approaches us in English - with beards and hiking boots we never have to worry about blending in - and asks where we are going. Turns out he used to live in my old neighborhood in Brooklyn where he worked as a cook in an Italian restaurant. He´s helpful and chatty and he walks us all the way to the terminal and even arranges the tickets for us. He makes the world feel like a bit of a smaller, friendlier place.
Yet another bus ride in the dead of night brings us to the mountain highlands of Chiapas, in the town of San Cristobal de las Casas. We are high up now and you can feel it. It is quite cold at 6:30 when we get off the bus and the air is crisp, clean, and thin - a definite change from the blistering heat of the Pacific shore. Our hostel - Le Gite del Sol - is lovely and cheap and very clean and has a floor. And five thick woolen blankets folded at the end of the bed. An ominous sign, indeed. But we can´t check in to our room until 11AM. So we are turned out onto the streets to wander and eat and snap photos. Fine. This is what we do best. If we were getting paid, this would be our job.
San Cristobal is touristy and for a reason. The streets are of cobblestone and the buildings are every color of the rainbow. The town is like a wonderfully woven quilt. It is also a political hotbed of revolutionary activity. This is where the Zapatista movement began. I love a good story involving gun-toting liberals who are mad as hell and not gonna take it anymore. Power to the people, down with the wealthy land owners and all that. So, you know, this place is right up my alley. I consider buying a hand-sewn Zapatista figurine, but they look upsettingly like terrorist voodoo dolls. And I don´t need the hastle back at US Immigration. Honestly, when you are sporting passport stamps from Mexico, Guatemala, Nicaragua and Colombia, you really need all the help you can get.
After our fourth or fifth artesania crafts market, a few cups of Chiapan coffee with brandy, and a whirl through the fruit and veggie market, we both start to feel pretty run down. Despite our five day chill out in Zipolite, we have been keeping a pretty hectic pace. And being slaves to the Almighty Budget, we don´t always get the best night´s sleep on those grueling overnight buses. So we decide to rest in the late afternoon. We both have headaches and I wake up from a short nap feeling ache-y and irritable (which William will probably tell you is actually not that abnormal). We attempt to get some dinner, but after a few minutes outside we start to crash. Back in the room, William is running a high fever and alternating between sweats and chills. We mentally go back through everything we have eaten in the last two days and can come up with nothing out of the ordinary (well, for us, anyway). We are either both dying slow Mexican deaths or we may have soroche. Altitude Sickness. Without webmd.com to self-diagnose, this is what we come up with. Our guidebook even warns against rapidly ascending to high altitudes. Seeing as how we have just skyrocketed from sea level to 2000 meters (about 6,600 feet) this seems to be a reasonable bet. Except William is really sick. His fever is really off the charts and he is having trouble breathing. We don´t need those wool blankets because William is generating enough heat to warm the entire hostel. I am worried but have no idea what to do. We are both scarfing down fistfulls of aspirin with little affect. I can´t remember anything about home health care from my childhood. Do you feed a fever and starve a cold? Take a hot shower or a cold shower? Drink a fifth of whisky and pray for death?? I don´t know. I went to theatre school. I can act like a nurse, but that´s as far as I go.
By morning, I feel better and William´s fever has mysteriously broken, though we are both still weak and sore. No rest for the weary, though, as we push on to our next destination, Palenque. My un-trained, non-medical opinion (which William calls "my bullshit") is that we need to get back to a lower altitude. Palenque fits the bill - it is in the middle of the jungle. And, healthy or not, we´re headed there. On another damned bus....
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Zipolite
Zipolite is permanently stoned. A hippie beach paradise populated by the zoned out, dropped out and tuned out. Shirtless yogis weave necklaces, aging cosmic surfers sip Coronas at 9AM, and all manner of European tourists beach themselves in the sun, making an art of doing absolutely nothing. There are more people here with dreadlocks than I have ever seen in one place. Having not been to Jamaica or a Bob Marley concert, that surely isn´t saying much, but trust me on this, there are a lot of dreadlocks here. And nudity. Zipolite has earned some fame for its lassiez-faire attitude to clothing. By which I mean, no one wears any. My long ago proclamation about nudist beaches still holds true here: the people most in need of clothes are the ones least likely to be wearing any. I don´t care who you are, no one wants to be surprised by a 70 year old German vagina when relaxing on the beach.
But despite the nudity, Zipolite is gorgeous. The waves are huge and the ocean frequently violent with a very strong and dangerous current.
Our first night in Zipolite, we decide to rough it a bit and sleep in hammocks. For only 70 pesos each, we secure the right to hang all night on the second floor of a mostly deserted hostel with only the crashing waves as company.
This sounds wonderful and romantic and the stuff of dreams. It isn´t. Hammocks are generally fine for a nap, but a full night´s sleep is pushing it. Neither of us can get comfortable and William has bad dreams all night and I don´t think I actually slept until I finally passed out from sheer exhaustion right after sunrise. Oh well. Mark that one off the list!
We amble into "town" - which is basically one street. One block, actually. A few beachwear shops, an internet cafe, some bars and restaurants, and handful of stores not selling much. It is really hot in the middle of the day. Everything is dusty. No one wears shoes. According to our hypotheosis that everyone is most likely stoned, most businesses keep hilariously irregular hours. One or two will open in the mornings (but not every morning), a few more open around dinner time, a some don´t open for several days. You may enjoy a nice dinner one night at a little sidewalk cafe, only to return the next night to see it completel abandonded as if it never existed.
A photo is worth a thousand words, they say. So let me save a few here:
1. Wake up at 7:30AM
2. Scratch new bug bites.
3. Avoid the toilet.
4. Walk for coffee and a visit to the market to buy beans, eggs, and tortillas.
5. Cook breakfast on the little gas stove.
7. Go to the beach.
8. Stay at the beach.
9. Contemplate getting up from the beach.
10. Put on more sunscreen.
11. Eat lunch in town. Usually a tlayuda for 30 peosos.
12. Nap in the shade of our hut.
13. Maybe write. Probably nap more.
14. Buy some beer or mezcal or rum to watch sunset on the beach.
15. Go to bed.
16. Repeat.
Oh! And I found some real, green broccoli. We took a walk for a few miles to a neighboring town and there it was. Sitting there waiting for me. I paid 8 pesos and took him home and cooked him up. Scrambeled with some eggs and leftover spaghetti. (We´ve had to get pretty creative with our survival cooking here...)
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Fotografias!
It is nigh impossible to get photos uploaded and posted on this blog... so William has put all of our photos up on Facebook. We´ve got over 500 photos.. and counting!
Click on the link below to browse our pics. One day I´ll get some snarky captions to go with each of the photos so we´ll all know what the hell they are, but until then just enjoy them for their artistic value...
Mexico - Volume 1
Mexico - Volume 2
Mexico - Volume 3
Click on the link below to browse our pics. One day I´ll get some snarky captions to go with each of the photos so we´ll all know what the hell they are, but until then just enjoy them for their artistic value...
Mexico - Volume 1
Mexico - Volume 2
Mexico - Volume 3
The Trail of Tears
Our bus to Oaxaca ("Wuh-hock-uh" if you are reading this aloud to your children) is actually a whie Volvo mini-van that seats (well, officially) fourteen. From past experience in Guatemala, these vans actually aren´t a bad way to travel - they´re affordable, quick and direct and much more personable than those huge first class space buses. Sometimes called colectivos or simply "tourist buses", they are predominately ridden by gringos. This bus is costing us $120 pesos each for the six hour drive to the steamy town of Pochutla where we will than have to find onward travel for the last 40 kilometers or so to the beach town of Zipolite, our day´s final destination. Before we depart, as I sit in the little dilapidated store front that serves as a bus terminal, I barely catch this little footnote in our guidebook:
"Pochutla... is 245 km away by the curvy Highway 175... Drivers will usually stop when you need a bathroom break, or want to take photos (or vomit, as some people tend to do on this route)."
Hmmmm. Vomit. What??
As our packs are strapped to the roof´s luggage rack I make one last stop to the, ahem, bathroom. This one is a dank, greasy stall in what looks like a back alley in Baghdad.
With no toilet paper. But of course I don´t discover that little fact until it is too late. To avoid an awfully uncomfortable bus ride, I very briefly consider "recycling" some of the paper in the bin beside the toilet. My standards of sanitation have plummeted in only three short weeks. But even I am too proud to wipe myself with someone else´s poo stained paper, so I tear a sheet out of my notebook, fold it up, and take care of business. This is my life.
I am looking forawrd to relaxing on the beach, catching up on my writing, and otherwise do nothing for a few days. But first we have to get there...
The ride starts innocently enough out of Oaxaca, south through the Valles Centrales. The scenery is dull, more landscape parched by the dry, hot season, lots of dusty little bored villages, the occasional pack mule ambling on its way to market. A bit further outside the city the road begins to deteroriate. Its about 40 percent paved, as if someome started to build a road, got tired along the way, and then just stopped. There are whole 5 kilometer stretches that have been recently paved with black top, smooth and level. And then, without warning, the road dissolves into pot holes, pebbles and sand, sending the van into a series of jolts, wobbles, and un-shockabsorbed thwumps!
William, happily dozing next to me, is blissfully unaware. Then the road starts to twist and turn, winding back and forth, around itself, up and down, over, under, ninety degree hairpin turns. The driver is a maniac. He whips the van around the impossible curves at alarming speeds. Sheer drops of hundreds of feet greet us on each side. No railings here. Just prayers. Cars and vans (and sometimes mules and pedestrians) are on the opposite side of the road coming down from the mountains, driving equally as crazy. Our driver plays an insane game of chicken as he passes a slow moving vehicle in our lane, only to meet another white van now barreling down at us head on on the left side of the road. William is awake by now - only a corpse could sleep though this - and at first we are laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. It is kind of fun. Like a rollercoaster. A rollercoaster about to shoot off the tracks. I am grabbing on to the seat belt strap hanging above my head, white knuckling it the whole way. The turns are dramatic, severe, sharp. We are two wheeling it at times, Dukes of Hazard style, mostly riding on the wrong side of the road until another car approaches and we screech adn whip suddenly back into the right lane, all at 60 miles per hour. Oh, and the driver is on his cell phone. With one hand on the wheel.
The lush, green mountain scenery would be beautiful if we were not flirting with disaster. I try to write in my journal but I can´t keep the words on the page. Words like: absurd, harrowing, kamikazee, death wish, nauseating, stomach churning (by now, William is lying supine in the rear of the van, trying not to loose his breakfast), death-defying, trail of tears... We stop briefly at a roadside rest stop (hut? shack?) where we all tumble out of the van, sweating and laughing, happy (and shocked) to be alive. In hindsight, we should have stayed there. I could have got a job cleaning out the thirld world toilets and perhaps William could have showed them how to make a real cup of coffee. Instead, we re-boarded the death-mobile and continued to tempt fate for a few more hours, stopping periodically on the side of the road to pick up more passengers, cramming in stick-thin locals and their heavy wares until there was no room to move and no air to breathe.
We finally made it out of the mountains and into the lowland tropical forests, dotted by coconut palms, tangles of hanging vines, and deep red hibiscus. It was a glorious sight. Welcome to Pochutla. Our bus mercifully goes no further.
And if that road is the only way back, we plan to live here foreeevvverrrrrrr!
"Pochutla... is 245 km away by the curvy Highway 175... Drivers will usually stop when you need a bathroom break, or want to take photos (or vomit, as some people tend to do on this route)."
Hmmmm. Vomit. What??
As our packs are strapped to the roof´s luggage rack I make one last stop to the, ahem, bathroom. This one is a dank, greasy stall in what looks like a back alley in Baghdad.
I am looking forawrd to relaxing on the beach, catching up on my writing, and otherwise do nothing for a few days. But first we have to get there...
The ride starts innocently enough out of Oaxaca, south through the Valles Centrales. The scenery is dull, more landscape parched by the dry, hot season, lots of dusty little bored villages, the occasional pack mule ambling on its way to market. A bit further outside the city the road begins to deteroriate. Its about 40 percent paved, as if someome started to build a road, got tired along the way, and then just stopped. There are whole 5 kilometer stretches that have been recently paved with black top, smooth and level. And then, without warning, the road dissolves into pot holes, pebbles and sand, sending the van into a series of jolts, wobbles, and un-shockabsorbed thwumps!
William, happily dozing next to me, is blissfully unaware. Then the road starts to twist and turn, winding back and forth, around itself, up and down, over, under, ninety degree hairpin turns. The driver is a maniac. He whips the van around the impossible curves at alarming speeds. Sheer drops of hundreds of feet greet us on each side. No railings here. Just prayers. Cars and vans (and sometimes mules and pedestrians) are on the opposite side of the road coming down from the mountains, driving equally as crazy. Our driver plays an insane game of chicken as he passes a slow moving vehicle in our lane, only to meet another white van now barreling down at us head on on the left side of the road. William is awake by now - only a corpse could sleep though this - and at first we are laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. It is kind of fun. Like a rollercoaster. A rollercoaster about to shoot off the tracks. I am grabbing on to the seat belt strap hanging above my head, white knuckling it the whole way. The turns are dramatic, severe, sharp. We are two wheeling it at times, Dukes of Hazard style, mostly riding on the wrong side of the road until another car approaches and we screech adn whip suddenly back into the right lane, all at 60 miles per hour. Oh, and the driver is on his cell phone. With one hand on the wheel.
The lush, green mountain scenery would be beautiful if we were not flirting with disaster. I try to write in my journal but I can´t keep the words on the page. Words like: absurd, harrowing, kamikazee, death wish, nauseating, stomach churning (by now, William is lying supine in the rear of the van, trying not to loose his breakfast), death-defying, trail of tears... We stop briefly at a roadside rest stop (hut? shack?) where we all tumble out of the van, sweating and laughing, happy (and shocked) to be alive. In hindsight, we should have stayed there. I could have got a job cleaning out the thirld world toilets and perhaps William could have showed them how to make a real cup of coffee. Instead, we re-boarded the death-mobile and continued to tempt fate for a few more hours, stopping periodically on the side of the road to pick up more passengers, cramming in stick-thin locals and their heavy wares until there was no room to move and no air to breathe.
We finally made it out of the mountains and into the lowland tropical forests, dotted by coconut palms, tangles of hanging vines, and deep red hibiscus. It was a glorious sight. Welcome to Pochutla. Our bus mercifully goes no further.
And if that road is the only way back, we plan to live here foreeevvverrrrrrr!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Oaxaca-Waka-Waka
It´s 6AM... we must be in a new Mexican town! With only a few hours of fitful sleep, we arrive in Oaxaca City, capital of Oaxaca State, Southern Mexico. We´ve got one day to take in Oaxaca before we head out towards the Pacific and the promise of cheaper pastures. We check in to the Paulina Youth Hostel - and look, by now, I´m starting to resent the "youth" part. Old people need cheap places to stay, too. Paulina is staffed by a hilariously unfriendly front desk receptionist, hair slicked back like a pelican taking a BP oil bath, wearing a navy blue blazer, and a stern, stoic expression. Like most people who run hostels in Mexico, he is seventeen. Paulina runs a tight ship. We are handed our towels and sheets and told to make up our own beds and then asked for a 50 peso key deposit, which we will forfeit if we misplace our key. We are told that we can have breakfast tomorrow morning but not this morning unless we want to pay extra. Breakfast is only served to those with pre-printed Breakfast Tickets. Paulina, loosen up, girl.
We take a three hour early morning nap and then hit the ground running. I instantly like Oaxaca. It is small and quaint (well, in comparison to where we have been, at least), colorful, artisitc - much more "foreign". In a good way. It has the feel of colonial Antigua, Guatemala with its brightly painted buildings, tree shaded parks, and cobblestone streets.
We spot many more tourists here. It is, quite simply, a beautiful and charming place. Our day starts with a stop at Cafe La Brujula for some authentic organic Oaxaqueña coffee. William splurges for a homemade bagel and cream cheese, which is decidely un-Mexican, but a delicious reminder of home, especially considering our new diet´s heavy emphasis on the corn tortilla. Then there is the requisite visit to the main cathedral - which is never unimpressive. But honestly, once you have seen one, you´ve pretty much seen them all. There´s Plastic Jesus again, bleeding in a plexi-glass coffin.
What makes Oaxaca´s cathedral remarkable - aside from the awe-inspiring vaulted ceilings, the ornate gold altars, the stained glass - are the ridiculous amount of balloons being sold in the public spaces surrounding. Thousands of balloons. Shiny mylars in a myriad of colors and sizes, stars, hearts, piñatas. My Little Ponys. Dora the Explorer. SpongeBob Squarepants. 10 foor long crayola crayons. They´re everywhere. It is completely absurd.
We next take the advice of our Lonely Planet guidebook and visit a local Mezcal merchant. A word or two about Mezcal is necessary at this point as it will feature prominently in the rest of our day here.
Mezcal is a spirit distilled from the agave plant, the same plant from which we get tequila - whose joys we have already extolled here. Long considered tequila´s cheap and barely drinkable cousin - ever seen the bottle with the worm at the bottom? - that´s Mezcal. The best mezcal in Mexico is said to come from Oaxaca state and it should never have a worm in it. And the worm does not make you hallucinate. That´s a tale apparently for gullible gringos. It is sipped straight with slices of orange and a small plate of salt flavored with hot chili.
Enter the Union de Paleñqueros de Oaxaca. A tiny, scrappy little temple to mezcal. The walls are painted a crumbling blue and are lined with shelves of housemade spirits bottled in second-hand glass, plump wooden barrels and various implements of distillation. It looks like an ancient apothecary shop or an alchemist´s. Along the counter to the right sit large glass vats of various mezcal concoctions, stewing with apples, citrus fruits, and various herbs, spices and tree barks.
The girl behind the counter is fifteen. And she is a veritible mezcal expert. We get a mini-crash course. complete with samples. Blanco is clear and unaged. Bitter, woody, very strong. This is the "cheap shit", as the kids say. Reposado is better, a mellow amber tone. Añejo is the best, aged the longest, darker in color, sweet and rich, like brandy or a nice scotch. Then there are the cremas - colorful, milky and infused with fruit. Strawberry is a pretty rose pink. Passion fruit is sort of orange.
While we are getting tipsy on free samples, a local man comes in with a sizeable plastic gasoline canister. The girl fills it with the smoky mezcal while he waits and smiles a big toothy grin at us. "Es muy bueno." Ha. Obviously. I ask him what he is doing with all that booze. He says he sells it by the cup in the zocalo. "Es legal?" I ask. "Claro." As if one couldn´t just enjoy an adult beverage out in public. Oh America, you´re so uptight. He then tell us to get the reposado as it is best for casual drinking. And by that he clearly means getting drunk for cheap. We taste again just to be sure. "Cuanto cuesto por una botella?" "Cinquenta por un litro." 50 pesos?! For a liter? That´s like, less than four dollars. We´ve hit the Mexican lottery. We briefly consider buying a hundred bottles and going into business, but clearer heads prevail and we settle on just one. It is surely the best deal of my adult life.
Flush with the endorphins of a hoarder at a thrift store, we head off to the market for some local color and cheap eats. Our iron stomachs have so far withstood repeated onslaughts of street food and, by this point in our journey, we are brave and undeterred by either sanitation or good sense. Which is probably why William readily volunteers to eat grasshoppers. Fried in oil and chili. It tastes just like it sounds. Huge mounds of the reddish-brown creatures are piled in woven baskets lining the street in front of the marketplace. Bored-looking grannies stand guard, hoping to entice someone to buy.
William gets a sample. He winces. We run. I fare much better a a lunch counter run by a friendly Doña named Bety. That´s my mother´s name, I tell her. She smiles and invites us to sit at her counter. "We are all Bety." She gestures to the other woman cooking with her, three generations of grandmothers, mothers, and daughters. All Betys. I am here to try Oaxaca´s most famous contribution to Mexican cuisine, mole, that rich, complex sauce stewed with spices, vegetables, chiles, and chocolate. Here Bety serves me chile rellenos, green poblano peppers, stuffed with stringy Oaxacan cheese, dipped in egg batter and deep fried. Then coated with mole negro.
Heavenly.
William can still taste grasshopper on his tounge.
Having got a taste earlier, we are anxious to get down to some serious mezcal drinking. We breeze past the brightly painted colonial stone buildings, the endless racks of handsewn Zapotec costumes,
breezy Mexican dresses adorned with needlepoint flowers, florescent striped fabrics, blankets, a dazzling selection of jewelery - grand polished stones, turqoise, amber, opals.
Frida Kahlo´s mother was Oaxacan-born and Frida´s love of her Zapotec heritage was reflected not only in her art but in her personal style as well. Her spirit obviously still lives on in the colorful streets here. My favorite are the cardboard Frida mannequins, dressed in voluminus red ruffled skirts and embroidered peasant blouses, complete with unibrow.
Since our arrival in Mexico we have been so far unsuccessful in our search of the fabled Mexican cantina that serves botanas - free snacks to those customers who pay to drink. I am assuming these are not on offer at the tourist joints we pass, since most Mexicans are doing their level best to squeeze every last peso out of us. We once saw Anthony Bourdain on the Food Network visit Mexico City . He was shown an unnamed bar in the capital that served, in his estimation, the most wonderful food. The catch - there was no menu and the only way to get the food was to drink. Each new round brought a table full of tasty delights - botanas. The more you drink, the more food comes your way. Which is probably a good thing. So here we are at The Casa de Mezcal, on a scrappy side street near the market.
The exterior is painted bright yellow and blue, but inside it is dark and wood paneled with huge dull colored murals covering the walls, most depicting bloody conflict between Aztec warriors and Spanish conquistadores. There are no women inside, except for the waitress. The bar is full of men who look a bit worse for the wear - it is only 4pm after all. Each of them has at least six empty beer bottles lined up in front of them. Either a badge of courage or a Mexican accounting system. In any case, it is a perfect place to drink. We order a couple new varieties of mezcal and two Indios, my new favorite local beer. (A bit surprisingly, Corona is actually quite popular here with locals. It isn´t just the stereotypical beer American college kids drink at their ironic Cinco de Mayo parties). Our mezcals are served with oranges and salt mixed with chili. And then, without asking, we are given a plate of crispy tostadas slathered with stewed chicken. For free! At that moment, I didn´t care that I was a vegetarian. We had found them. The elusive botanas. Every bar should be like this! I scraped the chicken off and ate my soggy tostada with a gusto only someone consuming free food can manage. When you are living on a backpacker budget, free food is the most delicious kind. Now if we could just find a place with free beer...
Later, flushed with more mezcal, we stroll the streets of the crowded zocalo, soaking in the sights as all of Oaxaca city takes to the streets to enjoy the evening breeze. We are surprised by a concert in the ornate baroque iron gazebo in the alameda given by the symphony orchestra of Oaxaca.
They play a John Philip Sousa march. We listen and drink our mezcal, wincing at the taste and rapidly sucking on limes, all in 4/4 time. An old lady next to us tries to strike up a conversation with William. "De donde eres?" But all he can say is "uuuuuhhhgghhhghhh...." while making silly faces and waving his hands over his head. I think this is supposed to mean "No hablo español." The lady giggles and pokes her friend. "Lo siento" I say. "Mi amigo es un payaso loco." "Ahh, ya ya, si si si. Oy. Oy. Siiiiiiii." says William, his head bobbing weaving, arms outstreached, signifying absolutely nothing.
The rest of the night is hazy to say the least. Thanks to the mezcal and to my amigo loco. At some point in the evening we meet two random guys on the street. I´m pretty sure William strikes up a conversation based solely on the fact that one of them is wearing tight bright blue pants. They are Oaxacans (which makes them sound like they are from outer space, but they are not.) They are somewhere around our ages and out for a night on the town. They introduce themselves to us as Jorge and Roosevelt. Roosevelt?? "Like you president," he says with his thick accent. "Ah, George was the name of our first president and Roosevelt was our best. You know, the cherry tree and the WPA. Washington and Franklin Delano." Haha. Whatever. They don´t speak very good English, I don´t speak enough Spanish, and, well, William just grins and flaps.
They take us to an out of the way local bar where several litres of beer are brought to our table along with more mezcal. We drink. Roosevelt sings weepy karaoke in Zapotec. We comb the files for Lady Gaga - I have kindly offered to sing "Alejandro" - because, you know, it´s kind of Mexican. But no luck. More mezcal puts us on our hostel´s rooftop terrace, admiring the stars and the views of the mountains. I know this because there are approximately fifty photos on my camera of the four of us posing suggestively with the mezcal bottle, hanging over the side of the building, standing on chairs, and reinacting Mexico´s Next Top Model.
We realize we never had dinner, so Jorge and Roosevelt take us to have Oaxaca´s favorite street snack - the tlayuada. I still can´t pronounce it. This place is packed with all walks of life - from dusty tourists to taxi drivers to overdressed women in high heels and mini dresses. The tlayuada is a stupidly large tortilla, slathered with refried beans, cheese and salsa, folded over itself and grilled over hot coals. I know that I ate a whole one because, again, there are photos. We eat, we drink, we come close to death. It is two in the morning and we have an early bus to catch. Except our new friends don´t have any money. So we have to pay. They walk us back to our hosel with the promise of getting some money for us, but now Roosevelt doesn´t want to leave because he has taken a liking ot William´s very exotic American Apparel v-neck t-shirt. "I´m not just giving you my shirt."
"For trade." he says, all pathetic.
"What do you have?"
Roosevelt takes off his wooden crucifix. I am quite sure this will result in some ancient Zapotec curse, so I intervene. "No, no. No one is trading anything. Time to go home."
But by this time, William and Roosevelt have switched shirts and Roosevelt is admiring his new look in the mirror. "Por favor, por favor?" Now he is one of those ancient women on the steps of the cathedral begging for pesos.
"No."
"Por favorrrr.?" Sad face. Bottom lip turns out. What was at first a friendly night out has fast turned into a multi-national situation. I wonder briefly if I should call the US Embassy.
Roosevelt will not remove William´s shirt. A drunken scuffle is on its way.
I´m convinced they are going to rob us. I wonder if he has a knife? Maybe we should just give him the damn shirt and cut our losses. I´m in the background screaming "American Apparel dot com! American Apparel dot com! You can order your very own!" Then William digs in my bag and pulls out one of my shirts. Roosevelt´s eyes widen. He likey.
Oh no, not mine! I only have four shirts for this whole trip!
"Por favorrrrr."
Now he´s creeping me out.
"Look, please don´t kill us. I paid for dinner. You have to go now."
William wrestles his shirt off Roosevelt´s back and we very kindly shove them out onto the street. Its 3AM. The alarm is set to go off in 4 hours. I quickly get ready for bed and lock the door. William is, of course, already passed out.
And just before I turn off the lights, I notice he is in bed, clutching all of his t-shirts to his chest, in a mighty death grip.
Who knew. Most tourists get held up for money or credit cards. We almost get hijacked for slim fit cotton.
We take a three hour early morning nap and then hit the ground running. I instantly like Oaxaca. It is small and quaint (well, in comparison to where we have been, at least), colorful, artisitc - much more "foreign". In a good way. It has the feel of colonial Antigua, Guatemala with its brightly painted buildings, tree shaded parks, and cobblestone streets.
We next take the advice of our Lonely Planet guidebook and visit a local Mezcal merchant. A word or two about Mezcal is necessary at this point as it will feature prominently in the rest of our day here.
Mezcal is a spirit distilled from the agave plant, the same plant from which we get tequila - whose joys we have already extolled here. Long considered tequila´s cheap and barely drinkable cousin - ever seen the bottle with the worm at the bottom? - that´s Mezcal. The best mezcal in Mexico is said to come from Oaxaca state and it should never have a worm in it. And the worm does not make you hallucinate. That´s a tale apparently for gullible gringos. It is sipped straight with slices of orange and a small plate of salt flavored with hot chili.
Enter the Union de Paleñqueros de Oaxaca. A tiny, scrappy little temple to mezcal. The walls are painted a crumbling blue and are lined with shelves of housemade spirits bottled in second-hand glass, plump wooden barrels and various implements of distillation. It looks like an ancient apothecary shop or an alchemist´s. Along the counter to the right sit large glass vats of various mezcal concoctions, stewing with apples, citrus fruits, and various herbs, spices and tree barks.
While we are getting tipsy on free samples, a local man comes in with a sizeable plastic gasoline canister. The girl fills it with the smoky mezcal while he waits and smiles a big toothy grin at us. "Es muy bueno." Ha. Obviously. I ask him what he is doing with all that booze. He says he sells it by the cup in the zocalo. "Es legal?" I ask. "Claro." As if one couldn´t just enjoy an adult beverage out in public. Oh America, you´re so uptight. He then tell us to get the reposado as it is best for casual drinking. And by that he clearly means getting drunk for cheap. We taste again just to be sure. "Cuanto cuesto por una botella?" "Cinquenta por un litro." 50 pesos?! For a liter? That´s like, less than four dollars. We´ve hit the Mexican lottery. We briefly consider buying a hundred bottles and going into business, but clearer heads prevail and we settle on just one. It is surely the best deal of my adult life.
Flush with the endorphins of a hoarder at a thrift store, we head off to the market for some local color and cheap eats. Our iron stomachs have so far withstood repeated onslaughts of street food and, by this point in our journey, we are brave and undeterred by either sanitation or good sense. Which is probably why William readily volunteers to eat grasshoppers. Fried in oil and chili. It tastes just like it sounds. Huge mounds of the reddish-brown creatures are piled in woven baskets lining the street in front of the marketplace. Bored-looking grannies stand guard, hoping to entice someone to buy.
William can still taste grasshopper on his tounge.
Having got a taste earlier, we are anxious to get down to some serious mezcal drinking. We breeze past the brightly painted colonial stone buildings, the endless racks of handsewn Zapotec costumes,
Since our arrival in Mexico we have been so far unsuccessful in our search of the fabled Mexican cantina that serves botanas - free snacks to those customers who pay to drink. I am assuming these are not on offer at the tourist joints we pass, since most Mexicans are doing their level best to squeeze every last peso out of us. We once saw Anthony Bourdain on the Food Network visit Mexico City . He was shown an unnamed bar in the capital that served, in his estimation, the most wonderful food. The catch - there was no menu and the only way to get the food was to drink. Each new round brought a table full of tasty delights - botanas. The more you drink, the more food comes your way. Which is probably a good thing. So here we are at The Casa de Mezcal, on a scrappy side street near the market.
Later, flushed with more mezcal, we stroll the streets of the crowded zocalo, soaking in the sights as all of Oaxaca city takes to the streets to enjoy the evening breeze. We are surprised by a concert in the ornate baroque iron gazebo in the alameda given by the symphony orchestra of Oaxaca.
The rest of the night is hazy to say the least. Thanks to the mezcal and to my amigo loco. At some point in the evening we meet two random guys on the street. I´m pretty sure William strikes up a conversation based solely on the fact that one of them is wearing tight bright blue pants. They are Oaxacans (which makes them sound like they are from outer space, but they are not.) They are somewhere around our ages and out for a night on the town. They introduce themselves to us as Jorge and Roosevelt. Roosevelt?? "Like you president," he says with his thick accent. "Ah, George was the name of our first president and Roosevelt was our best. You know, the cherry tree and the WPA. Washington and Franklin Delano." Haha. Whatever. They don´t speak very good English, I don´t speak enough Spanish, and, well, William just grins and flaps.
They take us to an out of the way local bar where several litres of beer are brought to our table along with more mezcal. We drink. Roosevelt sings weepy karaoke in Zapotec. We comb the files for Lady Gaga - I have kindly offered to sing "Alejandro" - because, you know, it´s kind of Mexican. But no luck. More mezcal puts us on our hostel´s rooftop terrace, admiring the stars and the views of the mountains. I know this because there are approximately fifty photos on my camera of the four of us posing suggestively with the mezcal bottle, hanging over the side of the building, standing on chairs, and reinacting Mexico´s Next Top Model.
"For trade." he says, all pathetic.
"What do you have?"
Roosevelt takes off his wooden crucifix. I am quite sure this will result in some ancient Zapotec curse, so I intervene. "No, no. No one is trading anything. Time to go home."
But by this time, William and Roosevelt have switched shirts and Roosevelt is admiring his new look in the mirror. "Por favor, por favor?" Now he is one of those ancient women on the steps of the cathedral begging for pesos.
"No."
"Por favorrrr.?" Sad face. Bottom lip turns out. What was at first a friendly night out has fast turned into a multi-national situation. I wonder briefly if I should call the US Embassy.
Roosevelt will not remove William´s shirt. A drunken scuffle is on its way.
I´m convinced they are going to rob us. I wonder if he has a knife? Maybe we should just give him the damn shirt and cut our losses. I´m in the background screaming "American Apparel dot com! American Apparel dot com! You can order your very own!" Then William digs in my bag and pulls out one of my shirts. Roosevelt´s eyes widen. He likey.
Oh no, not mine! I only have four shirts for this whole trip!
"Por favorrrrr."
Now he´s creeping me out.
"Look, please don´t kill us. I paid for dinner. You have to go now."
William wrestles his shirt off Roosevelt´s back and we very kindly shove them out onto the street. Its 3AM. The alarm is set to go off in 4 hours. I quickly get ready for bed and lock the door. William is, of course, already passed out.
And just before I turn off the lights, I notice he is in bed, clutching all of his t-shirts to his chest, in a mighty death grip.
Who knew. Most tourists get held up for money or credit cards. We almost get hijacked for slim fit cotton.
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