tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30326388151028453392024-03-14T01:50:26.544-07:00Mer's Travel BlogHere and there and this and that....Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-25937052488008432882012-12-24T15:56:00.001-08:002012-12-24T15:56:45.891-08:00A Post-Baktun Update from GauteArriving<br />
It's been a helluva first week marked by the usual shenanigans with the usual suspects. Christel and Catherine met me at the Guate airport and found me bleary eyed and exhausted and still slightly high on the Ambien I took that didn't really work (I'm getting too old for red-eyes). Despite the early hour Christel opened and shoved a cold beer in my hand (it's kind of a tradition and the private shuttle driver didn't mind....welcome to Guate). We preceded to gossip with me somewhat babbling incoherently as the beer mixed with the traces of Ambien and exhaustion. Christel and Catherine, not ones to miss an opportunity to heckle the hell outta me, commenced doing so with an inordinate skill and familiarity. We laughed. We always laugh.<br />
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I am for the third year staying with Christel and John (aka Captain Chaos, a nickname earned 1000 times over) who earlier this year moved to a large 18th century colonial style house built on a rambling coffee <em>finca</em> that is also home to two museums, a school, and houses for the workers. It's course and gorgeous, surrounded by verdant meticulously maintained gardens and fields of coffee plants, coffee drying fields and compost pits and rutted dirt roads. The <em>finca</em> is in Jocotenango, a small town about a ten minute drive north of Antigua. A stones throw up the street are the whore houses that serve folks from Antigua. At night, guard dogs and armed men patrol the finca which is surrounded by high walls and locked gates. Christel handed me keys and the numbers of trusted taxi drivers who know the <em>finca.</em> And then she explained that I should not walk around the <em>finca </em>at night or I will be shot by a guard or attacked by a dog. Roger that, Christel.<br />
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Cafe No Se<br />
After some half-assed napping we headed to Hector's for our traditional steak sandwich dinner and then onto Cafe No Se where I was swamped with hugs and kisses after which I parked myself on an uncomfortable bar stool and preceded to drink a few too many Gallos. Mike soon planted his surly ass next to me and we talked about everything as if only a day had passed since we last did so. The next day I slept for a very long time. <br />
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Baktun<br />
Despite the ridiculous gringo hype and ignorance regarding the Mayan calendar, and the ridiculous talk of the end of the world, the Baktun is simply the end of one 5,000 year calendar cycle and the beginning of another. I joined the gang at Panza Verde where we sat with Bruce, the owner and patriarch, and a smattering of other characters and friends and ate great food and drank excellent wine and welcomed the new era without incident. A night cap at No Se and all is well (enough) in the land of the Maya and beyond. Although there was that one incident earlier in the day on the Arch Street where a large rickety wooden sign welcoming the new era came crashing down in the uncharacteristically windy day, just missing me as I lunged out of the way, catching my breath while I thanked the man who yelled "<em>cuidado! cuidado</em>!" at me, alerting me to the peril. <br />
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Sickness<br />
Everyone here has been kicked in the ass by a flu/cold, and after sleep deprivation, Baktun, kissing and hugging 500 friends 5000 times, I was down for the count. Spent the last two days in my PJs, lounging at the <em>finca</em>, reading, watching movies and appreciating the hell out of Christel and John who have fed and comforted me more than feels deserving. Felt a little better tonight and headed into Antigua for a walk through the park, some shopping, and dinner. Home again feeling wiped and hoping for a full rebound tomorrow for the big Christmas dinner and all nighter with the folks I call family in these parts. Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-976939843923462422011-12-26T12:57:00.000-08:002011-12-26T12:57:07.883-08:00Captain Mer's Guate Up-DateThe truth is, it's often hard for me to write about things when I am in Antigua. There are the things I dare not write, to protect myself and all the others who are guilty. And then there are the things that are just too near, too dear to write about as any attempt at linguistic capture would be so grossly inept as to embarrass me, if only in front of myself. But here's a little update on the mundane, for you my sweet family, who wants to hear from me. <br />
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I am staying with Christel in her lovely house next to the convent and the man with 40 poodles, although I suspect the number may have increased since last year. Christel is painting like a mad-woman as she has a show opening in December at Panza Verde, possibly the best restaurant in Antigua. Panza Verde is owned by a grouchy expat named Bruce, a retired Wall Street mogul. Bruce has made a lovely gallery on the second floor of Panza where he showcases local artists. I just went to an opening a few days ago and it was super - good art, decent wine, a cast of local and expat characters, the usual. And last night I went to my second opening, for Mario, another local talent. This town is full of talented artists. <br />
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Last night we had our Christmas party and it was as brilliant as always. Madeline and Shaun hosted and we drank and ate till dawn, as is the tradition. Many of the Guatemalans came this year, after spending the day with their families. Usually for Christmas it's just the expats and travelers, and then New Years it's everyone. Ana, from Amsterdam, and Ivy and Tess Mix and their father, from NYC, all arrived at 10pm, in time to have a couple drinks before we all poured out into the cobblestone street to watch the City explode with fireworks at midnight. It's like nothing I have ever heard or seen before, Guatemala on Christmas and New Years, every single street is littered with fircrackers and bottle rockets and the churches and city set off rockets using simple mortar launchers. It sounds like war. But it's not. It's wild. It's nuts. It's beautiful. <br />
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And then we sang. Ted and Eric played guitar, Mike and Brenden with their confident baritones, the party growing quiet as Eric sang Hallelujah. Christel, Ana and I ended the "night" by sitting on the terrace and watching the sun rise through the highland mist, illuminating patches of forest on the mountains - and then a huge rainbow shot up and we took it as a portent of good things to come in 2012. We hugged and kissed and then crashed for half the day. <br />
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And now we have a week to rest until the New Years where our little tradition is a long dinner and then to Cafe No Se just before midnight.<br />
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On Tuesday I am heading to Guatemala City with a crew of folks to see the art of a good friend, Juan Pablo Canale. He has an exhibit in the <em>Palacio Nacional de la Cultura</em>, which is a pretty big deal. It's in Zone 1 of the City, the safest part of that crazy violent City. The City scares me and I have heretofore avoided it except to catch a plane or a bus. Folks here, both Guatemalans and expats, get desensitized. They live here, and the extreme violence is just the norm and years of nothing happening to them personally brings them a confidence I do not share. Alejandro, Astrid's boyfriend and now a dear friend of mine, will take us. He grew up in the insanity of Guatemala City and I trust him the most to get us there and back safely. In Antigua, when Alejandro walks us here and there at night, he carries his gun, chambers a round when we step outside, removes it when we get to the restaurant or bar. He is hyper vigilant, smart, grounded. I trust him completely. <br />
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More soon. Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-42039951857117604722011-12-08T15:03:00.000-08:002011-12-08T15:44:28.875-08:00Panga Fishing the Pacific off Costa Rica<em>I think it's a fairly bright line, the one that separates those who fish and those who do not, those who think it boring, dirty, and cruel. I am, decidedly, one who fishes. </em><br />
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Fishing in a seven meter panga in the tropics is hot, sweaty, wet, bloody, fish-gutty, expensive, unstable, uncomfortable, slightly risky, kidney-pounding...and it's one of my favorite things to do in the whole wide world. Keep your grand boats you millionaires and billionaires, I am happiest in a small boat with the local fisherman, and so it was today. Me and two Ticos who didn't speak a lick of English. But with my bad Spanish and some charades, we got on very well. <br />
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We pushed off the beach at 7am and headed south off Playa Negro where the first mate tossed the trolling rapellas over the gunwale, six rods total in the water. Within minutes there was a fish on, a rooster fish, my first ever. They give a couple quick hard fights and then tire. I landed five in the first 40 minutes and so we started off with a bang. Then it was calm for a bit before, at a slower pace, I landed five more roosters. We kept two, they are good for ceviche. We also caught two needle fish which are neither sport fish or good to eat. I nodded an apology as they swam off to freedom. <br />
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We saw bait balls, prey fish jumping and darting, breaching the water trying to avoid being eaten by something larger below the surface. Then we saw the fins, bonito! Incredible predators from the tuna family, these fish are great athletes and fun to catch, but not today. We chased the frenzies but nothing bit our lures. <br />
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Next, we headed offshore about ten miles to try for grouper in deeper waters. On our way we saw dolphins and sea turtles and I smiled till hurt. Just when the captain cut the motor the first mate swooped something up from the water and grabbed my hand and gave me a baby sea turtle. So damn cute, and it was alive! Maybe a day or two old. Most baby turtles don't reach maturity, most are snacks and meals for other sea creatures. I wished the little guy luck and gently slipped him back into the sea. <br />
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The first mate baited two boat rods with 50# test, five hooks each, squid, and a string of heavy weights. We paid out the line to the bottom and did a drift run, bouncing our bait along the bottom, concentrating, thumb on the line, feeling for the nibble, and then setting the hook. My first haul up was brutal. I fancy myself a strong woman, but I had hooked three croaker fish and hauling 175 feet of heavily weighted line with three 15-20 inch fish on, well, it took me about 10-15 minutes to land those fish. And then we did it again. And again and again. After a couple of hours of this I was exhausted. I landed seven croakers and the first mate landed none. I had a good day.<br />
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We reeled in our final drift and threw out the trolling lures for the long ride home. No more hits, but it didn't matter. I sat and watched the sea, felt the boat working, sea spray in my face, grinning, thinking of nothing and everything. I stood up next to the captain at the wheel, quietly watching the waves, the perfect line that is a sea horizon on a calm day..."<em>mi amor es el mar</em>" I said without looking over. "<em>Yo tambien</em>," he said, nodding and smiling. And then we were silent for a good long time.Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-15362902500285521292011-12-03T10:11:00.000-08:002011-12-03T10:20:52.328-08:00"I don't want you reeking up the car!"I am in Costa Rica once again, staying with my dear friend Mary and her family. I am still in my PJs, farting around on the internet, looking for things to do for the week I am here. This afternoon Mary and I and her son Franco are headed to the Pacific Coast for a couple of days to sit in the sun, read, watch the waves. I just asked Mary what time I should be packed and ready to leave. Somehow that prompted the following conversation:<br />
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Mary: "Mer, do you need to take a shower?"<br />
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Mer: "No, I'll just go gross since we are going to the beach."<br />
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Mary: "What?! You haven't showered since leaving Oakland?"<br />
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Mer: "Nope. But we will be at the beach so I don't need to shower."<br />
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Mary: "Are you kidding me?!" (motioning me to follow her into the bathroom) "That's gross! Get in the shower! I don't want you reeking up the car!"<br />
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Mer: "I don't stink (Mer smells armpit). Seriously, I will shower tonight after the beach."<br />
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Mary: (Pointing at the shower, determined mother expression, using a stearn voice) "Marie, get in the shower."<br />
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Mer: (laughing) "Are you trying to mother-force me into taking a shower?"<br />
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Mary: (throwing hands up in the air) "Suite yourself. You're just like my dad! But here in Costa Rica we take at least one shower a day. At LEAST!" (laughing down the stairs away from me as I shouted after her, promising to wash my face and brush my teeth!).<br />
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Apparently, I am a stubborn ol' dirty bachelor. And I am not going to take a shower before we go to the beach. And it's been a very long time since I was chastised about my personal hygiene. <br />
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True story. I am so easily amused by the mundane.<br />
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Hilarious.Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-43681645534872518552011-10-10T09:08:00.000-07:002011-10-10T09:08:06.951-07:00Confessions of a Linguistic DufusI'm pretty good with the English language, unless you want me to spell, then I crash and burn. But I am an ok writer, an engaging conversationalist (so I'm told), and I am quick on my feet such that I have made a living using said language skills to help others. Simply put, I get paid to talk (and listen). But when it comes to other languages I am bewildered, lost, stunted, extremely slow on the uptake. <br />
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Five years ago I headed south to Guatemala to study Spanish and was overwhelmed, although I have slowly learned enough to coarsely navigate my way in Mexico and Central America. And with Spanish, things are familiar. I grew up in Southern, Ca, where Spanish and Latino culture are ubiquitous and the letter patterns and the sing-song cadence of the language are familiar. But the languages of northern Europe? They are alien to me in a whole new profoundly disorienting way. <br />
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<strong>Danish</strong><br />
Although I was completely lost with Danish I had my dear friend Astrid as my interpreter and she taught me a couple of words. First was "tak" which is pronounced "talk" without the "l" and it means "thank you." Thank you is something one wants to learn to say wherever they are. I also learned "hej" which is pronounced exactly like "hi" and means, well, hi. But the funnest part was saying goodbye in Danish which is hej hej, or hi hi, which in English sounds ridiculous. But I did engage folks, with a smile, a hi, a tak, and a hi-hi (my English translation) which made me laugh on the inside. <br />
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<strong>Dutch</strong><br />
Having spent quite a bit of time around my Dutch friends Ana and Christel (in Guatemala) I thought Dutch might be remotely familiar when I landed in Amsterdam. Yeah, no. I spent a good 30 minutes in the airport staring at the train map trying to figure out where I was and what train I needed to catch. I finally made it to Central Amsterdam and decided, to make things easier, to take a cab to Ana's apartment instead of riding the trolley (my friend Ana would have picked me up but she was on a work concall with Australia). <br />
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Ana lives on Bilderijkkade Street and a cabbie with a thick Greek accent dropped me at the wrong address and was gone before I realized it - with a three euro tip, bastard. So it was that just before midnight I found myself alone on the street with no idea where I was. The street was quiet. No cabs. No people. I started wandering, dragging my suitcase behind me, wondering if I was in a "bad" neighborhood, feeling like a giant dork, thinking about whipping out my US cell phone and making a $15 a minute phone call to Ana to confess my lameness (and curse the cabbie). Then I saw some friendly folks walk out of an apartment building, they gave me directions and I was soon ringing Ana's bell. The street names have so many letters that even the cabbies get confused. Thank the cosmos everyone under 50 speaks English. <br />
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Our first dinner together in Amsterdam Ana and I went to a Spanish tapas restaurant and I was excited at the prospect of understanding some of the Spanish on the menu. But my heart sank when, after reviewing the fare, Ana explained that in Spain's Spanish a "tortilla" is actually an egg, a frittata kind of thing. What the hell? So Ana had to help me with the ordering of the tapas so I didn't end up ordering a pig head or something. Esta bien. And in my book, a tortilla is still a round, ground corn thingy, not an egg. <br />
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<strong>French</strong><br />
I have experienced this before arriving in France, the urge to respond with Spanish whenever anyone speaks to me in a language other than English - even if it's, like, German or something, I'll belt out a "yo no comprendo" (which ain't even proper Spanish). I reckon this is so because the only language I have attempted to study, other than English, is Spanish. In my simple mind any language foreign to me means I speak-a-the-Spanish. This has proved embarrassing for me more than once in my life. <br />
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When I landed in Paris, I was inclined to say "gracias" in response to the French folks and on several occasions (ok, many occasions) that impulse was made manifest. Gracias, I, the English speaker, said to the French waiter who just set down a glass of champagne in front of me. Seriously Mer? I mean I know "merci," but for the love of all that's holy I could not get that word all centered in my linguistic response groove until about day three in Paris. And when at last I finally stopped myself from this ridiculousness I would then just stand there, dumbfounded, trying to mine from my brain "merci" which was apparently still buried under a pile of graciases. <br />
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If you had been walking down Rue de Rossier a few days ago you might have seen me, walking slowly, eyes down, focused, repeating over and over again - merci, merci, merci, merci - as I tried to create some new linguistic neuronal pathways appropriate for the country I was currently wandering through. It worked. I started smiling and saying merci to everyone. That, and pardon. I also learned to say "excusez-moi, no Française" as I did not want to be the ugly American who presumes folks speak English in France. Most of them do not. In response, the French were damn nice to me. <br />
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<strong>Exits</strong><br />
Another interesting language thing I noticed on my travels is the differences in exit signs. In London they simply say "Way Out" with an arrow pointing to, I rightly assumed, the way out. In Denmark, Holland, and France the emergency exit signs are green with a stocky silhouette guy running...it strikes me more as a "get the fuck out is this way" thing - follow the running man! And in Paris I finally deduced that "sortie" means "exit." But to me it had always meant "armed attack" and so at first I thought the signs meant "armed attack this way" and I was inclined to hastily go in the opposite direction. <br />
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But I managed. To not offend anyone. Or order a pig head for dinner. Merci.Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-28812195219040376852011-09-29T09:05:00.000-07:002011-09-29T17:26:36.133-07:00Sweet Vincent, Who Still Brings Tears to my EyesIt's been happening for more than two decades, the tearing up when seeing a favorite painting in person, a painting I have admired in art books or college course slide shows. But Van Gogh seduced me at a young age, in my first art history class where we blazed through the <span class="st">Renaissance</span> to mid-20th century modern all in one semester. <br />
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It was a combination of things that made him one of my favorites, but it started with a few specific paintings, before I knew anything about him. It started with color. And maybe at some level, because of his style and subjects, I intuited his humanity, his compassion and respect for the poor, the hard working peasants. But as I remember it, it was first the colors. Night Cafe in Arles, The Bedroom, Stary Night, Sunflowers. It's an aesthetic that I now recognize, all those bright colors, the impressionistic style, sometimes cartooned a bit but always complex in some inexplicable way. It is a thread that runs through some of my favorites - Conrad Felixmüller's The Death of the Poet Walter Rheiner; Matisse's Red Room; David Hockney's Laurel Canyon. They've all moved me in a way that feels related. <br />
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It was at the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena, CA, that I saw my first Van Gogh, the first time I was moved to tears. It was almost 30 years ago and I remember it vividly, Portrait of a Peasant, with paint so thick and textured it reminded me of peanut brittle, like you could break off a piece and take a bite. I remember standing there a long while, feeling awed, happy, sad, lucky, appreciative. And then there was Starry Night at the NY Met. It was 1989, my first trip to NYC, my first trip anywhere urbane outside of the LA art scene. And I was on a mission to see Starry Night. Again I found myself transfixed, humbled, appreciative standing squarely in front of the canvas, thinking of little, feeling it instead. <br />
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And a few days ago it happened again, Sunflowers in the National Gallery in London. I stood there grinning, holding the tears back, feeling lucky and alive. <br />
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And today, after almost 30 years since that first art history class, that first exposure to Van Gogh, I spent the afternoon in his homeland Museum, a whole building dedicated to his art, his influences, his story and lagacy. And again I teared up, Portrait of the Artist (1887-88, Paris) was the first. The painting stopped me in my tracks. And then The Bedroom, one of my all time favorites - the honest simplicity of the subject, a few mundane possessions all neatly in their place, the simple comforts of a bed, a chair, a coat, art on the walls - there is no excess, but the bright colors make it all cheery and comforting. At least to me.Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-78733007468020184732011-09-28T15:55:00.000-07:002011-09-28T16:01:18.151-07:00Coldcocked by Jet Lag<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Considering most folks on this planet spend their days fetching water and looking for firewood to cook a modest meal, I sometimes feel guilty for kvetching about the problems that come from privilege. But hey, they're still problems. And mine is jet lag.</span> <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have travelled quite a bit across the USA, taken red-eyes to NYC, Boston, DC, Miami. I have travelled south, red-eyes to Mexico, Guatemala, Costa Rica, all of which have precipitated some fatigue and/or sleep weirdness. But never anything that a few beers with friends or a plate of ceviche and a nap couldn't cure. During all these trips I never travelled across more than three time zones. And when I am in NYC, I always stay up late with friends so it's less of an issue. But a direct flight from the US west coast to Europe has absolutely kicked my ass and I did not see it coming.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I now think being in three different countries in the first five days was a bad plan. And my Monday morning quarter-backing has me swearing I will never again take a direct 13 hour flight from San Francisco to London, or anywhere else on this globe, unless it's a damn emergency. I will be stopping in NYC next time - dinner and drinks with friends and a good night's sleep before hopping the pond. Even if it costs more time and money. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Since landing in London a week ago I have been sick, nauseous about 80% of my waking hours. And several times I have thought I was going to puke. And I am not usually a puker. I don't get seasick. I don't puke from booze (tequila has been a rare exception). Even when I am sick in the gut, I don't usually puke. But I found myself sweating and trying to think happy thoughts on the London underground while I also considered where to aim if nature demanded that I purge. And it happened again today while walking towards the Van Gogh Museum - the sweats, the "where could I most inconspicuously barf should I have to" thoughts, I turned back towards Ana's apartment where I arrived with my stomach intact. So instead of contemplating the work of one of my favorite artists, I spent the day nibbling on crackers and reading, waiting for it all to pass, so to speak. Van Gogh would have to wait until tomorrow. By evening I was feeling better and Ana and I had a nice dinner (sans alcohol) at a sidewalk restaurant. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All this was starting to get me a bit concerned, thinking there was something really wrong with me, that maybe I have a bug that needs some antibiotics. I decided to google "jet lag" to see if that was possibly a factor. Um, yeah Mer, you pretty much got a bad case of the jet lag. My research revealed that all my symptoms could be attributed to the 'lag. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've never thought much about jet lag, figured it was solely a sleep thing that I would quickly recover from with a couple of naps. Not so much. Jet lag is a real physiological disorder that can disorient and really fuck with a travelers body. And the fact that my first five days were non-stop running about, I didn't give myself a chance to recover from my 13 hour flight across eight timezones. And speaking of timezones, the experts say it takes about a day to recover for each timezone crossed. That would be eight days for me. I am on day seven. And I have a good feeling about tomorrow, day eight. It's Ana's birthday, Van Gogh is waiting, the weather is good, and I have taken two days to slow down and chill out. I think tomorrow peace will be declared, between my body and Greenwich meantime, plus one. I hope. </span>Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-90407956291411372032011-09-26T06:51:00.000-07:002011-09-26T06:51:49.367-07:00A Dispatch from the Land of Natural Blondes<em>For my family, who all, god bless them, want to know some of the details of my adventures</em>. <br />
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It has been a whirlwind so far and here's the quick and dirty. Landed in London and was by all measures jet lagged out of my mind. Slept little on the plane even with a sleeping pill...what with my large self in one of those Smurf-sized seats they put in airplanes for the non-richies....next to a Nigerian woman with a very different sense of personal space. Thirteen hours in coach is a unique kind of torture for those of us lucky enough to fly about the world yet silly enough to complain about it. <br />
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My sweet and generous friend Maria took the hour long train ride from London and met me at Heathrow and guided me back to London, to her apartment in fact where she put me up for two days. Maria is a gorgeous woman whose father is Guatemalan and whose mother is British. She grew up mostly in France but has a British accent which shocked me when I first heard it come out of her mouth in Guatemala. We chatted a bit and then I crashed and wrestled jeglag in the wee hours. Dear Maria took the next day off from work and we walked and walked all around central London. I was struck by how neat and orderly and huge the place is. The underground is immaculate, the streets are clean, the infrastructure is healthy, and the architecture gorgeous. <br />
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We spent some time in The National Gallery looking at some of my favorite paintings that I have only ever seen in books and art classes, including Van Gogh's Sunflowers and Chair. We sipped lemonade on the south bank of the Thames before heading to Camden Town to meet our favorite booze peddler (Ilegal Mezcal, of course) and Cafe No Se friend, Steve. Also met another member (Jen) of the Pamplona Pussy Posse (PPP), a self-named group of women who have been going to San Fermin for the running of the bulls for the last 20-30 years. We all met in a pub and drank. It's what you do on a Friday night in London. So I learned. And so we got pissed. <br />
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The next day I flew via Copenhagen to Aarhus, a City in northern Denmark where Astrid met me at the gate waving a small Danish flag. We drove to her father's house in the small town by the sea where she grew up, and behind her fathers's sweet little house we sat on the deck drinking Danish beer and talking till 3:30am. Back to Aarhus the next day for a fabulous time in Aros, the art museum, and some ambling through the narrow cobblestone streets. Then a dinner to rival any fancy SF restaurant. Creamed spinach with smoked salmon, beef so tender it melted in my mouth, all served in a quint old house that had been made into a restaurant. <br />
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Today we visited an 1864 Danish frigate preserved in Astrid's town. Of course a tour of a ship makes me happy. A stop at the glass museum and then we were off to the train station. I am headed to Copenhagen to catch a plane to Amsterdam where I will stay for a few days with my friend Annemiek before heading to Paris. It is Ana's birthday the 29th so I have lucked into helping her celebrate.<br />
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Now for the really down and dirty. I have been sick since I landed, nausea and severe diarrhea. Maria and Astrid say it could be jetlag but it has gone on for days now. I am just bucking up, enjoying myself despite the infirmity...and it is a relief to be staying with dear friends that I know from Guatemala, a place where everyone talks about poop as everyone gets the shits! I think it's the law. <br />
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More soon.Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-87626930783418053902010-12-17T17:14:00.000-08:002010-12-17T17:15:44.160-08:00Quick Update from the Land of Tortillas and Quetzales - Guatemala<strong>The Little Picture - My Accommodations</strong> <br />
I am staying with my friends John and Christel. John is an expat from NYC, a brilliant quirky guy who landed in Antigua, Guatemala years ago with $50 in his pocket. Since then he has opened the best dive bar in the world, Cafe No Se, as well as a cafe, Pina, and a book store, Dyslexia. He has also moved from smuggling mezcal down from Oaxaca, Mexico in jerry cans in pick-up trucks dressed as a priest to being the proprietor of the ever expanding legitimate booze label, Ilegal Mezcal. And he, with my good friend Mike, edits and publishes La Cuadra, an irreverent local magazine with an international readership online. John is a kind and smart guy. Christel is also a smarty-pants, an anthropologist from Holland who came to Guatemala and in partnership with Ana built a school, in Ciudad Vieja, which serves the slum children in that modest town outside Antigua. These are kids who would have had no options if it weren't for Ninos de Guatemala and the school the organization built. Christel is a kind and smart woman. <br />
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John and Christel recently moved into what Mike called "the nicest house in Antigua." I dare say he just might be right and when Christel insisted I stay with her this year I didn't realize how lucky I was. This place is gorgeous and roomy with a rooftop terrace and a stunning view of the volcanoes Agua and Fuego. Our neighbors include a convent and a man with 17-40 (reports vary) poodles whose chorus is more amusing than annoying. It is here that we will have the big Christmas eve party (my fourth in Antigua) with all the oddball expats and Guatemalans that make up my strange little family away from home. <br />
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My time here so far has been made up of the usual and unusual shenanigans....I will share some of the sharable. Of course, the first night I stayed up too late and drank too much, amped on adrenaline from being back among my friends. I am not usually prone to being sick but I got a sore throat and the usual diarrhea that comes whenever I land in this town. I have laughed more than is probably physically advised and have had a smattering of dramas and escapades that I dare not share here...just know my life continues to be odd and filled with love and friendship. <br />
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<strong>The Bigger Picture - Guatemala</strong><br />
The situation in Guatemala continues to be challenging for those who call it home. Guatemala was recently ranked the most dangerous country not at war and it has the highest per capita concentration of guns outside the middle east. Guatemalan men I know carry guns even in Antigua and I understand and am sympathetic...and frankly, it is these men that I often ask to walk me home at night. One new friend, A-, is a manager at a factory near Guatemala City where they make clothes for Gap and Banana Republic. A- invited me to visit the factory with him but warned that we have to go through "the red zone," the few dangerous blocks where he lays his gun in his lap ready to respond if attacked. He assured me that once inside the factory I would be safe as it is heavily guarded. I have not decided whether or not to visit the factory. A- and I also have a date to go to the shooting range but are waiting for his practice rounds to be delivered. <br />
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Overall the violence in Guatemala continues to increase as the drug cartel turf wars spill into the country from Columbia and Mexico. It is reported that these cartels now dominate in Guatemala, even over the Guatemalan gangs. Because Guatemala has an extremely high impunity rate and has been called "a murderer's paradise" this violence has gone unchecked. The "justice" and "security" institutions are corrupt, dysfunctional, and often complicit in the crimes they are supposed to be mitigating. These conditions make Guatemala a principle place for trafficking and warehousing drugs headed north and money headed south. When Guatemalan police have made seizures (they are rare and only a pittance of the overall trafficking) the drugs and money are often not accounted for and politicians and officials have been accused of but rarely indicted for corruption. These conditions and the shitty economy world wide has resulted in a quieter Antigua this year. There are less tourists about town with fewer folks in restaurants and walking through the park. <br />
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All this also means that the poorest of the poor and the racial majority, the indigenous Maya, continue to live in poverty and in an environment of racism and terror. Approximately 60% of Guatemalans live in poverty, most of them indigenous. The tenants of the 1996 Peace Accords continue to be ignored and not implemented and the oligarchy of Guatemalans who maintain control of most of the country's resources appear to respond to the situation only by hiring private security forces and putting up more barbed wire. One of the fastest growing industries is private security businesses with a growing number of personnel that already out rank the police force more than four to one. Gangs in Guatemala City continue to recruit the young and desperate who often do the bidding of the drug cartels. The estimates of Guatemalan gangs vary from 14,000 to 165,000, so basically, no one knows. The situation is expected to continue to deteriorate as long as corruption and the resulting impunity rates (97-99%) and poverty continue to go unaddressed. <br />
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Sorry for the bummer report but Guatemala is a tough country with intractable problems. Still, life goes on and fresh tortillas are made and children smile and Antigua continues to be a bubble of relative peace and prosperity with it's nice restaurants and colonial charm. My friends continue to do the good they can and laugh and celebrate life. Meanwhile back in the states my own fellow US Americans continue to elect selfish idiots and foment racism and homophobia. So I reckon I will continue to count my blessings, eat some tacos at No Se, enjoy the incessant laughter that marks my days here, and hold a little hope for both Guatemala and my own country. <br />
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Miss my friends and family and my sweet old dog and am also glad to have a loving crew of smart funny folks down here with whom to celebrate life and get perspective.Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-8624263645323410092010-12-05T21:32:00.000-08:002010-12-05T22:03:32.608-08:00Merskiana Jones and the Temple de la Jungla - Another Quick Blast from Costa Rica<strong>Tortuguero, the Northern Caribbean Coast </strong><br />
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I won't bore you with the details of the getting there, the grumpy French people on the bus who ignored me when I said "<em>hola</em>" or the tour guides babbling for much of the drive, speaking first in Spanish and then translating everything into French and English. There were some highlights during the getting there, driving into a tunnel bored through a volcano and the beautiful cloud forest with it's mist and huge-leafed plants, one with the common name "the poor man's umbrella." Or the long boat ride in the rain...off the bus and on a boat I was happy, even with the cranky French tourists. After we arrived at the lodge and settled into our rooms, we went to the village of Tortuguero and putzed about. There I found more aloof Europeans, lips pursed, ambling among the ever friendly Costa Ricans. <br />
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I did make some friends, a young German couple, Mattius and Claudia, a psychiatrist and internist, respectively. They were unassuming and very friendly and we immediately hit it off. I was amazed at my own ability to be an utter smartass with limited shared language....we laughed a lot. At one point when the grounds were completely flooded and we knew not when we would leave, I made some reference to <em>Lord of the Flies</em> and then asserting that I would be fine because I had an Epi-Pen, a headlamp and a liter of rum. They looked at me like I was insane and then cracked up. <br />
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There was also a Dutch couple, a little older, and they warmed up after a bit. In Tortuguero the Dutchies and I sat on a porch watching the rain, waiting for the boat to arrive to taxi us back to the lodge. There was a group of Americans talking loudly complaining about TSA agents at the airport on their way out of the US. I leaned into the Dutch woman, rolling my eyes and said, "Americans." She laughed and sarcastically offered, "but her story is so fascinating." She asked where they were from and with their accents I guessed Texas, George Bush country I explained, the president for which I have spent much energy apologizing for when I have traveled out of the USA. I told her San Francisco was like a different country than Texas.<br />
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From the moment we arrived it rained...I would guess 95% of the time, much of it big-dropped tropical down pours. The humidity was intense and everything was always a little damp, if not soaked from walking through the flooded grounds. I was feeling a little claustrophobic being in a group so I arranged for a fishing guide the second day. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/TPxzSiqZDnI/AAAAAAAAAlE/-crEgg5H-xI/s1600/PC010835.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/TPxzSiqZDnI/AAAAAAAAAlE/-crEgg5H-xI/s200/PC010835.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cirilo with a big fat snook. </td></tr>
</tbody></table> Cirilo picked me up the lodge and we headed into the narrow canals where the water was less turbid and the snook were running. It was pouring as Cirilo sped to our fishing spot and I was hunkered down under a giant green poncho from the lodge, getting pelted by the rain. It was awesome. As the canal narrowed Cirilo backed off the throttle and we tossed our lines and trolled large rapellas near the shore...or I should say the foliage where the shore used to be before the canals swelled and crested so that I could not find a shoreline which was surely way back in the jungle. <br />
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Cirilo was quiet, reticent even but I asked him questions and he soon relaxed a bit, answering me slowly and thoughtfully in a thick Caribbean accent. He asked me questions too and was particularly curious why I never married or had children. The history of my romantic life is a bit complicated to explain in Spanglish cross-culturally so I simply offered, "<em>es mejor</em>, I can fish and drink beer whenever I want...<em>y yo sobrinas es suficiente</em>." He agreed with a big smile and a nod and then we talked about our <em>sobrinas</em> with loving pride. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Cirilo is 47, single and has always lived in the local village, Tortuguero, and has fished the canals and Caribbean since he was a boy. I asked him who is generally friendlier, the Europeans or the Americans. He quickly answered the Americans and I believe him (I think we are the most obnoxious and the most friendly). I asked if the French were the worst and he immediately said yes with an expression of disgust and then we laughed. We trolled through the canal minding our rods, enjoying the long beautiful perfectly cadenced silences that happen while fishing with men on boats. After a couple of hours Cirilo quietly said, "you are a very nice person." I half bowed towards him and said, "so are you." We grinned big at each other and then easily returned our attention to our lines and the water. His acknowledgment was worth more than a hundred fattened snook. </div><br />
We caught six snook, gave one to a family who runs a modest bare-bones bar/hotel on the canal deeper inside the jungle. We had a beer with them and laughed a bit and the man complimented Cirilo's fishing skills and with a bucket full of fish I nodded enthusiastically. We continued to fish and saw butterflies and howler monkeys and a variety of beautiful birds when the rain would ease for a few moments. <br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">When we returned with our catch I asked the Lodge manager if Cirilo could join me for dinner. She said yes but when I got to the restaurant that evening (everyone eats buffet) the lead tour guide asked me if I wanted to sit with the English speaking tourists or the tour guides and Cirilo (apparently Cirilo was not allowed to sit with the tourists). It was an easy decision and I immediately said the guides, happy to be away from the Europeans (except the sweet German couple). The restaurant fried up the snook and made a special batch of ceviche for Cirilo and I...it was some of the best I have ever had. We all ate the fish and then I took the rest to the Europeans who seemed appreciative. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I bought the guides beers and we shared stories in Spanglish. The guys shared their nicknames which included Cirilo: <em>Caballo</em>; Alex: Tucan; and then Monkey Belly. Of course when Monkey Belly shared his nickname I immediately forgot his real name because Monkey Belly is just too precious. Monkey Belly explained that he was a skinny little kid with a big round belly which folks said made him look like a pregnant spider monkey. "Mer" is too weird for many Spanish speakers so I added "Captain" a little something to hold onto on the way to "Mer" (they knew me as Marie because it was the name on the reservation). </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/TPxznfH15yI/AAAAAAAAAlI/NFMkE9oIKG4/s1600/PC010838.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/TPxznfH15yI/AAAAAAAAAlI/NFMkE9oIKG4/s200/PC010838.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mer with a big fat snook. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>The rain kept coming big and hard and while I was fishing the others did very little as the guides didn't want to take the boats into the jungle in the pouring rain and rising canals. I was so glad to have spent the day with Cirilo in those very canals, trolling , drenched and smiling. The rain was relentless and the canals continued to rise and sheets of water rushed off the jungle inundating most of the lodge grounds. All the structures are built on stilts but many of the cement walk ways are only a couple inches off the dirt so to get anywhere one slogged through water, sometimes knee deep. <br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">There were two reports of poisonous snakes falling from trees onto the walkway near the pool. I asked Monkey Belly if this is common and he said, "oh not just snakes, poisonous insects and scorpions also fall, but don't worry, lodge guests have natural immunity." Monkey Belly is quite the animated character and we had a great time BS-ing. He explained that when the grounds are inundated the creatures seek refuge in the trees and as it continues to rain hard and the winds blow the creatures sometimes fall out of the trees. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The morning we were set to leave the grounds were a mess, the canals had completely crested and were raging a swift current and the rain was still coming big and hard. Alex informed us we would be staying at least another night as bridges on the canals had been washed out or collapsed, roads were flooded, and there was a landslide near the volcano tunnel. We weren't going anywhere. He said we would possibly leave the next day by a charter plane or boat. I pulled aside Gabriel, a sweet 23 year old man who worked at the lodge and was very friendly with me, and I asked him to give me the real 411 on when we would get out. He explained that we had to wait for the rain to stop for the canals to be safe and the roads to be cleared and the forecast said it would stop raining the next day. Then he added that for much of the country the forecasts mean something, but in the Caribbean jungle they are usually worthless as the weather is almost totally unpredictable. He said it could be tomorrow or it could be days. Apparently this kind of flooding happens about once a year....this was the second time in 2010. I felt so very special. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
We spent the extra night and did end up leaving the next day, slogging through the water to get to the boat, taking an alternate route through the canals and lowlands and banana farms. We hit horrendous traffic in the mountains where the landslide had narrowed the road. But I gotta say, it was all worth it to fish those canals with Cirilo, bullshit with Monkey Belly and the gang, and laugh with the German doctors in <em>la jungla</em>. And I did not listen to my iPod once as the jungle sounds and pouring rain were so beautiful that to ignore them seemed criminal. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>More soon. Gonna try to get to the Pacific Coast before heading back up to Guate.<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-61805635018795321282010-11-29T16:05:00.000-08:002010-11-29T16:33:39.331-08:00Quick Update from Costa RicaSomehow my original seat assignment was changed to a middle seat which I did not discover until boarding my red-eye flight from LAX to Guate. I was seated next to a morbidly obese Guatemalan woman who did NOT share my own sense of personal space. On the other side of me sat a thin Guatemalan woman who slept spralled. The huge woman actually had her foot in front of my seat until I looked at it and her in disbelief....she moved. Three times, in bad Spanish, I explained that it's <em>no bueno</em> for her to have her elbow in my ribs. Suffice it to say for this not small cloustrophobic gringa, the flight was hellacious and I slept not one wink.
Once in Guate I had to go through customs and then right back into the airport and wait for my flight to Costa Rica (one does not casually amble through Guatemala City unless one is craving crime victomhood). I slept on the floor of the airport in some corner, head on my backpack, and I probably got a total of two hours of real sleep. The flight to San Jose was quick, easy, and very comfortable sitting next to a normal sized man who occupied none of my seat. Mary picked me up and we ran a few errands before heading home where I met her two sweet sons and Mario her husband. Mary cooked dinner and then she and I stayed up late talking. I finally crashed and slept over 12 hours and just hung around the house with Mary today, talking and talking.
I head to Tortuguero tomorrow and the trip there includes a long boat ride on a canal into the jungle. I will be there 3 days and 2 nights....jungle and canal tours and I also hope to do some fishing. Booked in a cute little lodge. Mary helped me figure it all out and I am still startled by her brilliant Spanish spoken with a seemingly perfect accent. Guess that will happen when you live in Costa Rica for 15 years.
More soon.
<span style="font-size:85%;">Note: spell check not working so please forgive me for my spelling disorder.</span>Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-41555223709966921922009-12-20T18:11:00.000-08:002009-12-22T16:16:25.191-08:00A Cautionary Tale for Jumping VaginasI had a few hours to kill before heading back to my jungle lodge for a night of ceviche and reading. Two years ago when I was first in Fronteras, Guatemala, I stumbled into Bruno's, the place where Rio Dulce yachties from the west eat and drink to excess. I drank screwdrivers with a gang of drunken sailors and listened to their stories and watched them get stupid. So I figured, even though it was three in the afternoon, I'd stroll over and see who was kickin' at Brunos.
I walked to the bar and ordered a mineral water with lime and turned to look for a place to sit. No sailors yet. A young couple, backpackers from the US, were quietly reading at a table. As I walked by the man said to me, "Utila? Honduras?" pointing at the Captain Morgan Dive Shop t-shirt I was wearing. "Yes" I said with a smile. We started chatting and they, Chris and Beth, asked me to join them. We talked about the islands and diving the reef, Guatemala, the jungles, their plans for trying to hitch a ride on a sailboat somewhere. They were traveling for a year and were three months in and had spent most of their time in Guate.
I liked them. They were open and super friendly, asked me questions, spoke of their families and what they left behind for the year. Somehow the conversation turned to, and I am not sure how, the topic of jumping off high places into bodies of water. I think they were considering heading to some falls and Beth mentioned she was ready to make the jump. Chris looked at her and mumbled something about it not being safe. Beth balked and said with a smile, "you don't make my decisions for me." Chris cocked his head, a look of deep concern on his face...almost pleading. She grinned and said to me, "I had an accident, back in Colorado, jumping off a 30 foot high ledge into a swimming hole." I nodded, not thinking too much of the disclosure. Then Chris said,"why don't you tell her the whole story." Beth looked at me smiling and said, "I jumped off the ledge and when I hit the water it tore a three inch gash in my vaginal wall." I grunted and grabbed myself, crossed my legs and blurted out, "Oh my god!" Beth was grinning, she was enjoying the telling of the shocking tale.
She said the pain was excruciating and she was gushing blood out of her vagina. She stripped her bikini bottoms off and someone put a towel between her legs and it was quickly saturated with her bright red vaginal blood. People, whom she did not know, grabbed her and put her in the back of their truck with a clean towel between her legs....Beth matter-of-factly explained that she was too bloody to be in the cab of the truck. The hospital was a two hour drive and she had soaked three thick beach towels before getting to the ER. She was quickly rushed into surgery, and I am happy to report, the surgery was a success. Beth's vagina is doing just fine...she enjoyed a full recovery.
Beth explaned that when she jumped off the ledge she held her legs close together with an inch or two gap. When she hit the surface, this positioning streamlined the water and rocketed it into her vagina causing the damage. The doctors said it was a freak thing, and had her legs been slightly farther apart or crossed, the injury would not have occurred. Beth cautioned that women should always tightly cross their legs when jumping off ledges into bodies of water. Noted. Firmly noted. This is advice, I will never forget.
After hours of chatting we parted ways, sharing emails and facebook info. I asked Beth if I could write her story, promising to change her name in the narrative. Beth grinned generously and said, "of course." I offered that I see it as a cautionary tale, one that women need to hear, for the protection of jumping vaginas everywhere. We laughed.
One of the reasons I love traveling alone is this kind of shit happens (truth be told, even in the states strangers often tell me things, tell me their secrets). People get real and engaged quickly. It's not "let's do lunch sometime" and then three months pass before you're sharing a table. On the road, there is the here and the now. You're away from the familiar, open, receptive, and it gets more real more quickly. Just the way I like it. Thanks Chris and Beth, for sharing an afternoon with me. Thank you Beth for sharing your horrific and amazing vagina story. Chris, thanks for being so concerned about the safety of Beth's vagina. Who knows how many women may be helped by your cautionary tale.
Fair winds to you both!
Sisters, cross your legs!Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-55249187277079203832009-12-20T15:22:00.000-08:002009-12-22T19:26:56.309-08:00The CoffinI am not dead. I am not a vampire nor do I have some goth or twisted fascination with death. That said, I just spent a week sleeping in a coffin. A coffin for the living, the sailing....a coffin in the belly of a 43 foot Polynesian catamaran named Las Sirenas (LS). I slept in a coffin despite the fact that I have claustrophobic tendencies and a profound affinity for fresh air. I sleep with my window open, at least cracked, 365 days a year. With past lovers and sleep-mates I have forcefully explained that this is nonnegotiable. I don't like to be locked in stuffy small places.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/Sy63ye_qUMI/AAAAAAAAAjg/Kmf78dcZqWk/s1600-h/PC120819.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/Sy63ye_qUMI/AAAAAAAAAjg/Kmf78dcZqWk/s400/PC120819.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417469479714705602" border="0" /></a>
We boarded the LS a couple hundred yards off the deck of the Rio Bravo, a cafe on the Rio Dulce in the jungle of eastern Guatemala. Our bags were dropped on deck and we puttered around looking at our new home. I finally turned to one of the crew and asked where my berth was. He pointed to a hatch on the stern and I nodded and started to hoist my red backpack. He stopped me and said, "there is no room for that" and directed me to put my pack in the salon, which I did. "No room for my medium sized backpack?" I thought as I walked to the hatch he pointed to and pulled it open. Oh, now I understand.
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/Sy63XPYlISI/AAAAAAAAAjY/ZFL_xSy4Epw/s1600-h/PC120814.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/Sy63XPYlISI/AAAAAAAAAjY/ZFL_xSy4Epw/s400/PC120814.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417469011667788066" border="0" /></a>
I looked in and couldn't believe this was where I would be sleeping for a week. I lowered myself down through the hatch, which left me standing where my head would be when I got supine. I crouched and worked myself into the space. The berth was tapered in the shape of a coffin. I looked up at the open hatch and imagined it closed and a mild panic started in my chest. I sat up, breathed deeply, and thought, "Mer, you can do this, just keep the hatch open....you love sleeping on your boat under an open hatch." The hatch was the only entrance/egress, and when shut, one is literally entombed, with not enough room to sit up straight. Inside the coffin there was a four inch West Marine fan and a small light. On the opposite side a small gear hammock hung for tucking away a few personal items.
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I got in and out of the coffin several times before night fell, acclimating, self-soothing, telling myself I would be fine. Alas, the night came and so did a mild tropical shower. Shit, it's gonna be raining on me! But the crew put up a rain Bimini and I noted that it covered my hatch...phew. I exhaled.
That night, after an excellent meal and a couple glasses of red wine, I retired to my tomb. We were anchored in the jungle and the air was hot and heavy with moisture...it felt like more rain would come before dawn. In my tomb I turned on the fan and light and stripped to my underwear and t-shirt, draped the sheet over the top of my legs, and grabbed my book. Sweating, I read for a couple of hours and finally fell asleep.
In the middle of the night I was awakened by the sound of a sudden heavy shower. Just as I become slightly conscious a big splash of rainwater hit me in the face. I quickly realized the wind was whipping the Bimini and chucking water at me. In the next moment one of the crew was standing over the hatch in the dark working to release the catch and close it to protect me from the rain. Just as it came down I instinctively held my arm straight up under the hatch and said "no!" The man understood, and without saying a word, he grabbed a plastic bottle to keep the hatch wedged open a few inches. The rain still whipped in a bit, hitting me in the face, but it was very tolerable, much more so than being sealed in the coffin.
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/Sy62aYh4AEI/AAAAAAAAAjI/tZIb1o-uW68/s1600-h/PC120809.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/Sy62aYh4AEI/AAAAAAAAAjI/tZIb1o-uW68/s400/PC120809.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417467966150672450" border="0" /></a>
This situation repeated itself many times throughout the week...the rain would come and wake me through the open hatch, I would grab a stiff plastic cup, which I kept handily in the little hammock, and wedge it under the partially closed hatched. I would open and close the hatch many times during the nights, but it worked. The fresh water splashes were a bit of a relief from the intense tropical heat, and I got used to, and even a little comfortable with, sleeping in my coffin.Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-32186699079608972102009-12-20T15:17:00.000-08:002009-12-22T16:19:39.590-08:00The Pullman Bus and the GunWhen you board a Pullman bus at a Litegua bus station in Guatemala, a man in a kacky uniform, with a .38 holstered on his hip, pats down each male passenger and checks every bag and purse, looking and feeling for weapons. Although there is the security check at the Litegua stations, the bus makes many stops along the highway during the six hour drive from the coast to Guatemala City. When people board at these interim stops, there is no armed guard frisking the men and checking bags.
On my return trip from Fronteras on the Rio Dulce, I sat in the second row next to the window opposite a young Guatemalan man who also sat alone across the isle. At one stop about midway back to the City, in what seemed to me like the middle of nowhere, a stocky middle aged man wearing wrangler jeans, a yellow plaid shirt and a thick belt boarded the bus. He sat in the front row and as he turned to sit down I saw the shiny butt of a .45 caliber semiautomatic handgun which the man had shoved under his belt above his right ass cheek. It had a chrome finish with a black grip. It was big and looked new. The young man sitting across the isle from me saw the gun too and we looked at each other, eyebrows raised in a non-verbal and comical "what the fuck?" We shrugged at the same time and smiled. The man made no attempt to conceal the weapon and the driver's assistant, who checks the baggage and collects tickets, surely saw the weapon as the man boarded. The man was on the bus for about 45 minutes and spent most of the time talking loudly on a fancy cell phone. And then he got off the bus in another nondescript scrappy little town somewhere between here and there.
I pondered this situation, quietly contemplated what might have been going on. He did not look like a cop, had no badge (the police here are nothing if not neatly uniformed and well groomed). He moved with total confidence and seemed completely unconcerned about anyone seeing his big shiny gun. Drug trafficker? Narco boss or henchman? We were far from Guate City and he did not look like the typical gang member, no tattoos, his dress was banal. But his confidence was unmistakable. He gruffly and distractedly said thank you to the driver as he exited and the driver casually acknowledged him. This guy, whomever he is, was allowed on the bus with a gun sticking out of his pants, apparently, without causing the driver and assistant any concern. Life in Guatemala.Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-73714414248083224052009-12-08T18:48:00.000-08:002009-12-08T18:50:33.813-08:00Little Bombs and Big Processions, It's Christmas Time In GuateI sat alone on a bench in Central Park, Antigua, this evening, spacing out, looking at the gorgeous lighting of the centuries old buildings and the cathedral. I was aware of the banter, in Spanish, of the cabbies standing a few feet behind me as people were walking this way and that at a leisurely pace. I was smiling. And then BAM an explosion about 20 feet from me behind some inches-high plants in the park. I jolted in my seat and felt the shock waves hit my pant legs like a strong gust of wind. Smoke was everywhere. Such is the Christmas season in Guate. And I gotta say, I don't like the fireworks part of it.
Two evenings ago I got caught in a procession 20 yards from my house when about 100 people holding candles and crosses and singing were headed straight at me. A priest in fancy regalia carried some religious, bejeweled container as men held a thick and tasseled canopy above him. Apparently clearing the way for this group of worshipers, a few men lit and threw bricks of firecrackers a few yards in front of the procession and a few feet from where I was standing. Bam bam bam bam, little bits of smoke and fire everywhere. I ducked instinctively and felt my heart race as I had not been aware of their plans! I quickly pressed myself into a doorway with my hands crossed in front of me, trying to look respectful as I smiled slightly at the somber-faced folks walking and singing their way past me. Everyone was in dresses and suites and many of the boys wore white priestly frocks with red scarves on their shoulders. I could see Jose and Lucky up ahead, standing in their doorway, singing and holding candles. Finally the crowd thinned and as it slowly passed and I made my way to Lucky.
The rest of the night sounded like a war zone. Across town the devil was being burned and throughout the city streets processions trapped the clueless in doorways. It is the beginning of the season of the birth of their Lord Jesus. And it is not about buying shit. I ain't Catholic and I have many big-ass problems with the church, but I have to admit, being in a place where the celebration of Christmas is NOT about shopping and buying shit...well, I really feel a relief in it. My friends down here, for the most part, are far from rich. They're artists and writers and managers and barkeeps. They don't focus on buying shit. They don't have that orientation or the money. Down here it is mostly, by a big margin, about spending time with family, eating good food, (and in the case of most of my friends, drinking good booze), playing music, singing and dancing, and just being together. Bring a bottle of wine to dinner, if you want, and more importantly, an open and loving heart and be ready to laugh. And if you are religious, it's about processions, mass, and all of the above plus burning the devil (which I think is cool). That's Christmas down here. And I appreciate it all, except the small and not so small celebratory bombs. Those I could do without.
NOTE: All this said, I do miss my family and friends and my Cosmic...just not the compulsive shopping and incessant advertisements.Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-79314755075829526502009-12-02T18:46:00.000-08:002009-12-03T11:51:48.069-08:00Back in Antigua Yet AgainI arrived in Guatemala City early Monday morning, cruised through customs, and was first greeted by the familiar face of Maco, a sweet Guatemalan taxi driver who is friends with Jose and Lucky. He stood patiently among the throngs of drivers and cabbies waiting to solicit or collect passengers leaving the airport. Maco held a piece of cardboard with block letters that spelled "Mer," a sight that has come to be quite comforting when landing in a notoriously dangerous country. I half dozed in the backseat as we eked through Monday morning traffic and headed towards Antigua. Big hugs and smiles and a late breakfast of eggs and tea at Jose and Lucky´s and then I settled into my room and crashed hard after a sleepless red-eye flight.
Walking the streets of Antigua yet again, everything is familiar, nothing seems fresh or new....the anonymous young transient hippies and do-gooders are mostly different people than those I last saw eight months ago, but they all look the same, act the same, pose the same at the No Se bar, walking over the cobblestone streets, sitting in internet cafes talking too loudly in Dutch or German as they skype Europe where girlfriends and moms peer back through pixalated screens.
And my arrival at No Se felt warmly familiar. My friends slowly trickled in for big hugs and boisterous hellos and the banter started immediately....Michael (a middle-age Brit whose nickname, for reasons that have never been adequately explained to me, is "Auntie Barbara") greets me with the line "Hello Mer, are you now willing to have sex with me?" My dear sweet friend Mike wispers¨"welcome home" in a long embrace and then vocally contemplates a new business venture for me, "Mer´s Merkins," apparently based primarily on it´s alliterative quality and proximity to pussy. Kevin continues to assure me he will turn me straight, in time, and confirms that I am, in fact, his daddy. I am sure there are many who would find such banter offensive, but to me, it was all positively charming and lovely.
Of course what I have cited above are just a few excerpts of the bar banter that is well known to those who stumble into (or are summoned by some strange force) to the bar Cafe No Se. But as the evening stretched into the wee hours this banter only peppered the more substantive conversations that included disclosures of heartbreak and grief, rants on US politics, news of art openings, talk of writing, and an unfinished conversation considering, from a social-psychological perspective, inter-generational and crosscultural interpersonal communication....or something like that.
Then we all landed at Mike´s appartment good and drunk and most suited to call it a night. Instead, we attempted to sing and dance. No one was hurt. And as far as I could tell, fun was had by all. And out of defernce to a friendship, I will not disclose the happenings in the cab ride home....sufice it to say, the evening was appropriately punctuated.Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-31377573080929174852008-12-29T11:24:00.000-08:002008-12-29T11:25:53.124-08:00Mer Whines for Just a MomentI am sick and it sucks. Did not go to school today and spent most of the morning in bed. A water main broke near the market so our house has no water and I had a bird-bath with a small bottle of water. I think anyone standing near me would agree that I need more bathing.
I spent the weekend ambling slowly through the streets, lingering in cafes and internet cafes, and reading my book, Two Years Before the Mast by Richard Henry Dana Jr. (1840). I will have lunch at home in a few minutes where the food is mostly decent, better than my house last year. We eat a lot of eggs (cooked with some kind of red sauce that is so damn good) with tortillas and fried plantains. We sometimes have meat, often in the form of a bite of pork stuffed into a small tamale. But I feel lucky that I am not 'rounding the horn eating salted meat, sea biscuits, and hot water with molasses like Mr. Dana.
It is an unusually cloudy day today and the volcano Agua has disappeared which is quite a feat. Usually the weather is close to perfect, sunny, highs in the 70s almost every day. At close to 5000 feet you would never know we were technically in the tropics, below the tropic of cancer.
As a result of getting sick I am pretty set on not going to El Salvador but rather staying in town and seeing my friends as much as possible. New Years here is off the hook...crazy in fact. I hope to be recovered enough to be an enthusiastic participant and keep my wits about me in the chaos.
Have more interesting things to write but can't muster the enrgy right now. Ok. I'm done. No more whining.Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-18439230019245328242008-12-27T19:56:00.000-08:002013-01-16T12:41:17.512-08:00Blood Suckers LOVE Mer<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/SVb5b198OdI/AAAAAAAAAfw/rKPdkLbWlTM/s1600-h/sandfly%5B1%5D.gif"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284685469504518610" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/SVb5b198OdI/AAAAAAAAAfw/rKPdkLbWlTM/s200/sandfly%5B1%5D.gif" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 172px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>It's true. I remember my first night in Hawaii some 25 years ago after playing an evening game of croquet and counting no less than 45 mosquito bites on my body. Then there was San Ignacio, Belize, and the Yucatan, and the jungles of Tikal, Guatemala, where I suffered a slightly higher number of assaults even after spreading copious amounts of deet on my face and body (I am amazed how quickly priorities change when inundated by blood suckers...suddenly spreading dangerous pesticides onto your hot sweating skin seems like a very good idea).<br />
<br />
Well, last week there were hundreds of well fed sand flies and mosquitoes on the small Caribbean island of Utila....fattened with my blood leaving me looking like I have the pox. Bare with me while I have a little catharsis by sharing my torment with you all.
Imagine being bitten about 250 times (at least...I counted), legs, arms, neck, feet, face, ears...anything exposed being assaulted with small punctures, sucked, and injected with a relentless irritant. Now imagine being in the tropics where the slightest...and I mean the slightest exertion (i.e. breathing, beating heart, etc) precipitates some kind of healthy sweating.<br />
<br />
Now imagine those 250+ bites being antagonized by the tropical heat and sweating...so much so that you succumb to the perverted seduction and begin to scratch yourself with increasing vigor all the while knowing you are facilitating your own deeper decent into itch hell.
Such was my life on Utila, a place the guide books say is "notorious for voracious sandflies." I don't think I have read a more accurate description of anything in any guidebook.
But in some kind of twisted yin yang balancing, the one thing that brought relief, besides unconsciousness, was salt water. When I slipped (or ungracefully fell) into the ocean, all was quieted. The itching stopped. There was peace. And as I dried in the sun, the sea salt crusting on my skin, the relief persisted.<br />
<br />
But alas, with a freshwater shower at the end of the day, hell sprang forth yet again and I helplessly scratched myself and spread the barely effective hydrocortizone ointment over my wounds...and then drank a bit of rum and tried to distract myself by conversing with all the characters that live in or move through that strange little island community.
And in the end would I say the torment was worth it? Absolutely. But I still have scabs all over my body and I still look like I have the pox. Thankfully, it has not left me the pariah...yet.Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-89454091722518593952008-12-27T18:22:00.000-08:002008-12-28T19:34:32.804-08:00Utila - Getting There and the DivingUtila is one of the Bay Islands of Honduras which sit in the Caribbean off the mainland town of La Ceiba on the east side of the country. Utila is a small island with a scrappy little town containing a strange mix of Islanders, Hondurans, expats (from all over the Americas and the world), and backpacker-type tourists. The draw is diving. Utila is reported to be the cheapest (and funnest) place to get certified in SCUBA and boasts the largest barrier reef in the world after Australia's great barrier reef. There is superb snorkeling and diving all around the island, many reputable dive companies, and for about $275 US you can leave the island PADI certified to dive in open water anywhere in the world.
<strong>Getting There</strong>
For me, this adventure started with the usual early morning van pick-up at 4:00am in Antigua, getting to the Guatemala City airport about an hour later. Unfortunately, there is no direct flight to La Ceiba and I was required to take three flights (via San Salvador and San Pedro Sula) to get to the coast (a direct flight would be less than two hours, instead I spent the better part of a day travelling). The last flight from San Pedro Sula was in a stuffy little prop plane which flew low and I got a nice view of the lush Honduran country side and the Caribbean as we flew over the mountains, jungle, and into La Ceiba.
I arrived in La Ceiba at the tail end of a huge storm that precipitated massive flooding in the city. The mountains sitting tall to the west feed many rivers that flow to the coast and in the cab ride from the airport we drove across the bridges and saw the swollen rivers below.
I met my friend Andie (from the States) at a hotel in La Ceiba where we hung out in the bar for a few minutes watching the local news coverage of the floods. There was footage of men standing next to their homes in chest-deep water, people in boats in the middle of flooded streets, and rivers swollen and cresting. The ferry to Utila had not been running for two days because of rough seas. We had lunch at the hotel and prayed the seas would calm so we could get to Utila the next day as planned.
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/SVbqQ9kTcgI/AAAAAAAAAeg/7KSoiKM6wPM/s1600-h/PC130003%5B1%5D.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284668789891494402" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 309px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 230px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/SVbqQ9kTcgI/AAAAAAAAAeg/7KSoiKM6wPM/s320/PC130003%5B1%5D.JPG" border="0" /></a>Luck was with us and the morning ferry was running on time although the seas where not exactly calm. I sat on the port bow and got splashed as we crashed into the waves until I finally hunkered down, sitting on my backpack behind a bench for shelter (see pic of me peeking into the cabin as Andie snapped this shot). A young brown-skinned girl, about 12 years old, sat on the bow, head down, holding a plastic grocery bag which she periodically vomited into. Andie went inside the ferry cabin and later shared that many folks inside were also vomiting. I loved the salty spray and the smell of the sea and the feel of the Caribbean under the bare-bones barge-like ferry. I am very thankful that in all my years spent on boats I have never once been seasick.
At the municipal dock on Utila we were greeted by the lovely Vicki and Jim, two retired corporate execs from the states. They manage the little house I rented (among many other more grand properties) and were incredibly sweet as they put our bags on their golf cart and drove us through the dirty little town and situated us in the "Boat House" at the end of the main street.
The house was adorable and built over the water, on stilts, with a dock and steps to the sea. Vickie and Jim offered advice on where to eat, drink, snorkel, etc. Andie and I lounged on the dock and started to better acclimate to the tropical heat and humidity. I unpacked, but Andie did not, since her bag had been lost in a debacle that precipitated her own little Central American adventure.
Andie had been scheduled to arrive in La Ceiba a day before me but was stalled by a freak snow storm in Houston. She eventually made it to San Pedro Sula but the flight to La Ceiba was cancelled and she found herself stranded in this scrappy Honduran City. It is not exactly a <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/SVbq09fzrHI/AAAAAAAAAeo/JRi4YtdbeNM/s1600-h/PC140049%5B3%5D.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284669408347925618" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/SVbq09fzrHI/AAAAAAAAAeo/JRi4YtdbeNM/s320/PC140049%5B3%5D.JPG" border="0" /></a>tourist destination. On the flight to San Pedro Sula Andie had met a nice Honduran man who worked in the states quite a bit but lived with his family in La Ceiba. After landing, the sweet man took pity on Andie and offered her a ride to La Ceiba as his wife had driven, with their 3 kids, to San Pedro Sula to collect her husband. After about 3 hours of driving, and a quick stop at the store to buy Andie a toothbrush, the family made Andie comfortable for the night in their back-house apartment.
Andie met me in La Ceiba on time but her bags took 3 more days to make it to Utila. I lent her some t-shirts and underwear and we spent a couple days walking the island and exploring (see pic of me standing by the tree unknowingly being voraciously eaten by sand flies)....waiting for her bag which contained our masks, snorkels, and fins. At last the goods arrived, Andie rejoiced in having clothes, and we grabbed our gear and hit the water.
<strong><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/SVbrSuoldGI/AAAAAAAAAew/ZsDhpRowZpk/s1600-h/PC180063%5B1%5D.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284669919754286178" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 220px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 165px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/SVbrSuoldGI/AAAAAAAAAew/ZsDhpRowZpk/s320/PC180063%5B1%5D.JPG" border="0" /></a>Diving</strong>
What a thrill! Andie and I signed up with Cross Creek Diver Center and started our classes in a little wooden classroom watching videos and taking quizzes on the rules and equipment. Our instructor was an adorable little French Canadian man nicknamed Bisquit. He has logged over 800 dives and knows his stuff. And he was just so cute and funny making even the tedious parts of the class entertaining. We assembled and inspected and worked our equipment on the dock while Bisquit made hilarious little sound affects as he demonstrated how stuff worked. We picked wetsuits and made up weight belts and packed our gear onto the stocky bright yellow dive boat.
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/SVbr38GScfI/AAAAAAAAAfI/f3acEtzMhfg/s1600-h/PC180070%5B1%5D.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284670559023690226" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/SVbr38GScfI/AAAAAAAAAfI/f3acEtzMhfg/s320/PC180070%5B1%5D.JPG" border="0" /></a>
Mer plus the sea plus a boat plus the tropics equals one happy Mer. Standing on the toe rail holding onto the side of the cabin, half hanging over the sea, salty wind in my face...I was a happy gal as we punched through the waves towards the dive spot. Once tied up to the mooring buoy we donned our gear which was incredibly awkward with the BCD (buoyancy control device) vest, a heavy weight belt, air tank, mask and fins.
An instructor helped us stand and walk to the back of the boat which was a low platform for "easy" entry. We were instructed to just take a big step off the boat holding our regulator, mask, and weight belt. Sounds simple but ones center of gravity is grossly changed with this gear. I was <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/SVbsULBm1pI/AAAAAAAAAfY/l4skQkjiTKw/s1600-h/PC180068%5B1%5D.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284671044066924178" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/SVbsULBm1pI/AAAAAAAAAfY/l4skQkjiTKw/s320/PC180068%5B1%5D.JPG" border="0" /></a>a complete spaz the first three times falling in at odd angles completely out of control....once doing a face-flop and losing my mask and snorkel. My fourth entry was good. My last four entries were perfect and I am sure I was the picture of grace (well, sorta).
We spent time in the shallows practicing skills including breathing slowly and deeply with our regulators, clearing our masks, taking our masks off and swimming around blindly then refitting them, clearing our regulators, buddy breathing, and the most challenging of all, managing our buoyancy using our BCDs and our breathing (see pic of me trying to breathe my way off the sandy bottom).
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/SVbsDSmJ-oI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/KyD-XLeAmDE/s1600-h/PC180074%5B1%5D.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284670754041494146" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mqehIidqxuM/SVbsDSmJ-oI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/KyD-XLeAmDE/s320/PC180074%5B1%5D.JPG" border="0" /></a>Our dives had us swimming over unending reefs with the occasional patches of white coral sand. We saw tons of fan coral and brain coral and tropical fishes. Highlights included seeing a green moray eel, two large rays (one of which I swam behind for a bit) and a large spiny lobster nestled into the reef. The air was always tropical warm and the water was relatively warm so we wore only shorty wetsuits and waiting to get into the water we heated up requiring a dousing with a bucket of sea water. Two of our dives got us to 60 feet...a very strange feeling indeed. It is a wonderful world that ultimately felt quite familiar. Over the years many people have told me, given my passion for the sea and snorkeling, that I should learn to dive. They were right. And all I can say now is, better late than never.
<em>NOTE: We had a sweet Japanese man in our class (just the 3 of us and Bisquit). See pick of me, Japanese guy and Bisquit. I have more pics (these are Andies) but I can't seem to download them from my camera. Will post more when I figure it out.</em>Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-73727565841826301492008-12-23T14:49:00.000-08:002008-12-23T14:51:24.924-08:00Central Park - Thee Center of Antigua<a href="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434782947_gcnqN-S.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434782947_gcnqN-S.jpg" border="0" /></a>
<div></div>Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-18340592518078067682008-12-23T14:44:00.000-08:002008-12-23T14:52:01.849-08:00Mi Escuela<div><a href="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434780790_ym28G-S-1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 225px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434780790_ym28G-S-1.jpg" border="0" /></a>
<div><a href="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434780556_cQx6c-S.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434780556_cQx6c-S.jpg" border="0" /></a>
<div><a href="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434779982_2trFP-S-1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 225px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434779982_2trFP-S-1.jpg" border="0" /></a></div></div></div>Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-67346660155767401012008-12-21T19:53:00.000-08:002008-12-21T20:25:46.833-08:00Right NowI am sitting in my host-family house at 2nd Ave. Sur, Number 69, Antigua, GT. The night is cooling and it is good to be back from Utila. Here there are few mosquitoes, no sand flies, and the salt shakers work. I am sitting in the middle of the house, it is open air and I hear the streets alive with music and fireworks. People come out on Sunday nights and the holidays bring a lot of parties, processions and singing and the ubiquitous fireworks.
As I walked through the Central Park this evening children were neatly lined up on the cathedral steps wearing matching Christmas colored robes singing something beautiful in Spanish. Folks gathered 'round and cheered after each song.
I am very tired after my week in Utila, diving and drinking and eating really bad food. And after a long day of travel and sitting in airports in three countries, I made the dubious decision to go see my friends at the bar. I behaved, but so many folks were there and so happy to see me...I couldn't help but stay up half the night talking and laughing. But it all has left me sleep deprived.
Tonight, felt a little homesick for the first time as I walked through the park. Could use the comfort of my own bed and a cuddle with my sweet Cosmo....the hug of an old friend. Bought a cell phone and called a couple people. No one answered. I know the feeling and that it will pass...probably very quickly. It always has.
But right now, feeling a tad wistful.Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-13361381603958851962008-12-21T16:52:00.000-08:002010-01-21T10:31:55.497-08:00Fuego Burps Fire as We Head Out of Town<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434786544_nqzQf-S.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434786544_nqzQf-S.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div id="refHTML"></div>Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-60870354360202588722008-12-21T16:26:00.000-08:002008-12-21T17:04:00.366-08:00"Drinking, Smoking, & Screwing: Great Writers on Good Times"That is the title of the book I just finished and loved. Dorothy Parker kicks off the anthology with "You Were Perfectly Fine," a story about a woman reassuring a man the day after he had gotten seriously drunk and remembered little. She is hilarious and although she wrote it in 1928, the story spoke directly to me in 2008.
In the story "Preface to a Book of Cigarette Papers" by Don Marquis (1919) , I found a great quote worth sharing:
<span style="font-style: italic;"><blockquote><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">We have never been the person on earth we should like to be; circumstances have always tied us to the staid and commonplace and respectable; but when we become an angel we hope to be right devilish at times. And that is an idea that some one should work out - Hell as a place of reward for the Puritans. But it is possible that that elderly Mephistopheles, with the smack of a canting Calvinistic archangel about him, Bernard Shaw, has already done so somewhere.</span>
</blockquote></span>Right devilish at times...seems I have already figured this one out a bit. But I harbor the same hope as Mr. Marquis.
That's all. For now.Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3032638815102845339.post-63301235786827794582008-12-15T14:48:00.000-08:002008-12-15T15:08:50.197-08:00Sweet Little Turtles and a Rant<a href="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434802140_CKPEk-S.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434802140_CKPEk-S.jpg" border="0" /></a><strong>First, the Sweet Turtles
</strong>When in Montericco I was privileged enough to release a sweet little one-day-old sea turtle into the Pacific waves. Next to the black-sand beach there is a turtle hatchery dedicated to preserving these little guys that have been hunted to the point of being threatened. The folks at the hatchery collect the eggs that are laid on the beach by hopeful turtle mothers. They collect the eggs to protect them from would-be human and animal thieves who steal them for food. They incubate and care for the eggs until they hatch and, at one day old, they are released into the Pacific. At sunset, for about a dollar, anyone can hold and release a turtle (the fee suppoorts the hatchery).
I got my little guy and he was rearing to go. He would not stop wiggling and moving his little flipper-legs. We watched a gorgeous sunset and were finally instructed to release our turtles in the sand a few yards from the crashing waves. We watched as the little guys instinctively bolted <a href="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434800121_qAR5a-S-1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 225px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434800121_qAR5a-S-1.jpg" border="0" /></a>(as much as a turtle can bolt) towards the sea...their little one-day old selves giving it their all. The volunteer from the hatchery explained that about 20% of the turtles would make it to maturity. The rest would be some creatures snack or meal.
<strong>Now for the Rant</strong>
As we were standing there waiting for the sun to go down, holding our precious little turtle friends, a young German man standing behind me with a group of 6 Europeans pops off with, <a href="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434792318_6yK3g-S.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434792318_6yK3g-S.jpg" border="0" /></a>"It´s so touristy here. I wish it wasn´t so touristy. Blah bñlah blah." I felt a mild anger rise. On the beach were about 100 folks holding turtles or watching. Of those folks there were maybe 10-15 westerners. Most of the folks who go to Monterrico are Guatemalans, the poor and the slightly better off. What was this young man referring to? My mind raced and I thought..."You arrogant little fuck. You want some isolated "authentic" experience using the "other" as a prop for your own little adventure narrative...here with all the little turtles and the relatively poor but gleeful Guatemalans, young and old, waiting to watch those little guys <a href="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434795742_kyVGA-S.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://merwashere.smugmug.com/photos/434795742_kyVGA-S.jpg" border="0" /></a>make a run for the great Pacific. Shut your pie-hole, watch the sunset, and release your precious little tortuga." See, I am not always sweet and cuddly.
<strong>And a Nice Ending
</strong>My internal rant only lasted a minute and then I was taking my own advice. The little guys reached the water and got pummeled by the waves. But they kept on charging and at last the waves took all the little turtles to the sea. I thought about all the hungry creatures that awaited them just past the break...and then I walked down the beach and watched the light wane.Merhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13153002900480201989noreply@blogger.com1