Mer's Travel Blog

Captain Mer's Guate Up-Date

2011-12-26T12:57:00.000-08:00

The 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Palacio Nacional de la Cultura, 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.

More soon.

Panga Fishing the Pacific off Costa Rica

2011-12-08T15:03:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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..."mi amor es el mar" I said without looking over. "Yo tambien," he said, nodding and smiling. And then we were silent for a good long time.

"I don't want you reeking up the car!"

2011-12-03T10:11:00.000-08:00

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:

Mary: "Mer, do you need to take a shower?"

Mer: "No, I'll just go gross since we are going to the beach."

Mary: "What?! You haven't showered since leaving Oakland?"

Mer: "Nope. But we will be at the beach so I don't need to shower."

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!"

Mer: "I don't stink (Mer smells armpit). Seriously, I will shower tonight after the beach."

Mary: (Pointing at the shower, determined mother expression, using a stearn voice) "Marie, get in the shower."

Mer: (laughing) "Are you trying to mother-force me into taking a shower?"

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!).

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.

True story. I am so easily amused by the mundane.

Hilarious.

Confessions of a Linguistic Dufus

2011-10-10T09:08:00.000-07:00

I'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.

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.

Danish
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.

Dutch
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).

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.

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.

French
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.

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.

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.

Exits
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.

But I managed. To not offend anyone. Or order a pig head for dinner. Merci.

Sweet Vincent, Who Still Brings Tears to my Eyes

2011-09-29T09:05:00.000-07:00

It'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 Renaissance to mid-20th century modern all in one semester.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Coldcocked by Jet Lag

2011-09-28T15:55:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A Dispatch from the Land of Natural Blondes

2011-09-26T06:51:00.000-07:00

For my family, who all, god bless them, want to know some of the details of my adventures.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

More soon.

Quick Update from the Land of Tortillas and Quetzales - Guatemala

2010-12-17T17:14:00.000-08:00

The Little Picture - My Accommodations
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.

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.

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.

The Bigger Picture - Guatemala
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Merskiana Jones and the Temple de la Jungla - Another Quick Blast from Costa Rica

2010-12-05T21:32:00.000-08:00

Tortuguero, the Northern Caribbean Coast

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 "hola" 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.

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 Lord of the Flies 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.

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.

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.

Cirilo with a big fat snook.

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.

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, "es mejor, I can fish and drink beer whenever I want...y yo sobrinas es suficiente." He agreed with a big smile and a nod and then we talked about our sobrinas with loving pride.

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.

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.

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.

I bought the guides beers and we shared stories in Spanglish. The guys shared their nicknames which included Cirilo: Caballo; 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).

Mer with a big fat snook.

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.

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.

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.

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 la jungla. 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.

More soon. Gonna try to get to the Pacific Coast before heading back up to Guate.

Quick Update from Costa Rica

2010-11-29T16:05:00.000-08:00

Somehow 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 no bueno 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. Note: spell check not working so please forgive me for my spelling disorder.

A Cautionary Tale for Jumping Vaginas

2009-12-20T18:11:00.000-08:00

I 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!

The Coffin

2009-12-20T15:22:00.000-08:00

I 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. 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. 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. 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. 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.

The Pullman Bus and the Gun

2009-12-20T15:17:00.000-08:00

When 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.

Little Bombs and Big Processions, It's Christmas Time In Guate

2009-12-08T18:48:00.000-08:00

I 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.

Back in Antigua Yet Again

2009-12-02T18:46:00.000-08:00

I 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.

Mer Whines for Just a Moment

2008-12-29T11:24:00.000-08:00

I 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.

Blood Suckers LOVE Mer

2008-12-27T19:56:00.000-08:00

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). 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. 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. 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.

Utila - Getting There and the Diving

2008-12-27T18:22:00.000-08:00

Utila 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. Getting There 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. 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 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. Diving 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. 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 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). 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. 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.

Central Park - Thee Center of Antigua

2008-12-23T14:49:00.000-08:00

Mi Escuela

2008-12-23T14:44:00.000-08:00

Right Now

2008-12-21T19:53:00.000-08:00

I 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.

Fuego Burps Fire as We Head Out of Town

2008-12-21T16:52:00.000-08:00

"Drinking, Smoking, & Screwing: Great Writers on Good Times"

2008-12-21T16:26:00.000-08:00

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:

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.

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.

Sweet Little Turtles and a Rant

2008-12-15T14:48:00.000-08:00

First, the Sweet Turtles 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 (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. Now for the Rant 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, "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 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. And a Nice Ending 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.

Guns and Firecrakers

2008-12-14T15:36:00.000-08:00

When I first arrived in Antigua Guatemala last year I heard a lot of bang bang bangs. My first instinct was to duck and hide behind a car or corner or whatever was handy. This instinct is informed by a couple of facts. The first is that from 1984 to 1990 I worked as a private patrol officer in Los Angeles. I wore a slate grey uniform, a kevlar ballistic vest with a custom (for my boob shape) made shock plate that fit over my chest and heart, a belt with two pairs of Peerless handcuffs, a PR24, and a Smith and Wesson Model 15 .38 4 inch revolver. I had a LA police commission issued badge and I drove around in a patrol unit and responded to all kinds of calls. As part of this job I had to qualify quarterly with my revolver in a shooting course that presented several situations and types of shooting. I also practiced on my own to ensure I qualified with high marks and maintained some reputation in a world of men and rampant sexism. I still have the .38 on the top shelf of my closet along side an 18 inch Remengton 870 pump action shotgun (the kind the cops use). I have not fired either of them in years and I keep no amo in the house. In my life I have also fired at one time or another, a .44 Magnum, a 3030 lever action rifle, a 3006 rifle, many .22 rifles, and a 9 mm semi-automatic handgun. All a long time ago in what, in many ways, feels like another life. All this to say, I have been around guns. A lot when you look at the totality of my life. I have heard all kinds of guns fired at close range and in the distance. It is a distinct sound and different caliber guns sound different sounds when fired. Also in the course of my years wearing a uniform I studied police tactics and developed certain responses as a result. I can quickly discern the difference between cover and concealment (the latter wont stop a bullet) and still am quick to move in that direction if I sense a firearm threat. Despite the years between me and that uniformed experience, those instincts have lingered. There is something very profound about being 19 years old and putting on a uniform and vest and then coming to understand someone might want to kill you because of it...without ever knowing your name. This is especially so for a sensitive sap like me. So that is the first reason I dive for cover when I hear bang bang bangs. The second reason is I live in Oakland, CA, recently ranked the fifth most dangerous city in the US (Detroit made number 1). I also live just north of a tougher part of town. When you hear a pop in Oakland, unless it is July 3, 4 or 5, it is most likely a gunshot. Again, the old instincts reign. Hear a pop, look for and move to cover. Back to Antigua 2007. After being told that the pops and bangs in this town were from firecrackers, I unlearned that association enough to not dive behind a car at every pop I heard. Firecrackers are a ubiquitous thing in Guatemala and especially so around the holidays. Folks need little excuse to light a string and watching it dance in the street. "Hey! I´ts Monday! Lets celebrate with a string of firecrackers!" You hear them all the time day and night save for around 2-9 in the morning. So when I found myself on the Pacific coast of Guatemala in the small beach town of Montericco, I thought nothing of it when, starting at about 10pm, the air rang with bang bang bangs into the early hours. Firecrackers I thought. Those Guatemalans love their firecrackers and after all it is Saturday night. I thought nothing of it and focused on my books and solitaire games. In the morning I mentioned the firecrackers, that popped all night, to my guide Sender. He looked at me and shook his head. "They weren´t firecrackers?" I asked surprised. "No. Boracho (drunk) men" was his response. Drunks shooting into the night for the thrill of it. I nodded. Ok. I thought about the fact that I was sleeping under a polapa roof. I thought about all I had learned about shooting tragedies when I wore a uniform and studied such things. I thought about all the drunk men I had seen the night before...some of them with pistols strapped to their sides. I guess my ears no longer easily discern what they used to. I no longer go to the firing range or the desert and shoot at targets. I guess I can no longer easily discern the difference between a gun and a firecracker ignited at some distance. But this I do still know, whatever goes up, must come down. And it don´t come down slow if it is a lead slug.

My Saturday Night...

2008-12-14T12:14:00.000-08:00

...was spent with 8 Hebrew-speaking Israeli men playing Texas hold 'em. Fifty lempiras buys you into the game (about $2.70 US) plus L10 an hour per player for police extortion (the police allow the poker games at the bar if they are paid this money, otherwise it is "illegal").

A Really Good Monday

2008-12-12T12:52:00.000-08:00

It started with me meandering through the bus terminal (a dirt lot with a bunch of chicken buses everywhere) looking for the bus to San Antonio Aguas Calientes, a small town outside of Antigua. I am meeting my friend Carlos for breakfast, a walk in the country to a finca de macadamias, and to chat with a nutty old gringo who has owned and run the farm for over 30 years. I am fortunate as the bus is not crowded and so no one sitting on my lap. Literally. We cruise out of town and into the country and finally into San Antonio Aguas Calientes where the bus driver aggressively drives through the narrow streets. At one turn, he perfunctorily, with the help of his assistant in the street yelling and giving hand signals, makes a nine point turn to clear a sharp corner. A nine point turn in a school bus. After about 40 minutes of driving the assistant announces my exit and I walk a block to the central park where I am to meet Carlos. As is always the case, a church sits at one end of the square and there is some kind of special mass in progress and the large white-washed building overflows with people. I sit on a concrete bench in the park listening to the sermon. I understand quite a bit of what the padre is saying (in Spanish) as preachers tend to talk slower and enunciate more for emphasis and to ensure their message is received. Across from me an old man dressed in a short sleeve tan button down shirt tucked into brown pants walks with his two dogs and sits on a bench. He pulls out a bag of rolls and feeds the dogs as they patiently take turns receiving the bread (no religious metaphor meant here). I have wondered about the dogs in Guatemala. They are often healthy looking and trot through the villages with intention as thought they have appointments to keep and people to see. And the boy dogs always have their balls, something that still looks so odd to me since in the US, poor boys, most of them do not. Carlos arrives and we greet each other with big smiles and a hearty hug. We head to the modest street restaurant across the park and order a Guatemalteca typica breakfast of eggs, beans (I didn´t know! Carlos ate mine) and tortillas. It comes with coffee which is really bad and Carlos explains that, although there is coffee growing all around us, a good cup of coffee can not be bought in San Antonio. It is loaded with sugar. Everything one drinks in Guatemala is loaded with sugar. Carlos is a good, gentle, kind man. He is a lawyer from Tennessee who has been living in Guatemala for the better part of more than 4 years. He runs the book store Dyslexia, next to Cafe No Se (see picture). He also volunteers doing community organizing to help implement the peace accords signed over a decade ago. Carlos and I settle into serious conversation. We talk about Central American politics and history and his work. He confirms my general understanding of things and then fills in many of the details. We talk of Che Guevara and his time in Guatemala and how what he saw in this country was seminal in his conviction that armed revolution was necessary in Latin America. We talk about the reverberations of singular decisions such as the US embargo of Cuba and contemplate what the world would look like if such decisions had not been made. What would the world be like if Che had not come to Guatemala and become so radical...what if he had not gone to help Castro and influence him with his radicalism?We talk of the genocide of the Mayan people. We talk about the villages that were destroyed and how the small hopes of reform in the 1950s were displaced by the US backed coup and 35 years of fighting. We talk about the systematic killing of Mayans and the destruction of their villages in the "scorched earth" policy of the Guatemalan military...poor people with few resources slaughtered like animals. We talk and our eyes fill with tears...and then we are both crying. Carlos and I harbor few pretenses with each other regarding our sensitivity. It is a very sad story. "Mer, you bring it out in me" Carlos suddenly accuses. With tears rolling down our faces we start laughing and I return the blame. I imagine the Mayan women who is serving us thinks we are nuts crying over our eggs. Carlos eats my frijoles (which I have used incredible mental discipline to ignore as I ate my eggs). We walk through the town and onto a country road towards the finca. It is a beautiful day and we walk at a leisurely pace and look at the volcanoes. After about 30 minutes a jet-black crew cab Sacatepeqez truck pulls up behind us and stops (they are the PNC, the Police National Civil). Using formal Spanish, Carlos greets the four men inside and they ask what we are doing and where we are going. Carlos answers and the driver hesitates and then says, "pelegruso" (dangerous) and offers to drive us to the finca. Carlos looks at me and I smile and say "Si." The two men in the back of the truck quickly jump out and head for the bed of the truck offering us their seats. Carlos and I try to protest but they insist. I don´t think they would ever let a woman sit in the back unless absolutely necessary. I am struck by how deferential Carlos is to the men and note his use of the formal Spanish. All of the men are very young, early 20s at most. At last we reach the finca and thank the men profusely, smiling and shaking hands with each of them. We walk through the macademia trees and head towards the garden where we will eventually have lunch (yes this is an eating day!) of macadamia flour pancakes with macadamia-nut-butter and organic blueberry compote. But this is not the true highlight of this visit. Lorenzo is. Carlos leans into me and whispers, "I was going to warn you but decided you should just experience him." The "him" is Lorenzo. Lorenzo is an American expat who owns the macadamia farm and is brilliantly crazy. He is 69 years old and has lived a very interesting life. I am his audience and he is very happy to perform. The next few hours I listen and ask a few questions as Lorenzo tells story after story peppering things with really bad jokes...fart jokes and whore jokes. I respectfully laugh and wait for this nutty raconteur to move into the next substantive story. Lorenzo was a firefighter in Redwood City, CA, in the 1970s and was hurt on the job several times and was finally forced into a medical retirement at age 32. At the request of a friend he headed to Nicaragua to plant macadamia trees citing, "I was uniquely qualified as I knew nothing about trees and I did not speak Spanish." During his stay in Nicaragua he learned everything he could about macadamia trees and eventually bought the finca in Guatemala. That story is much wilder and interesting but this is the upshot. There is no way to sensibly recount all that was said by Lorenzo that day. But I can give some sense of the stories he shared. There was the driving trip from Guatemala to the US in his old Pontiac trailering a Land Rover...it took over 200 days and included a very serious accident that somehow left he and his vehicles unscathed save for a broken safety chain and sheared trailer hitch pin. There was the close encounter in a jungle swimming hole, nude, at night, with a deadly snake which smelled his balls then decided to let him live. There was the magic mushroom picking in a cow pasture, blending them up and drinking them and going on a 3-day "trip" in the middle of the Peten. There was the encounter with the Guatemalan government officials who suddenly appeared in his back country camp in the middle of the Peten (i.e. nowhere) to ask him if he knew about farming pot. There was the time he had to light a big fire on the finca so the helicopter could see where to pick him up to take him to Coban to talk to potential investors. And on and on he went. During his colorful raconteuring Lorenzo would suddenly stop, look me squarely in the eye and assert something like, "What we need to do is just love each other. That´s what it all comes down to, we just need to love each other.¨ I nod and vigorously agree with him. At last Carlos indicates it is time to go and we begin our parting which actually lasts another half hour. Lorenzo insists I sit for young Vivian to give me a facial with macadamia nut essential oil. Sweet Vivian massages my face with the salutary oil and when finished hands me a mirror and asserts, "muy joven" (very young). I look and nod, "Si, muy joven." Carlos gets a facial too and we both tip Vivian generously. I buy a t-shirt and Lorenzo walks us towards the road. He slows a bit and sincerely thanks us for the company. He turns to me, hugs me big and hard and says, "If you are ever all fucked up you have some place you can come to. This is your home. You are always welcome here." I smile, look him in the eye and thank him. I know he absolutely means what he is saying. Carlos and I wait on the road for the chicken bus. Carlos gets off in the nearby Ciudad Vieja and I continue on to Antigua, smiling, feeling content. It was a very good Monday. PICS coming soon!

A Bitter Irony

2008-12-11T12:58:00.000-08:00

Happy, healthy, brown people in colorful traditional Mayan clothing smiling out at you. That`s what you see everywhere there is a billboard or literature promoting Guatemala as a place to visit. If one knew no history and only saw these pictures, one would think that the Mayan people are the cherished people of Guatemala. This is hardly the case. The Mayans are at the bottom of the social strata. They are the beggars in the street, the poorest of the poor in Guatemala. They are the agriculture workers, the maids, the servants, the dishwashers...the invisible ones that quietly do the jobs that no one wants. They have long been the victims of racism and oppression. It is the Mayan people that have been most exploited for decades by the horrendous labor practices of the US backed United Fruit Company. It is the Mayan people that were, during the "civil war" (aka genocide) hunted down and killed en mass. It was the Mayan people that suffered the systematic destruction of over 400 villages by the Guatemalan government. Don´t they weave such lovely and colorful clothes and bags and table cloths? Aren´t they such charming, cute, little folks? Wouldn´t you like to buy a nice colorful woven bag for a couple dollars?

It´s the Little Things

2008-12-08T20:12:00.000-08:00

The things I am most thankful for when traveling in a developing country: my travel towel, my headlamp, Cipro, books, hearty/comfortable shoes, soft t-shirts, my journal, a couple good pens, my old red Kelty mid-size backpack (for weekend trips), and my glasses cause I can no longer read a word without them!

Sender, the Man from Monterrico

2008-12-08T15:08:00.000-08:00

We met through the window of the tinny tourismo van as the driver skidded to a stop on the bumpy dirt road in front of the modest pink stucco hotel in Montericco. Sender is a slight man, maybe 140lbs, short, 31 years old, Guatemalan born on the Pacific coast in Monterrico (see picture). He wore loose tan pants with a tie at the waist, a white tank t-shirt, thin black flip-flops, and a small Tigo backpack (Tigo is a local cellphone company). In english he eagerly petitions me with an offer for a sunrise boat tour of the mangrove canal that runs parallel to the Pacific about a kilometer inland. His english is good and in the hotel courtyard we sit sweating in the tropical heat and talk. I agree to the tour and give him a Q10 deposit on the Q60 fee (a little over 8 dollars total). He appears particularly, in a humble-shy kind of way, appreciative of my business, thanking me again and again as though having a patron was an unusual thing. I ask him where he learned his english and he mumbles "fucking LA." Although I think he meant for me not to, I hear him. However, not trusting I hear him correctly I repeat what I thought I heard with a smile to let him know I am not offended by the cursing. He responds with, "bad things happened in LA...very bad things." I share that I grew up 20 minutes from downtown LA and ask where he lived. He references a of couple streets and I respond with a knowing, "East LA." He nods. He changes the subject and we agree on the specifics for our 5am meeting...he will knock on my door to wake me as my shitty travel alarm clock doesn´t ring loud enough. I promise him I only need 5mins to get up and ready. With the details agreed to, he lingers seemingly eager to talk more. I am receptive and so he continues again alluding to the "bad things" in LA. Knowing a bit about East LA I ask if he had been involved with gangs. He says "no" then abruptly leans back in his chair and blurts out, "they killed my mother...gangs killed my mother." He seems a bit relieved and continues on with more details explaining that he wanted to join the gangs for revenge but returned to Guatemala instead. I ask few questions and he continues with his story. Back in Monterrico he descended into severe alcoholism and drug addiction living like a bum and wasting away to an unbelievable 82 pounds (something hard to envision looking at the healthy young man sitting before me). "I had so much rage and hate inside me...I could not handle it." Then months ago he looked into the mirror and saw his wasting body and did not recognize himself. He looked into the eyes of his two young sons and realized he wanted to change for them. He wanted to be a father to them and not let them remember this pathetic man he had become. Seven months he has been sober. His eyes are bloodshot, but he is healthy and eager and seems appreciative for the audience. The reason for the latter, I suspect, is a very complex thing having to do with the broader cultural context we find ourselves in, our relative social positions, more than anything particularly special about me. But I will acknowledge than I do make good eye contact and can be an engaged and excellent listener. After about a half hour in the courtyard talking, we shake hands and part. It is late morning and I go to the rustic hotel restaurant and sit in a plastic chair and eat rice and work on my unpeeled shrimps with the heads still on them. I ask the Peruvian hotel manager/waiter if Sender is a reliable guide. He cocks his head, frowns and offers, "I don´t like to talk bad about people but he sometimes shows and sometimes doesn´t." He adds a bit about him being a drunk and a trouble-maker. He offers to give me a reference for a reliable guide. I suspect all of this is not as innocent as it sounds as there is always a network of allegences in such situations and references and favors are surely rewarded. But I take him seriously, nodding and thanking him for his candor. I reflect on this new information. This is Guatemala. It is an extremely poor country. Monterrico is a very poor place and the small towns adjacent are even poorer. People have to scrape to live. There is no excess for the locals...every quetzalas counts. I know crime is rampant and the stories I have heard through the travelers grapevine are enough to intimidate even a tough broad like me (not that tough but I try to imagine myself so). Sender and I see each other later on the beach and chat more. Then later that night as I sit in Johny´s Place, a polapa restaurant on the beach, eating my bland dorado and steamed frozen cut green beans and carrots, Sender is suddenly standing next to me and once again confirms our date. He mentions that the manager at my hotel had spoken badly about him and a couple of young women had cancelled their reservation. He offers that another German couple will be joining us in the morning. I feign ignorance and offer a little sympathy. I am cool but something tells me to trust this young man...even though I feel some reservation. He seems eager and I struggle to discern whether it is because I am a sucker or he is just appreciative for the good faith. I spend my evening in an Adirondack chair at Johny´s reading and writing, listening to the Pacific waves violently crashing in the dark yards away. I walk along the beach in the dark back to my hotel and retire to my room. I take my first malaria pill in preparation for my trip to Utila in a week but I can´t sleep. Huddled under my mosquito net I read and write and play countless games of solitaire before finally passing out after 2am (I suspect the cause of the insomnia is the malaria pill). The knock comes at 5am. "Gracias. Un momento" I say instinctively. I stumble into my clothes, brush my teeth, grab my pocket flashlight and meet sender in the dark courtyard. He is alone. "We have to go pickup the other women who are coming at the other hotel" he says. "I thought you said a German couple was coming?" I say with some suspicion. He stumbles through an explanation that things have changed and now it is a group of women that is joining us. I don´t like the changing story given that we last spoke in the evening the night before. This coupled with the hotel managers warnings leaves me a little uneasy. I am nervous as we walk along the dark road through Montericco. I am alone with this guy walking down a dirt road through in a dangerous Guatemalan town. I recall seeing men the night before riding ATVs past Johny´s Place drunk with guns blatantly strapped to their sides. I think of all the stories I have heard of rapes and robberies throughout Guatemala....old and new stories as the stories are unending. As we walk Sender suddenly says, "thanks again for agreeing to come with me." I am cool but polite wondering if he senses my discomfort and is assuaging me into a situation I will regret. But something in me says despite my nervousness I should keep walking into the night with this man named Sender. Ten minutes later we reach another hotel and several young Europeans join us. I am relieved and walk ahead with Sender and we talk with ease now. We arrive at the dock and he situates us in the long wooden boat which, like an Italian gondola, he poles along the tranquil mangrove canal (see picture). It is still dark but there is now the sense of impending dawn. Sender is an excellent and knowledgeable guide offering information on the birds, plants and animals of the canal. We see the fisherman and wave and then stall in an open area and wait for the sun. In the shadows of predawn he points to the volcano's of Antigua: Agua, Fuego, Pacaya...and to the north XX which stands at the coast of Lake Alitlan. They are more than a hundred miles away and Atilan even farther. The perspective is stunning. Moments later the sun rises up over the mangrove and begins to illuminate the volcanos to the north. It is not something I can sufficiently describe and we sit in relative silence...stunned at the beauty. A couple of hours later we are back at the dock. Sender wishes the others a good day indicating they had already paid in full. He turns to me and I discretely hand him Q100 before he asks (which he showed no signs of doing). He frowns and starts explaining a bit frantically that he has no change. I interrupt him, "no my friend, it is all for you, I need no change." He stalls then says with utter sincerity, "no, are you sure?" There are people all around at the dock and I quietly say, "I am very sure. You were an excellent guide and you know so much." A hundered quetzalez is about $13.50 US. I hug him and say something sincere and encouraging about staying on the path he is on, staying sober and doing it for himself. His eyes well up (as do mine) and he thanks me again for trusting him and says that maybe he will see me again before I leave. I go back to the hotel sweaty and dirty and covered in deet. I eat a thin omelet with ham and American cheese and drink orange juice. I sleep under the mosquito net and ceiling fan for a couple of hours before showering, packing, and waiting for the sweaty van ride back to Antigua. I do not see Sender again. My hotel in Motericco on the black sand beach. Sunrise in the mangrove canal. Sender poling us along the canal. The dock in Montericco. Young girl poling through the mangrove cananl.

Enferma Poco

2008-12-05T09:19:00.000-08:00

Spent half the night on the toilet with painful cramps, etc. Lovely. But feeling better today. Although I am glad to be back, after last night my stomache and intestines have mixed feelings on the matter.

It´s Happening Again!

2008-12-04T17:18:00.000-08:00

I am bloody speaking Spanish. I speak it like a very small isolated child with a learning disability....but I speak it. Had a relatively long conversation with my host family at lunch. There was only the two of them and one other women who speaks even less than I do so there was some space to talk. Usually there are several students that talk very quickly and notice not the confused, bored expressions of those of us who are struggling. "Um, hola." As we did last year, my teacher and I spend a lot of time laughing. I am a big goof doing things like pointing out that "mejor" (which means ´the best thing´) sounds like "me whore." My teacher thinks I am nuts. Can´t imagine doing it any other way than laughing through it all. I might like laughing more than sex....wait, what the hell am I saying! That is what we here in Guate call A JOKE! But laughing AND sex, now that´s just heaven. Antigua feels incredibly familiar and relaxed. Many folks remember me from last year, even a waitress at a favorite retaraunt. It´s very sweet. But there is always the shadow side. My house is at the southern end of the city on a quiet street with little traffic. My housemate was, in the course of a few weeks, the victim of three attemted muggings. She fought back twice...once lost her cell phone and once was interupted by someone coming around the corner so the would-be robber left before getting anything from her. In one instance she was wacked-up-side the head. I keep my money in about four different places on my person. And at night, even early in the evening, I take cabs. My house last year was closer to the town center and I walked home alone at night except after about midnight. I was hyper aware and would wait or reroute if a street was emty or had no open businesses. As the economy tanks the most vulnerable are the poorest countries and people. And Guatemala is one of the poorest countries in all of Latin America. There will be less revenues for an already neglectfull government, fewer monies for NGOs working piece-meal to offer the most basic supports for the poorest people and orphans. And as the abstract notions of plumiting stockmarkets manifest into the reality of a world-wide reccesion, the most desperate will become more desperate. When I travel in Latin America I am always humbled and filled with gratitude for all that fate has allowed me to have and know. Only a fool would not. More later. PS Sorry for no spell check.

In Antigua Again

2008-12-02T15:48:00.000-08:00

I am here yet again arriving on TACA flight number 641 at about 730am on Sunday morning. For those of you who have said you are curious about such things, I offer a basic description of my current circumstances. I am staying with a wonderful middle aged Guatemalan couple, Luky and Jose. They host several students at a time and are very practiced at doing so. My accommodations are much nicer than last year. I have a decent sized room with a small armour, a bookshelf, a table for a desk and two twin beds. One bed I sleep on and the other I throw my clothes on. My door locks and I have a key...I have not hid my shite in the same way I did last time. There is a computer which we are allowed to use for an hour a day. However, on half the keys the letters and symbols have been worn off. Many of you know that my typing is some strange system that emerged from my isolated relationship with an old electric typewriter. I violently hunt and peck. With the little symbols missing, I freeze. So it is a bit of trial and error and painfully slow (um, slower actually). So to the internet cafes I shall go to write. In the house there are several students from Europe and the USA. They are very very young. Again I am the oldie. It bothers me not. They are much friendlier than the westerners I encountered last year. Last night we played cards....a game called asshole. If you lose you are the asshole. I was the asshole many times. It bothered me not. Luky and Jose are kind and animated and much more liberal than my previous host family. There are not religious symbols everywhere the eye can see. No Jesus hangs above my bed this time. Conversation topics during my first few meals have included circumcision, friends with benefits, loveless sex, and hangovers. The details were lost on me because of my crude Spanish, but the topics were unmistakable. It was very entertaining. And exhausting. I am remembering how exhausting it is to not understand so much of what is going on...but I am so much better than the first time around. My first night in town I spent at Cafe No Se and I was pacing quite well, for hours in fact, until people so generously insisted I shoot mescal. Bad idea. Bad hangover. But it was a brilliant night. When I walked into Dyslexia Books Carlos just kept saying, ¨I don´t believe it! I don´t believe it!¨ He finally believed it and we sat together for hours at No Se. All my buds were there...Mike, John, Nora, Steve, Kevin and Katie. We all laughed and laughed and told many stories and jokes. I am the big crazy dyke here and the role suites me. And as is always the case in No Se, I have already met new and interesting folks. I got so many warm hugs and, as usual, someone called a sweet cabbie to get my ass home safely at 3am. I must run for la cena (dinner). More later. Just wanted to check in. Adios. PS Spell check is not working so sorry. Will correct later...please forgive me for this disability. Punctuation is also limited because of the Spanish keyboards. The symbols often don´t match the action. Everything is hodge-podge here...a patchwork of old keyboards both English and Spanish and nothing ever seems to match up. And you have to learn little tricks like alt-64 gets you this @. You can´t send an email till you learn this one!

Parting Shot....

2008-01-09T20:42:00.001-08:00

Mike doing his best Johnny Cash impersonation. Notice perfect quote on the wall behind him to the right.

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.

TS Eliot

Home Safe

2008-01-05T16:10:00.000-08:00

I am back in the USA....safe....ready to face 2008...and already dreaming of my next adventures and missing my new friends. Thanks for reading.

New Years Eve in Bullets...and More

2008-01-05T15:43:00.000-08:00

The brilliant chaos of Parque Centro
Cafe No Se...but of course
New friends that it feels like I have known forever....
Fireworks, a lot of fireworks
Illegal Mezcal and Tequila
Poetry and singing and toasts....many toasts
Love and friendship and honesty and hope...
Lou Reed and Dylan and four chords and the truth
Nora and Barbara singing in German...the beauty of it all needing no translation
Steve quietly treating me like a queen...never in want for a thing
To bed at 6:00am!

Here's to 2008 and the friends that I will never forget:

Steve...the sweet Aussie with the most infectious smile and a quiet kindness. Have a big crush on you boy!

Mike, you are a kindred soul, truly. We are cut from similar clothe...and yes, "water finds it's own level." And your baritone singing "If I were a rich man..." is still an ear worm in my head!

Nora, you are gorgeous and loving and brave and talented....a Gypsy spirit...and you can drink more mescal than anyone I know!

Barbara, you are a love and a friend...we shall meet again in SF or Germany...."and fuck the bitches and the bastards!"

John. You are a beautiful, patient, accepting man and you ground No Se. Your openness and kindness are an inspiration to me. And thanks for always calling me a cab.

Catherine, a free spirit and new friend....we shall meet by the Sea of Cortez and make our own No Se wherever we need too. Here's to smart kind men in bars everywhere!

Ivy, gorgeous and kind and perpetually smiling. We'll do lunch and talk philosophy next time!

Anna it was an absolute pleasure talking to such a smart young woman. You were great company and I wish you the best in your studies.

Kevin. You are a good man and a great bartender. Thanks for taking on the reading assignment I gave you and for appreciating so much my freaky self. I look forward to seeing you and your girl in Oakland soon.

Vince...I was amazed at how well you found every excuse to use the word lesbian while in my presence...I thank you for calling me your favorite lesbian.

There are more of you....and I could go on, but Cafe No Se is a new touchstone for me, a place of healing and renewal and acceptance. You were all a good-bad influence on me and I felt so much love in that place I am a better woman for it. Thanks for all the hugs and kindness....I will be back....and Mike has promised me that when I return he will quietly pour me a drink and say "welcome home." Indeed Mike, water finds its own level.

To all my friends.... a few photos....

John praying to a Corona

Me & Barbara

Ivy, Anna & Me

Catherine, Mike, Barbara & Nora...at table...typical scene

Steve

Anna, ?, Nora, Edwin & Catherine

Me & Steve

Ivy & Elliot's head

Steve & John tending bar

John & Mike

Me & Steve...again!

Map of US...excellent cartoon of US politics!

Vince, me & Barbara

Expats in Rio and Bars

2008-01-02T13:07:00.001-08:00

The rich Guatemalans at my hotel...well, they spoke only Spanish and did not seem the slightest bit interested in me. And so, even with my clean sheets and hot shower, I wanted more....wanted to talk to someone....maybe practice a little English. So off I went into town....Brunos the guide book explained, is favored by the cruisers....I am talking sailors.

After a cab ride and buying my bus ticket at the station I crossed the street and followed the signs through a trashy yard surrounded by dilapidated buildings....to the waters edge and a small marina with an outdoor palapa restaurant and a swimming pool. I bought a drink. I made eye contact and started a conversation with a couple of chaps I have met 100 times before in marinas and bars in many different places over the course of my life. They each had two full drinks in front of them....it was happy hour...a double or two drinks....your choice. But here is an overview.....

There was Steve the retired cop from Gainesville Florida who sailed south and bounces between Guatemala, Honduras, and Belize. He is a self-proclaimed right-winger who is far kinder than the assertion would imply. He guessed within 2 minutes that I was from Berkeley and within 20 minutes asked me if I was gay. He told me about getting hit by lightening, anchored in the river in front of the marina....his mast took the hit. He lost his antenna, wind vane, some electronics....his dog and he had their hair buzzed straight up, defying gravity.....and Steve conjectured that perhaps it was god getting him for flying his confederate flag....hmm, ya think? He went on to explain that he is not racist and there is more to the history of the flag than slavery and the civil war was really about states rights and blah blah blah. I told him I understood his logic.....I left out the part about disagreeing, and he was drunk (see pic...Steve right, Jim left).

Then there was Jim a sweaty, salty, old ex merchant marine who had seen the world many times over. He too had a boat and spent his time bopping around the western Caribbean...and drinking...sitting next to Steve....sipping his beer....swimming in the warmth of his hoary buzz. They were both unhealthy, unhappy, save for the liquor and the friendship of bars and the habit of boat tending.

There was Al (see pic left) who ran a whore house in a neighboring port town and treated his whores well. He got out of the business because of the stress and the violence. Now he does sailing charters and was insistent I come back emphasizing over and over again that his cruises are gay friendly and clothing optional.

There was Doc, a retired public health doctor from NYC who was trying to pick up on young Adriane from Canada (see pic right...Doc with manuscript). He was reading to her (I insinuated myself into the situation) from his surreal sailing narrative that had Columbus and Magellan and Cook in his cockpit with him as he crossed the Atlantic....and actually, his writing wasn´t that bad. And Adrianne confessed she was going to sail with him to the Bay Islands...until she saw his boat....too small. She is not a sailor and asked me my opinion. I concurred, too small and a front was headed south.

Then Jody joined us (see pic below), a sane woman from the states who used to be a stockbroker. She is living in Rio now and her daughter taught English in Argentina and just started working at a local orphanage. Affable, in her late 50s, we drank and when Steve got belligerent about US politics we scattered and Jody asked me if I wanted to join her at another bar run by a really cool Dutch couple. Sure Jody...and so we headed out through the nasty yard and passed the armed guard carrying one of those shotguns (see pic...always be nice to the guards with guns).

Sundogs is cute, tropical, small, has top shelf booze and a quieter crowd. And so we chatted with foxy Jessica from Minneapolis...she told me about going to Cuba on a French catermaran with her French lover and she didn´t spend a dime but still got a picture sent to her from the US state department asking her what the hell she was doing in Cuba...it was a pic of her in a store! Our government is so lovely...it was eventually dropped. While there she listened to Castro give a 7 hour speech in the park...with breaks...apparently this is common. Lastly, she asserted, she only sails south...never north. Been on many boats....her own and other folks. She was gorgeous and sexy....but knew it a bit too much.

And there were the owners of Sundog, Julienne...he is cute and we talked music and politics....and about his tatoo and the number 19 and the tao te ching (see pic him behind bar). And there was his beautiful wife Babbette who flitted about charming everyone and referenced jokingly something about she and Jessica being porn stars (see pic, Babette left, Jessica right).

Bars, no matter where I am I can count on them for company...I just wrote the following to a dear friend in an email...

....the meeting people in bars. It is an easy place to meet people and I fit in very well.....very well. I am skilled in bars, humble bars....sometimes sophisticated bars....but best in bars with pros and not a drop of haughtiness. I know these people.....I grew up with them...I recognize them in any town...in any town tavern in any country. And through the haze of intoxication...through the liberation of the drink...I see them and love them. Truly. And they return the favor...without condition at 4 in the morning.

I didn´t shower for days....why bother....you only sweat more...I am not sleeping with anyone...and everything is dirty, save for the sheets in my expensive hotel.

The Rio Dolce and a Jungle that Grows Sideways

2007-12-30T19:17:00.000-08:00

The Rio Dolce is a river in the eastern Guatemalan jungle that flows through a couple of gorgeous lakes and into the Caribbean. It is a place of intersections....the clashing and melding of Mayan, Ladino, and Caribbean culture....the acute juxtaposition of the richest and the poorest of Guatemala....and a smattering of hard drinking crusty old expats that often tinker about on boats....but more about them later.

Getting There

Ok, lets start from the beginning....always with the early morning pick-up....5:00am this time. Geeeze! I decided to try Guatemalan "first class" travel in the form of a Pullman bus. This however requires catching the bus in Guatemala City in an armpit of a neighborhood. I arrived to find the bus I had planned to take to Rio Dolce had been cancelled and the next one did not leave for hours.....while I was stumbling to speak in something approximating Spanish, the woman behind the counter suggested I take a bus to Morales...close to Rio, and then grab a van into town. What the hell. I went for it.

After hours of bumpy hallucinogenic half sleep, we reached Morales and I was instructed to exit the bus at a strange intersection with a gas station, a couple tiendas, and local vans stuffed with mostly human cargo whizzing this way and that.

¿Donde esta el bus a Rio Dolce? Juan Pablo, a short adorable young college student from Guate said he spoke English and he was headed to Rio also. We found the van stop and waited only a few minutes and then we were stuffed into the vehicle and, as is the way here, picked up many folks along the way.

Now there is something you should know about the vans here. Picture a light-tinny Toyota minivan with 4 rows of seats plus the front. Now envision the isle used to access the rows of seats...at the end of each of these rows there is another seat that folds down so that as each row fulls, it is ultimately closed off with one more seat. Well for claustrophobics like me (ask my sister about holding my hand during an "open" MRI while I sobbed and hyperventilated fucked up on a Valium....not pretty). Well, there I sat in the back of the van, stuffed onto the seat, another 3 seats folded down in front of me and filled with people....no escape rout whatsoever....and somehow I stuck my elbow out the window, felt the breeze, breathed....and we bumped along the road towards Rio without me losing my mind.

The town of Rio Dolce was chaos with an inexplicable traffic jam in the main intersection of this strange little place. I jumped out of the van and into another that took me to my hotel after sitting in the traffic mess for quite a long time....sweating....waiting.

Clean Sheets Again

I stayed at a nice hotel slightly out of town and on the river. I learned that this resort is frequented mostly by rich Guatemalans....the 2% or so that have a grossly disproportionate amount of the wealth of this country and have exerted, in collusion with the USA, a political stranglehold on the poor people of Guatemala. I sat next to them and ate excellent food and enjoyed the comforts of affluence. It was strange....spending my money there...lounging in my privilege....like passing for straight when I am so damn queer...or being white in the south having tea with racists.....so polite and refined and complicated.....but there I sat, undeniably privileged. It was weird. I arranged for a boat tour the next day and slept on clean sheets and a decent bed.

The Rioi Dolce

Captain Daniel and his son Don picked me up at 8 in a 15 foot panga with a bimini top and 40hp outboard engine. We putted up through the eastern end of the huge Lake Isabal and into the Rio Dolce towards the Caribbean....into small lagoons with cormorants and beds of floating water Lillie's and thick mangroves strutting over shallow water thick with underwater growth. We passed by small simple thatched roofed homes of fishermen working with nets out of traditional dugout canoes...buoys made of bits of Styrofoam or a plastic orange juice bottle. We were approached by young children in their smaller dugouts....smiling....a small boy holding up a wiggling crab he had caught, a proud young fisherman. Me, a strange rich gringa...a woman alone venturing about with her male guides....looking.....$500 camera clicking shots of the poor but happy others. Goddamn my education!!

Then into the canyon....hundreds of feet up the canyons climb....and out of them grows the jungle still! Sheer cliffs can not stop the fecundity...the determination and adaptability of the rainforest....and so she grows, trees perpendicular...orchids hanging from cliffs...ferns and god knows what all growing green and lush on the sides of this stunning canyon! And then turning the corner she appeared, the Caribbean, calm and flat and humid.

We pulled into Livingston (see pic) a small town more Caribbean in culture than not. The music distinctly more African and the food more greasy. I spent a few hours walking and sweating and eating something fried.....called my family...bought some gifts. Then back to the boat bringing Daniel and Don ice cream to cut the heat some. We motored back through that gorgeous canyon and I sat quietly, in awe.

My Christmas...An International Feast

2007-12-26T15:42:00.000-08:00

Wandering around, alone as usual as is my way during the day, I ran into Mike and John from Cafe No Se....predictably they whisked me off to the Cafe chastising me for not having been by in a while. I explained I was letting my liver heal. We had not been together but a few minutes and Mike asked if I had somewhere to be on Christmas Eve....nope...then you must join us for dinner. I enthusiastically accepted.

Once at the Cafe John introduced me to many folks and then arrived Nora (Mike´s girl) and her mother Barbara...both from Germany and both beautiful souls. Barbara had just finished a 50 hour journey from Germany to join her daughter for the holidays. And so we commenced on another night of drinking and talking and Carlos showed up and Steve was there and Justin played guitar in the corner and confessed it was his birthday and it was mescal shots and a grand toast and finally I practiced some self discipline and grabbed a cab home knowing the next night would be a marathon. I was right.

Being fairly new to Gt when Mike said come at 8pm I thought 8:30 would be fashionably late...I was very wrong. In Gt time I was geeky early and Nora hadn´t even had a chance to shower yet! But soon enough the gang trickled in...Carlos and his new girl from Taiwan that he had just met...and Genesis an expat from Ca (see pic below of Genesis, Barbara & Nora)...and Martha another expat and Jason the singer from Seattle who teaches in Honduras....and John and then Steve came streaking through the house with his nutty French expat pal, Benito....shirts off and tattoos...they giggled and ran back to No Se to tend bar.

Barbara and Nora had spent the day creating an amazing gourmet feast (see pic of master chef Barbara). We had celery soup and salad and turkey and duck and rabbit and two kinds of potatoes and zucchini casserole...and bread and cheese and wine and my god we all stuffed ourselves! It was a stunning meal in a stunning place. Mike and Nora´s apartment is gorgeous, open air with tall ceilings with chunky exposed beams and wood molding and course walls and eclectic decor. The table was set with candles and decorations and fruit and wine....and suddenly Mike looked across the table and said he needed my help. He said his family had a tradition that to start the holiday dinner someone would chuck a roll across the table....well, sweet Mike picked me and chucked the roll he did...I caught it of course and he said he knew I would have good hands.

After stuffing ourselves with incredible food the night eased into the slow long comfortable decent into a torpid evening of conversation and disclosure punctuated by burst of laughter and singing...and of course...lots of drinking. I heard about Barbara's younger men and her time in Paris and the gay clubs in Berlin and how the gays are so great there....and Nora shared about her crazy rock&roll marriage in Denmark and then to Antigua and sleeping with Mike a year and a half later...woops. And we heard Mikes stories about smuggling their new brand of mescal into Gt from Mexico (they have since become legal but their brand bears an appropriate moniker...Illegal Mescal is the brand! One story involved a guy dressed up as a priest and his friend had put porn in his bag which the border guys found....confused they just zipped up the bag and sent the "padre" on his way.

I lasted until 3:30am and felt more welcome there then I ever could have imagined would happen thousands of miles from home...a stranger just weeks in this town. These folks are amazing and I am so blessed to have the privilege of their company and generosity. Cafe No Se and the boys have become a touchstone for this quirky broody butch dyke from Ca.

My New Cell Phone

2007-12-26T15:28:00.000-08:00

Up until December 24 I had intentionally avoided phones...for a variety of reasons. However, missing my family on Jesus´birthday (I believe he was actually born in June?) I bought a pre-paid cell phone for about $28 bucks. Now the thing is, I barely know how to use it as all the instructions are in Spanish. I have successfully made a few calls to family and friends and the thing worked pretty good. I finally figured out what my number is....what gave me a clue? Well, I turned the phone over and noticed the giant sticker on the back that says "mi numero 45277956." So if anyone wants to call me now you have my number...and from what I can figure you would need to dial these numbers first (001+502+number). But don´t bother leaving a message if you don´t get me because I have no idea how to retrieve my messages....perhaps I will find someone to help me. But I am pretty ok not having much phone in my life....for now.

A Rambling Bit of Musing on CA Politics....

2007-12-23T18:58:00.000-08:00

I can not tell you just how comforting it is to walk out of the Guatemala City Airport and see a sweet Guatemalan man, smiling, sans a couple teeth, holding a sign that says ¨Mary Rainwater." This is a tough town and the more I read and hear the more it sinks in. I would not want to negotiate Guate in a car by myself....or with inexperienced westerners. Every structure near the airport....houses and businesses alike, are walled and the walls are covered with barbed wire or glass fragments cemented into the top of the walls. Some sweet souls have planted vines that grow to obscure some of the wire.

As our plane descended over Guate the city comes into clearer view....the amorphous squares suddenly become detailed....tin roofs and trash and poverty...the neighborhoods in this sprawling city. This city has been one of the nodes of violence in the recent decades as the civil war raged in the rural highlands and in Guate. Politicians and students and activists plucked from their lives and killed or¨"disappeared." For most of the 20th century Gt has been exploited by an elite few, foreign interests, and the nefarious intervention of the CIA. The many attempts by brave politicians to affect reforms have been met with violence. At the root of much of the struggle is the land ownership which, as would be expected, is mostly (now and past years) owned by a very small elite and enterprises like the United Fruit Company (US).

Decades ago there was a modest move to nationalize a small amount of land not being actively use by United Fruit....the result was a backlash, the paranoia of the Monroe doctrine and a CIA backed coup. Since then, the government has been largely controlled by the military and political attempts at significant reforms have failed.....beyond the violence, the politicians are impotent because of the military strength which is associated with the elite interests. Anyone who knows anything about the last hundred years of Central American politics knows this is a very common story....US policies in Nicaragua, El Salvador, Panama, Honduras....it is repulsive. And the poor folks, the worst hit the indigenous Mayas struggle to get the slightest bit ahead...the slightest bit of improvement in the quality of their lives.

But there is some hope. With the help of international human rights groups a few Mayan families have successfully prosecuted the army for disappearances and death squads killing their family members. This has happened only in the last few years and would not have been successful without the shielding affect of international NGO support. The Gt. army is a little less likely to gun down a bunch of lawyers from the west.....but poor Mayans in the hills, no problem. And fortunately under the recent presidents there has been a reduction in the military...both in personnel and overall spending.

Anyway, having long been aware of the politics of some of Central America and the appalling interventions of the US government (i.e. Reagan and the Iran Contra fiasco....or lets talk Cuba for Christ sake!) it is another thing to come here and see the actual faces of so many people affected.....to drive through the towns and see the standard of living and hear the stories. It brings the stories into a vivid reality that doesn´t come off a page in a book or through the nefarious master storytelling of Oliver North.

Below is an article that exemplifies the stuff I am learning about and is a persistent reality in this country.

***************************

DEMONSTRATORS SHOT AND KILLED BY GUATEMALAN ARMY

Guatemala Human Rights Commission

March 16, 2005

URGENT ACTION
On March 15, in Colotenango, Huehuetenango, at least two demonstrators protesting the Central American Free Trade Agreement (CAFTA) were shot and killed by Guatemalan army forces.

The men who were shot to death were Juan López, from the village of Xemal, Colotenango, and Ical resident José Sanchez Gómez, who died from his wounds in the hospital. Both were members of the Campesino Unity Committee (CUC). According to CUC, at 6:30 in the morning on March 15, CUC members gathered to demonstrate peacefully, along with members of the National Indigenous and Campesino Committee (CONIC), the Association for Community Promotion and Development (CEIBA), MAMA MAQUIN, MAGISTERIO, and the National Coordinating Committee of the Displaced of Guatemala (CONDEG).

Guatemalan farmer Juan Lopez from Xemal was shot dead by armed forces.
The demonstrators were blocking the Inter-American Highway as a form of protest when, as CUC reports, a contingent of police from the departmental seat of Huehuetenango faced off aggressively with demonstrators, while army troops surrounded the protestors. At around midday, without a word, the government forces began to throw tear gas into the crowd towards the women and children, and opened fire on the men. In addition to the two men killed, at least ten protesters were injured, two critically. The Center of Informative Reports of Guatemala (CERIGUA) reports that the number of injured reached fifty. The names of some of the wounded:Marcos PérezSantiago MoralesJose Gomez SánchezDomingo RamosMiguel Angel VelásquezPedro Pablo Domingo Prior to the shootings, CEIBA had reportedly learned that the army planned to surround protestors and attack them.

The Associated Press wrote "Mauro Guzman, mayor of Huehuetenango, a city near the site of the protest, said police were fired upon." However, Mauro Guzmán is the governor of the department of Huehuetenango, and not the mayor of the town of the same name.
BACKGROUND:On March 10, the Guatemalan Congress ratified CAFTA. On Monday, March 14, about 4,000 demonstrators opposed to the agreement rallied in the streets in Guatemala City. Police used tear gas and a water cannon to disperse them after police were pelted with rocks and bottles. Nineteen people were injured and 16 were detained.

The government and the leaders of civil society reached an agreement on the evening of March 14 to initiate a dialogue process, to be mediated by Cardinal Rodolfo Quezada Toruno, with the aim of ending the violent protests of the previous few days by coming to some agreements regarding the trade agreement. Nonetheless, before any meeting was held, President Óscar Berger on March 15 bypassed the dialogue process and gave CAFTA his full approval.
Vice-president Eduardo Stein is meeting today, March 16, with leaders of the movement opposed to CAFTA to try to defuse mounting tension over the treaty. It is not clear how Stein will seek to placate the protesters now that CAFTA is a fait accompli. The protesters want CAFTA to be put to a national referendum.

The protesters are also calling for the interior minister, Carlos Vielmann, and the director of the National Civil Police, Erwin Sperissen, to be removed from office and want a response from the government to their demands by today, March 16.

ACTION REQUESTED:
1. Express concern about the recent extra-judicial executions carried out by the government security forces in Colotenango, Huehuetenango
2. Urge President Berger to negotiate an end to such conflicts rather than allow repressive measures to be taken by the security forces.
3. Calling on the government to carry out an immediate, impartial and exhaustive investigation into the killing of Juan López and José Sanchez Gómez, to make the results public and bring those responsible to justice

A Marie is a Marie and By Any Other Name is Still a Marie...

2007-12-23T18:55:00.000-08:00

In this country I am Mary, Merry, Marry, Maria...and to a select few, Mer, Mar or Maar. I am never Marie. There are no Marie´s in Guatemala....but I am so ok with that....and I answer to any of the above, happily....I will answer to anyone generous and interested enough to call me by any of my many names.

The Peten, Tikal, ¨"the Serbian Guy from the Jungle"....Freak Shows and More

2007-12-23T11:33:00.000-08:00

The Peten
I am in the the peten...the lowland jungle of northern Guatemala. There is something about this place that seduced me last January when I drove from San Ignacio, Belize, over a long, bumpy dirt road through small pueblos with shack houses with tin roofs and perfectly dressed school children...and then into the biosphere/National Park and Tikal. The jungle....I just had to come back and spend more time here. For some reason, I was enamored with this land of extremes....even with all it´s heat, humidity, and bugs....

There are two seasons here: wet and dry. Literally folks recognize a winter and a summer...these were the seasons also recognized by the ancient Mayans. A subtropical rain forest, the winter, which ends in November, brings an average of 12 hours of rain a day. The summer brings oppressive heat and humidity...one thing about the peten, you sweat.....and nothing seems to fully dry once wet.

I have been lucky in that the weather has been far more moderate than my previous trip. The heat is a bit less and the humidity not as intense....and praise the lord, the mosquito's have been moderate as well...I think I have about 10 new bites...plus ten from the Honduran jungle leaves me with about 20 itchy spots.....and hopefully no tropical diseases.

Tikal
But let me start at the beginning. I have been known to say that I prefer to get up early only if it involves sex or fishing....well, I guess you could add jungle trips to the list. Of course this trip started with a 4:00am van pick-up and then a drop off at a small bungalow at the Guate City airport....still dark, the driver pulled over at a building that looked nothing like an airport and indicated I should get out. I was the only one to leave the van....trusting into the dark I went.

After checking in, weighing our bags to make sure we were under the 20lbs limit for the small craft we boarded a prop plane and headed north....most everyone crashing as soon as the plane took off. After nearly an hour we descended into a thick layer of clouds and landed in Flores airport....a stark place. I was greeted by a guy from Jungle Lodge who collected a few of us and into the van we went. An hour drive to Tikal and the lodge....entering the park it was just as I remembered it from a few months ago. We checked in, dumped our bags, and met our guide Carlos, an affable middle aged guy with an infectious smile and a limp. We walked the park and Carlos educated us on the history of the site including descriptions of the political tensions regarding the archeology and excavations. We spent hours walking the park, climbing the temples, taking in the jungle....seeing the birds and creatures, spider monkeys....something that looked like a raccoon....toucans.

Carlos and the Jungle Lodge
While walking Carlos and I invariably talked politics....he said he makes a clear distinction between the US government and the US people. He said that whenever there is a crises in Gt. the US people respond with great generosity....he explained that he was in a motorcycle accident and hurt his leg badly. He could not afford surgery in Gt. Visiting US surgeons operated on his leg for free and he is now recovering.

Carlos was born in Gt. and is of Mayan and Spanish decent. He speaks excellent English and pursued archeology as a second career, earning a BA at the University of Florida in Gainsville....he boasted, "I am a Gator." Back to the lodge we were served an excellent lunch. One man´s salad was late in coming and Carlos seemed very agitated about this....he finally confessed that his family owns the Jungle Lodge. His father had been associated with the site and excavations from the 1950´s....and he is credited with discovering temple 5. There are amazing historical pictures in the restaurant showing the early excavations and the archaeologists and excavators working diligently to reclaim the site from the jungle...a very daunting and laborious task. Only 10-15% of Tikal has been excavated and it is suspected that there are more than 3000 structures. Carlos was animated and warm regularly hugging folks...we were lucky to have him as a guide.

After a 4:00am start and walking miles through the park, a long siesta in my modest but comfy room was in order....hmmmm....clean sheets and extra pillows. Yummy! It was a satisfying nap.

Zoran...the Serbian Guy from the Jungle
On the tour a sweet, handsome guy named Zoran seemed extra friendly to me. After a bit he "casually" mentioned he had been married for 12 years then was involved with a man for 5 years....having recently been dumped. We immediately clicked and I invited him to have dinner with me and he enthusiastically agreed. After a siesta and a shower we met at 7:00pm and started drinking a lovely white wine from Chile. We had an excellent meal and immediately shared many details of our lives....Zoran sharing his heartache about his coming out in Serbia....the war and harboring his family in Greece....his world travels.

We ate and drank and formed the fast friendship that comes from being thousands of miles from home, heartbroken, in the jungle, traveling alone....the winter solstice promising a rebirth and healing. God bless the gays. We drank more Chilean wine and lamented that the lodge would close at around 10:00pm because the electricity would be turned off (it is on for a limited time each day...couple hours in the a.m....one in the afternoon....and in the evening till 9-10pm...then off with the generator). We were lucky that we got light until 10:15pm. Zoran was leaving first thing in the morning and he considered trying to change his flight so we could do the sunrise hike together....but in the end it made no sense. So he walked me to my bungalow and we hugged good night promising to keep in touch and visit each other...SF and Athens. He wrote down his contact info titling it..."the Serbian guy from the jungle." Special guy and I hope to make it to Athens someday soon....and I promised to take Zoran sailing in the SF Bay....and to the Castro of course!

Sunrise in the Jungle
I woke at 4:30am to the sound of my travel alarm....dressing quickly in the dark with the help of my headlamp....then to the lodge where folks gathered and checked in with the guides. We fell into a line and trekked through the dark jungle...only the light of our lamps shining on our path....no moon or star light could penetrate the jungle canopy.....and a thick mist hung all around us making the air heavy and wet.

We crossed through the central plaza where the previous nights solstice ceremonies endured into the early hours (mostly westerners...more on this later). They maintained a large fire with fuel and a constant supply of incense. People played music and were dancing in the blackness of the night.....the two temples of the plaza undulating in the flame light.

We continued to temple 4 and then made the steep climb up the rickety stairs to the top. Temple 4 peaks well above the jungle canopy offering stunning views. When the sky is clear you can see the temples of the main plaza and a few other structures....you are literally looking down on the jungle (had climbed it the previous day with a clear sky). This structure was the tallest human-made structure in the western hemisphere for over a thousand years until the late 19th century when the towers for the Brooklyn Bridge were erected (pic of ruins above canopy....temple 4 on the right and to the left temple 1 & 2 in the central plaza).

Once to the top, we all settled on the steps and our guides instructed us to be quite, explaining that this is a place for meditation....one guide suggested that we consider how often we should be so lucky to be quiet at such an amazing site on the solstice with people from all over the world. We shut our pie-holes and waited for the sun.

The dawn was not really a sunrise....rather with the typical heavy morning mist of the jungle, we watched the jungle emerge through the mist. Now, it is difficult to describe the noises that come with the waking of the jungle (this happened in Copan also). As the sun comes the place just bursts with noise and activity. Birds everywhere squawking and singing....and howler monkeys and spider monkeys and things I can´t even imagine all yelling and screeching their good mornings. We all watched and listened in silence for the better part of an hour as the jungle woke up and started the trip towards summers light. It was a stunning start to a new year....presenting a unique solute to the light and the promise of good things to come.

Juan and "A Lady in Red"
For the rest of the morning a small group of us were given a tour by Juan, a half Mayan half ladino man who has been in the peten his whole life. Juan spoke good English and knew a lot about the wildlife. We took more circuitous routes to the sites....single track trails through the thick of the jungle. We saw many toucans and parrots and a bunch of spider monkeys. At one point the monkeys threw things at us from high in the canopy. I had a pair of small field glasses and watched them eat plums...doing their incredible gymnastics while they ate and looked for new bunches of the fruit.

Now Juan and I chatted as I am want to do with the folks I meet on the road. When he learned I was studying in Antigua he started talking to me only in Spanish....making his sentences slow and simple. He advised I should listen to romantic Spanish songs where the singers enunciate. He explained that he learned English in this manner and noted a good song was "A Lady in Red."
Freak Shows...Westerners Where They Should Not Be
The evening Zoran and I ate dinner a man most of you would recognize from Berkeley or the Haight. Mid 50´s, long gray hair, hippy-dippy clothes (see pics). He and some other folks like him invited us to view his video about the "Mayan chakras". Well, as a cultural exploration, I could not resist (and Zoran and I were a bit tipsy by now). "Lionfire" gave some barely coherent introduction explaining that the Mayan chakras come from the back and up over the crown chakra....ok. We watched a short video that was a bizarre montage of Tikal images and psychedelic colorings and FXs. Very fucking bizarre. I feigned appreciation and Zoran and I took our leave preferring a bit more conversation and Chilean wine.

What I discerned from pressing a few of the locals is that the bulk of the Mayan traditionalist do not do there ceremonies in the central plaza on the solstice anymore because of the presence of these hippy-dippy freak-shows that come from mostly the states. There were not many, maybe 35 or 40 total and they stayed the night in the jungle with the fire and whatnot. I gotta say it was repulsive.

A few of this crew had meals at the lodge and I was subjected to their prattling nonsense and obliviousness. One corpulent and clueless man talked incessantly at his two female companions....didactically talking about the peace and bringing the peace to the people and the book he was going to write about the trek to Tikal for the solstice. He spoke loudly and pompously, imposing his words on those around him. Unfortunately I ended up in the van to Flores with these people and they presumptuously asked the men to take them to their hotels not in Flores. They were loud and obnoxious in the van and when they departed the Mayan guys said they were not supposed to drive them there and that they had taken advantage of them. These folks are not typical of the US folks I have seen here and I was appalled at their clueless behaviour.

US Folks
Generally speaking the US folks I see about can be grossly categorized in the following stereotypical ways:

Scrappy Students: Students who wear the same clothes every day....not flashy...wear a Guatemalan bag slung over a shoulder...or a backpack. Most seem to be on the road for awhile....or in Gt for some time studying.

Squeaky Clean Richies: these folks stay at the nicest hotels, for short periods of time, and are conspicuous as they dress for the day...they look squeaky clean and out of place...pot bellied men and shopping women.

Young Drunks: the very young kids from the US...they drink too much, talk too loud and stumble around like it is Greek week. They drip with clueless privilege.

Crunchy ExPats: these folks have soaked up some of Guatemala and seem at home. They are low-key and respectful, speak fluent Spanish and seem very chill...if sometimes cool and aloof.

And in Conclusion
Well this has been a rambling entry of everything and whatnot. Let me finish by saying that I love the jungle....and after talking to a few folks who have been, I am starting to think seriously about the Amazon. To be continued!

Feeling Better....

2007-12-19T19:26:00.000-08:00

A couple Cipro, a long nap, a decent meal...and my stomach seems to be recovering. Miss my buds tho...and my dogs....my music....and my fucking bed!! :-)

Antigua is Not a Comfortable Town

2007-12-19T19:08:00.000-08:00

I mean physically comfortable. Besides the persistent nightly torture that is my bed, there are few surfaces that offer comfort to the physical self in this town. At first I thought I was a pansy-ass wimp, but others....younger than I, have confirmed that this town ain´t comfy. Most restaurants and bars boast straight back chairs made of unforgiving hard wood. On occasion one will find such chairs with a thin pad laid upon them....offering little relief from the hard surface.

Most Internet cafes are an ergonomic nightmare....with plastic (much more comfy) or wooden chairs at awkward heights relative to the keyboards...stations crammed tightly together. There is one exception, the Mono Loco bar has an Internet cafe that has cushy chairs and real desks and a logical mating of the two. I go there regularly to write on this blog and whatnot. While I write I consciously appreciate the comfort afforded me.....we are spoiled in the US....beyond comprehension!

The picture is what I dream about at night....

Cipro is a Very Good Thing

2007-12-18T20:47:00.000-08:00

It has happened, I am sick. They say it happens to everyone...just a matter of time. Tonight I will take Cipro...perhaps just a day or two. Thought it was the malaria meds upsetting my stomach....but too much time has passed. Gonna nip it asap this time....before Tikal and the jungle. Getting an intestinal something or other is so common there is an add in the local gringo rag soliciting folks with diarrhea. It asks if you have had diarrhea in the past 72 hours and if you will remain in the area for 3 days....if yes, they invite you to participate in a clinical trial for medicine to treat this ubiquitous condition among foreigners. One is tested and given medicine and $250 for participating. Luckily, mine is still just gurgling in my stomach....but one learns to always carry toilet paper....and be prepared for the worse. Just thought you should know....

Twisted Tanya, the Interminable Brit, and "You Know They Hate You"

2007-12-18T19:55:00.000-08:00

In the evening at the Inn I swung in a hammock, reading, watching the sun set and then being entertained by the most incredible symphony of tropical birds. For my night in Copan my inn keepers suggested I eat at Twisted Tanyas, a cafe run by a hard drinking nut from Britain. I made my way there and was greeted by her Honduran husband...I think his name was Harold. Just after I sat I saw a British chap that I had seen at the ruins, he said hello and we started to chat. I invited him to join me and he accepted. He is a criminal attorney from London, Ashley, 58 years old, world travelled, well read....the conversation started quite well as he drank his Honduran beer and I my mojito made with a special blend of mint leaves. We talked literature and politics...I gave my usual apology for George Bush and he offered one for Tony Blair. Then dear Ashley preceded to talk at me for about an hour and a half. His questions were thinly disguised excuses for him to tell another story about some bit of travel. At last we walked home to the B&B (he was staying there too). I never got to meet Tanya...rumor has it she was too hungover to hang with the patrons that night. Choosing not to retire immediately I stayed up and talked to the inn keepers, Angela and her nephew Cyd, the sweetest young guy. Again we talked politics and travel and whatnot...at one point I noted that I found that in Antigua most Europeans were not very friendly (except the Scandinavians). Angela nodded knowingly and said, "well you know they hate you." Hmmm....did not know that so completely until visiting here. She added that those in Copan are in agreement that the best visitors...the best clients are those form the US. This was a nice thing to hear after being told that the bulk of Europe hates me!! Angela is from Honduras and runs the Inn with her husband Howard and their nephew Cyd. Cyd was so damn affable and kind. He was just a joy to talk with....22 years old and perpetually smiling. They explained that Copan is very safe...a woman could walk alone at all hours of the night and be perfectly safe. A nice change from the always present tension and caution I exercise in Gt. At last I retired into the sweetest, most wonderful bed ever....well only by contrast to the piece of shit that has been tormenting me for two weeks. The bed had clean, fresh smelling sheets....my room was big, there was a reading lamp (at home I use my headlamp) and the toilet was right there, clean and close and indoors. I slept so well....when the morning came I was hesitant to leave...taking some time to soak in the wonderful bed and the clean room. At last I kicked my ass up and to breakfast....and who is there to join me? Dear Ashley with another round of "have you been to?...have you heard off?....reminds me of...." Eggs and fresh fruit and off to walk the streets of Copan. At last it was time to pack and head to the cafe where the van would pick me up for the return to Antigua. As I shuffled up to Via Via and sat down for lunch, who should I see? Yep, dear Ashley again, who headed straight into his storey staring him...myself and a sweet young woman from Sweden sat and sipped our drinks and smiled. At last, into the back of the van again where Eric, the young and slightly socially awkward Dutchman, proceeded to tell me about his diarrhea....a common topic in Gt. At the border he complained that the bathrooms cost money asserting, "I have to pay them because their food makes me sick." Poor boy. And take a shower once a week would ya? The vans are small. The ride home was extra long and the back window was broken open with taped tempered glass flapping in my ear the whole way home....then a car accident that backed up traffic to an imperceptible crawl....life on the road. Great weekend tho...blabbing brit, sweet Hondurans, stinky Dutchman....it was all good. Especially that damn bed. It was just yummy. Could have hugged it and cried when I left.....

Mi Amigos...

2007-12-18T19:45:00.000-08:00

I now have friends here in this town that is a strange amalgamation of locals and transients from all over the globe. People come and go...sometimes they stay for weeks, months...years. But most leave at some point and the locals are use to it all. Friendships are formed quickly and intensely given these circumstances. I am greeted by friends on the street....Jose who owns Cafe Flor...he now offers a handshake and kiss to the cheek. We have talked movies and accents and music. There is Giovani, Mr. Gay, with whom I seem to have a magnetic attraction to as we see each other on the street, big gay hellos and hugs..."buenos noche, I love jew (you with accent)." There is Jon from Cafe No Si who keeps telling me to come by so we can talk more. There is Carlos from the bookstore who says, "you are famous now"...I think in part for buying him drinks all night and leaving a generous tip. The other night found me at the local Irish Pub where Steve, a retired merchant seaman from England, and I sat and drank and talked...and the sweetest guys behind the friendliest bar I have ever been in. Joe from Puerto Rico, and Aiden from Ireland and Mayrin from Gt, and Maria who is Guatemalan but speaks with a British accent. All really nice people.

Copan Ruins and my Guide Bill

2007-12-17T18:40:00.000-08:00

Setting ones alarm for 3:30am is simply a depressing thing...even if it is to start a trip to Copan. But set it I did, after meticulously packing my backpack for the rushed trip to Honduras. The driver was late and I parked my ass in the back of the "bus" at about 4:30am. The bus was actually a tin-can of a van that has been battered by the bumpy roads of Guatemala for quite some time. I sat in the back on a thinly padded, stiff seat that bounced me about like a convulsing see-saw as the driver drove like a fucking maniac. Sleeping was not an option. For many I know, vomiting most likely would have commenced. (A quick note on transportation. There seems to be a 3 tier hierarchy when it comes to ground transportation. The cheapest and by far most uncomfortable is the chicken bus which costs very little...less than a dollar to get to Guate City, 45 minutes away. They are ubiquitous and are used by most of the people traveling in GT. Second is the torismo van, a comparatively more comfortable ride, but by US standards....well, it aint so fun to ride in for 5 hours...but to Copan, it is only $10...and more affluent Guatemalans use this option too. Lastly, is the Pullman bus...a large charter bus that is rumored to be more comfortable and to Copan would cost one about $30.) After a frightful speeding trip up the mountains and through the small towns and into the lower lands of eastern GT, we reached the border of Honduras. The landscape changed from the highland forests to lower-land jungle with the concomitant heat and humidity. We passed through the border with relative ease, paying a couple bucks to leave GT and a couple more to enter Honduras. Then into Copan, a quaint little town with the requisite cobblestone streets, modest tiendas, and friendly folks. The population is 5000, 80% Mayan and 20% Latino and is mostly an agriculture town. Although the ruins attract tourists and that has become chunk of the economy. After being dropped in the central park, I took a tuk-tuk to my B&B, Casa de Cafe where I quickly dumped my stuff into my modest but gorgeous room with a comfortable bed and clean sheets....a spotless tiled bathroom...fucking heaven!! I headed to the Mayan ruins and met my guide...he said his name in Mayan and then insisted I call him "Bill." Bill worked on the excavation of the ruins for 10 years and has been a guide for the last 11 years. He gave me a great tour of the ruins explaining the caste systems, the royalty lineage, the fact that each king would build basically a whole new temple on top of the old. We ventured into stuffy narrow tunnels to see excavations of previous temples long since buried. The park is very nice and has a spectacular museum. The archaeologists are slowly making replicas and putting the original statues indoors to protect them from the elements. There is also a full scale replica built of one of the temples so one can get a sense of the size and finish....the Mayans always painted their buildings, usually with bright colors found on the macaw parrot which was one of the most significant symbols in Mayan art. I bought Bill lunch at the surprisingly good cafe at the park and I drank a banana soda made in Honduras. We chatted about family and our lives. Bill is 38, single, and lives with his mother. He works almost everyday and spends his evenings reading about Mayan history. He boasted proudly that he has 18 books at home on the subject of indigenous peoples in the Americas. He is Mayan and his grandmother taught him the language (there are some 30+ distinct cultural Mayan groups and dialects) so Bill speaks three languages. Yearly he visits Tikal to see the progress of that excavation and to learn more. In one of the temples, there was a series of statues of the last several kings. One was missing, the most important, Smoke Jaguar I believe, and he explained that the statue sits in a museum in Boston, Ma, USA. Because the Hondurans are quite poor and historically the ruins in Central America have been excavated by (and exploited by) archaeologists from Europe and the US, the Hondurans were forced to "pay" the American archaeologist for their work with the statue. I am not sure, but I think this was some time ago...and Honduras now has some local archaeologists...and Bill was proud to say one of them is from Copan, George. George was educated in the states and returned to make many new discoveries at the site. After the ruins I visited a parrot park where injured, abandon, and abused birds are taken for rehabilitation, conservation and public education. The place was gorgeous, set next to a creek in the jungle that boasted some pretty ginormous spiders...they just hung on their webs and I swear I saw one flip me off. Our guide was Frito and he was so sweet and knowledgeable. He is a young guy and hails from Copan which he loves....he also loves his job because it is beautiful and quiet and he can read which is his favorite thing to do (science fiction). At one point there were birds we could hold....giant macaws and little ones that nibbled on our ears (I have pics). We also saw plenty banana trees and coffee plants. A tuk-tuk ride home to the B&B....

Plans...Copan and Tikal

2007-12-14T17:20:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow at 4:00am I head for Copan, Honduras, where I will tour Mayan ruins and stay at a B&B run by a Honduran and American couple. The pics on the Internet make me think I will be sleeping in a comfortable bed for a night and I tell you I am looking forward to this with great anticipation...truly.

Next weekend I will fly to the petan, the northern lowland jungle, and stay in Tikal, the national park and one of the most significant Mayan ruins (see pic). The timing is significant because I will be there for the winter solstice. The Mayans were advanced astronomers and structures are built relative to the placement of the stars and sun...there will be special ceremonies and celebrations.

Both places I am going alone although my roommate (Judy) and I will overlap in Tikal for one night. I am staying in the jungle at a lodge and hope to see the much touted wildlife in the mornings and evenings.

I see many women traveling alone from all over the world. It is an inspiration. I will be traveling 5 hours by bus to Copan. Am going to eat, pack, and sleep as soon as possible. More soon.....

A Very Disturbing Story

2007-12-14T17:03:00.000-08:00

I met a man who will remain anonymous out of respect for the innocent. This man is from north America, a modern west coast city. He told me the following story. His younger sister (in her late 20s) and a young male friend embarked on a journey to drive from the west cost of North America through Mexico and all the way south to Patagonia. In Guatemala City they checked into a hostel in a not-so-good part of town at the insistence of the young man. For some reason the young man left early in the morning the next day leaving the woman alone....15 minutes later two men broke into the room and raped and severely beat the young woman. This was one and half years ago. My companion was here to visit a family that helped his sister after the attack, bringing her to Antigua where her entire family flew to bring her home and aid her in the start of a long healing process. She is doing well under the circumstances....and on the plane she leaned into her brother and said. "I will be back to finish this trip." The truth is, Guatemala City is not a safe place...especially for westerners. I have heard from others that car jackings are a daily occurrence, kidnappings for ransom are common, and many middle class and affluent Guatemalans hire private armed guards for protection. Alejandra was headed towards Guate (the nick name for the capital city) to buy a dress for a wedding tomorrow. She was taking a chicken bus and said that going to only the central shopping area is safe and that she never goes into the surrounding zones as it is very dangerous. Again, all things are are relative....context is everything. I feel safe here in Antigua and have no plans to go to Guate except to fly home.

Alejandra...the Spanish Teaching Angel!

2007-12-14T16:47:00.000-08:00

This is my teacher and the modest table at which we sit each day as I slowly learn Spanish and help Alejandra with her English...which is far better than my Spanish. She is a bright, kind, gentle soul and I am so very lucky to have her as my maestra!

A Climb up Volcan Pacaya

2007-12-14T15:40:00.000-08:00

"Buy a stick, wear shoes that fit, and bring money for a horse"....this was the very good advice I got from a fellow student before heading up Pacaya, an active volcano near Antigua and overlooking Guatemala City. It is an often climbed Volcano in recent years after robberies and thefts plummeted in 2006 as a result of armed patrols.

When we arrived we were swarmed by little boys selling walking sticks made of thick, stripped branches. We all bought one for Q5...less than a $1. I indeed broke down and hired a horse after slugging half way up the steep, rock and root strewn trail. Sweet Juan walked behind me with his horse, smiling and saying "taxi, taxi." My group consisted of mostly folks in their early 20s who scampered ahead, not seemingly affected by the thin air thousands of feet up.

After a couple of hours we reached a plateau above the lava field and the view was spectacular. After soaking that in, taking pics, we all carefully picked our way across the brutal other-worldly surface. The black, igneous rocks were sharp as razors and only about a year and half old as this volcano continuously erupts, sometimes dramatically spewing ash over Guatemala City. The last big eruption was in 1965.

We walked precariously across the lava field and got right next to the oozing fire rock. I got about 3-4 feet from the lava and the heat was incredibly intense....a classmate said that her eyelashes singed a bit (Cindy, from Portland in pic). After a stunning sunset we quickly and carefully picked our way back across the lava field and back up to the plateau where we stayed until it was dark, waiting to see the amazing contrast of the lava against a moonless night. Stunning.

All of a sudden our guide, said we needed to go rapido rapido! He got serious and said we must stay together and go immediately...we all practically ran down the steep trail, headlamps and flashlights lighting the way through the highland forest. We at the end of the group (me second from the last..last hilrious guy from Vancouver) all got a little concerned as our guide seemed a bit frenetic, and save for one couple behind us, we were the last group off the mountain. At one point, lookiong back to make a comment to my fellow traveler, I ate shit on the trail, twisting my already sore ankle...but it is not serious and the men were all so concerned and attentive...the upside of this patriarchal culture. I am one of the oldest students and am treated with deference, especially by the young Guatemalan men/boys.

In recent years many people have been robbed and cars broken into in this area. Our guide, an activities director from our school, is kinda fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants and seeing him so serious about our rapid decent was a bit disconcerting. A few gringos noted that to take this trail and walk on the lava field and run down in the dark in the states would require a serious liability waiver. Not in Guatemala! Many have noted the assessment of risk is on a whole different scale given the reality of life in Guatemala.

Back at the trail head and park entrance, we were again besieged by little dirty boys, asking for our sticks back, and begging for money and food. I returned my stick to a small boy who labored under the weight of an armful of already returned sticks.....and I gave away a bag of chips. We were hungry, we stunk, we were very dirty, I had dirt in my underwear from my fall....but everyone was happy having seen an amazing expression of the power of mother nature.

By the way...

2007-12-12T17:42:00.000-08:00

...I am learning Spanish. Truly. I understand so much now and can communicate some key things. Alejandra still says I am learning very quickly...and others have said that the first two weeks are the worst. It is hard though, intense...3.5 hours of very focused study...and being confused and needing to really concentrate. I can´t cruise in this effort. It takes a lot of concentration....and I am a bit annoyed at the Spanish for the whole irregular verb thing...not cool! I have also noticed the differences between Guatemalan and Mexican Spanish (what I am used to)...certain words are not the same..the accents are different. When I return to the states I intend to hire a teacher and continue my studies...keep the momentum. And come back to Antigua, of course. Alejandra is a joy to work with...she is kind and patient and loves to laugh. She is 25 and lives with her family in Antigua...this includes her mother, father, brother and his wife and child. Her father is an artist/craftsman who makes custom iron work (gonna ask if we can visit him at work for a field-trip). Alejandra really loves her folks and today got teary-eyed talking about how hard her father works and how much gets along with him. I have shared about my family too...our Spanglish conversations are all part of the learning gestalt. But I am not out to her...think I will tell her close to when I leave. I pass here...am not queer...except at Cafe No Se....there you can be anything you want to be......

Cafe No Se

2007-12-12T17:20:00.000-08:00

Last night....wandering, fed, in the mood for some conversation with some broody philosophical types. Headed to Cafe No Se....a crusty, scrappy, tequila bar frequented by expats and free-spirits from all over the world. Next door sits a bookstore, "Dyslexia," run by Carlos, a 53 year old lawyer-turn-bookshop-attendant-and volunteer from Tennessee. The store focuses on classic lit and Carlos regularly plays chess with anyone who cares to hang in the store. Met him, bought a William S. Maugham novel, offered to buy him drinks for the night...and so we parked at the bar, where sweet young Kevin from Seattle served us vino in thick clear glasses.

We talked Emerson and 19th century American philosophy and politics and family and whatnot. Got slowly drunk and the bar filled and so I met Edwin from GT, and Steve from Australia, and John who owns the place and Mike from NYC, and Nora from Germany....all free-spirits who write and have left different places for different reasons that somewhere meet and surely become the same. It was a great, drunken, smokey, dimly lit night in a place that felt so very familiar....thousand of miles from home.....but today, my body has demanded I pay for my sins. Was late to class and my sweet teacher just laughs at me and makes fun. We laugh so much...she is a joy.

Please commnet...

2007-12-11T08:18:00.000-08:00

...if you take the time to read a bit, please don´t be shy, leave me a comment. Hearing from home is a very appreciated treat. Muchas gracias!

I Walk Miles....

2007-12-10T15:53:00.000-08:00

....everyday. Miles. It helps that I regularly get lost. But I don´t mind because every street brings something new...a little cafe, a gallery, a tienda, a park or a centuries old church. People are nice, they smile, bid you good day. Relative to the towns I visited over the weekend...and those we drove through, Antigua is well kept and peaceful....not frenetic, relatively speaking. :) Heard about another theft....a student on a bus to Tikal. She was sleeping and got pick-pocketed....no violence. Got her passport tho. It is more dangerous in the north....in the petan, the lowland jungles. I plan to fly to the nearby town and then bus to Tikal for an overnight stay in the jungle. This is reportedly one of the best places to see jungle wildlife in Central America. Might even see a jaguar (I wish!). Will be booking plans in the next day or two....

Juxtapositions

2007-12-10T15:40:00.000-08:00

Antigua is course, bulky, thick walled, old, cracked, crumbling...unpainted and yet it feels refined. There is a certain elegance in the juxtaposition of the course architecture and the simple contemporary appointments....a small wooden table and chairs covered with a Mayan table clothe and a candle azul...soft lighting...vino in a squatty glass...an open window to the sidewalk. It is an aesthetic I appreciate more than the polished marble and flashy, sparkle of modern western buildings, the Trump Towers and Las Vegas....their excesses are overwhelming...like eating too much chocolate and getting ill....when a square or two would have been perfect. In Antigua the simplest treasures, pleasures, luxuries set against centuries old stone walls...well, it is most beautiful to me.

Emissions Control and My Bed

2007-12-10T15:26:00.000-08:00

The two things I really miss....and no, I do not mean emissions control in my bed! My bed is the most uncomfortable bed I have EVER slept on. It is poorly made and is as old as the hills...it tries to present as a mattress bed but plays as a spring loaded hammock. The first few days my body ached terribly from sleeping on this thing....even the Pooh Bear bedspread could not soften the hurt. It seems my body has adjusted somewhat and I don´t know if I should be happy or concerned. I was elated that in Pana at Lake Atitlan my hotel (pretty much a dump by US standards) had a slightly better shitty bed....a double that was a bit more horizontal, although it still had springs and sank when laid upon....and the pillows stunk. But there was only one spider, ginormous, and it came in the morning....and there was no towel...thank god for my travel towel which I use everyday. But I digress. My bed is an absolute piece of shit and it hurts my 43 year old body. Emissions control. I cannot fully explain with words how bad the air pollution is in every town. Every vehicle seems to pour out black smoke....the chicken buses being the worst offenders. There is often a haze hanging in busy streets and one is constantly breathing it all in as there is no escape in Antigua because of the architecture and the narrow walled streets. It is awful, but just a part of the harsher reality here.

A Look at Antigua

2007-12-10T13:53:00.000-08:00

Above: Agua Volcan with lenticular cloud towering over the central park (city center) where I walk several times a day. The park is usually full of people, especially on Sunday nights. The building on the left is the cathedral.

Lower Left: Just ate lunch today at a restaurant right next to this lovely arch, a city landmark.

Lower Right: A typical Antigua Street.

A Story of "Fuck You Lady"

2007-12-09T17:18:00.000-08:00

After touring Lake Atitlan I had a late lunch with my travelling pals for the day, Janet and Tina, a white mother daughter travelling team from the states. A chunk of Pana´s economy is tourism and westerners are assaulted with Mayan folks peddling their wares and such was the case as we ate our pollo and tortillas. At least 15 times we had to assert "no gracias" to folks approaching our table as we ate. One of the last was a small boy who stood no taller than waist high to me. He approached our table and offered his wares speaking Spanish...we said our no thank yous. He lingered for quite some time and finally Tina asked him in Spanish (she is fluent) to move on. He then moved to the next table of westerners and spent quite sometime interacting with them....only leaving the table when the Canadian patrons left. He returned to our table and looked pleadingly at us, snot running down his face, leaning in over our food and sighing again and again....looking sad and pathetic. All three of us had spent a day saying "no gracias" (literally probably close to 100 times) we said it assertively again and again. At last Janet (an older woman still recovering from a stroke) got severely annoyed and summoned the waiter to shoo the boy away. The boy suddenly stiffened and stood tall and determined, he lost the pleading innocent face, and with the anger and force of someone ten years his senior he asserted in a strong, mature voice "fuck you lady"...and then he walked away. Travelling in this country means dealing with a very complex interface of culture, economics, politics, religion, history.....etc. In the Mayan dominated region we were visiting the Mayan people have for hundreds of years successfully resisted the decimation of their culture by the Spanish and subsequent Ladinos peoples. They retain many of their traditional ways even after surviving the worst of colonization, political upheaval, wars, racisim, and the recent 30 plus year civil war. But each person, each family has it´s own unique experience within this gross generalization.....and trying to remember, I think it was Mr. Rogers who said, "there is no one you would not love if you knew their story." So I can´t even begin to imagine the story this boy has lived. Living in poverty watching rich westerners come in and spend on lunch what is a small fortune while shooing him away. And who has taught him at such a young age how to solicit the westerners with feigned innocence? Who has taught him the anger and how to say "fuck you." And there I sit, a relative millionaire in this country...eating my pollo...listening to Janet get more and more pissed...feeling completely conflicted and uncomfortable...thinking about disease and this dirty kid breathing on my lunch...thinking about how I should give so much more in general....thinking about being exhausted and how relatively thinking this is a ridiculous thought...how can I be truly exhausted compared to the folks here who live such physically demanding lives. And then the boy hurls his insult and the complexities continue to unfold....and who am I here...to decide anything. And who am I to feel guilt....is it so bourgeois to do so...what stories and meanings and associations do I sort and piece together and why....and then I just want a shower and to sleep in a comfortable bed. And so I do....and where that little cussing boy spent the night...and on what surface he slept....I know not. I am a gringa from Oakland California with a US passport and a good US income and health insurance and a house and...and....and that night I dreamed of cockroaches...my big fear, a giant harmless bug that I can squish at will. Nothing simple about any of it and I have no answers....only endless questions....again, I am privileged just in the being able to sit back and think versus having to hustle a gringo for sustenance. ------------------------------- This country is poor...very poor. I believe it is the poorest in Central America, if not Latin America. To give you some idea of the scale, the quetzal, the Guatemalan equivalent of a dollar, is at an exchange rate of Q7+ to $1. In other words you get more than 7Qs for every US dollar. Now consider that I had dinner last night at one of the finest restaurants in all of Antigua and I paid about Q200...that comes to about $28. Typically you can eat a great meal for $5 in this town. You can get a decent hotel for $25-35 a night.....gringos are relatively rich. And the English, well, given the strength of the Euro are mucho rich. This is the reality of my situation. Here are some stats I got off the web:

Guatemala ranked 117 out of a total of 174 countries in 1999
In 1997 the GDP per capita was US$1,690, in comparison with an average of US$4,127 for Latin America and the Caribbean
The average monthly income per family in the whole country was US$227 in 1999
In the urban areas the figure was US$423
Almost 70 per cent of the population lives on less than US$2 per day, and of these, almost 30 per cent of the population of the country, and 8 per cent of the urban population live on less than US$1 per day
Income distribution is extremely uneven, the difference in income of the richest and poorest 20 per cent of the population differing by a factor of 30, in contrast to 12.7 in Costa Rica and 15.1 in Honduras
There is a correlation between the high population growth rates in regions and departments with higher indices of rural and indigenous populations with higher indices of poverty
The marginalisation of the indigenous cultures has been inherited from the Spanish colonial period

...and my friends and I will spend a hundred dollars for dinner in San Francisco....."fuck you lady."

You can have it hot, or you can have it hard.....

2007-12-09T16:56:00.000-08:00

...but you can´t have both at the same time. Talking about the shower of course.

Lake Atitlan

2007-12-08T17:10:00.000-08:00

Lake Atitlan is a beautiful lake surrounded by volcanoes in the central highlands of Guatemala. It has been compared in it´s natural beauty with Lake Como in Italy. Getting there is a winding bus ride through rugged mountains, across valleys, and through cramped little towns with impossibly narrow streets.

The lake is stunning and has several towns along it´s shore. Mayans have lived in this area for thousands of years. After when the Spanish arrived they used the Lake as a sort of command post for the Catholic conversion of Mayans and exploitation of the natural resources for Spain. Despite this dramatic intervention in there way of life, Mayan culture has maintained a cohesion culturally, and religious traditions are now a blend of Mayan and Catholic traditions. The churches have iconography of both traditions and the ceremonies are a blend....in some churches the mass is said in both Spanish and the Mayan dialect.

The small towns around the lake are mostly Mayan with a smattering of expats and Ladinos (mixed race, Spanish and Mayan). The Mayans cultivate crops and makes and sell crafts and products using the rich colorful fabrics so distinctly Mayan. Gourmet coffee is also a specialty of the region.

The principle town on the lake is Panajachel (Pana) which is a crazy blend of hotels and restaurants and markets and taxi cabs that will run you over. I took a day long tour of the lake visiting three small towns. On the ferry I met a mother-daughter travel team from Illinois now living in Florida and Oakland respectively. We hung out for a chuck of the day.

Burn the Devil!

2007-12-07T19:15:00.000-08:00

It is coming...slowly but surely I am learning Spanish. Tonight I was able to appropriately ask my madre what time we burn the devil....6pm was the answer. Oh, in case you are wondering the Guatemalans "fuego el diablo" a few weeks before Christmas. It´s to sorta clean things up a bit before Christ arrives. Many people came to the devil burning and there was food and venders and mucho personas. I fought my way through the crowd to see the burning devil and only caught the smoldering finish. But I feel good about it....the devil being burned.

Chicken Bus Virgin No More

2007-12-07T18:37:00.000-08:00

A chicken bus is a rehabilitated US school bus (made for children...and they are very small people) decorated in flamboyant and colorful ways. They speed through the towns coughing up thick black smoke. They seem to serve the same purpose as a municipal bus system in the US. But the experience is quite distinct from a Muni bus in SF. The first thing a gringa comes to learn is definitions of personal space will be radically changed on a chicken bus...three to a seat (remember, seats made for children). There are drivers and assistants hanging out of open doors and windows working hard to fill the buses and people are crammed into every conceivable space. If folks could be levitated I am sure the space above our heads would be filled with floating bodies. Today a very large (horizontally, not vertically) older Mayan woman virtually sat on my lap, smiling at me broadly with her partially toothed mouth and grey chin hairs blowing in the wind. We bounced along the cobblestone street...then hit the paved road where the standard driving protocol seems to be: floor it and honk your horn at everything in the road....right side of the road or left side of the road...who cares!

Can You Say "Yeast Infection" in Spanish?

2007-12-07T18:25:00.000-08:00

Well neither can I. Now understand that traveling in Latin America without a firm grip of the local language means resorting to creative use of pictures, gesticulations, charades, and fractured Spanish. Now imagine being in a conservative Catholic country and needing to explain to a 50-something, Spanish speaking Farmacia attendant that you have a yeast infection. Do I act out that I have an itchy vagina? Pretend to scratch myself and make a sad face? Como se dice "itchy twat.?" Sorry folks, maybe it is too much information but I couldn't´t help but share this one...laughing out loud as I type. Thank the cosmos there was a box of medicine I could point to and the woman confirmed the contents in Spanish I could discern. Feeling much better now. Thanks for reading this one...especially you guys.

La Sala and God Bless the Gays!

2007-12-07T09:46:00.001-08:00

La Sala is the name of the club I spent way too much time at last night! And I found some of the gays! But let me explain in order. First, the nice young men who said hello to me at school when everyone else was ignoring me....yep, they were gay, of course. Sweet young guys from the south, David and Kevin, who have travelled around the world and are looking forward to settling for a bit in Chicago...they leave today....really bummed they are leaving. They have had little experience with any kind of robust queer community and are looking forward to the queer culture in Chicago. They were soooooo sweet. I begged them to come visit promising them a good time in San Francisco (hi David and Kevin...if you are reading, September is the best month to visit!). Next, I went to meet my new friend Mel at La Sala, the hip Latin dance club that has an amazing live band and attracts both Guatemalans and westerners. When I arrived I met a funky little dyke named Gin. She´s from Chicago, was recently in Grass Valley to harvest pot, and is going to Mexico to "farm sit" for someone. There are some very interesting folks here. Soon Mel and Palon arrived and the club suddenly filled with a ton of folks. I went to get some air and in the corner I saw thee gayest man in Antigua dancing by himself. He hails from El Salvador and is pure Latin camp with the swishing and the snapping of the fingers and whatnot. I immediately introduced myself and we danced all night long....and get this, I was complimented on my dancing by a couple of folks. Those salsa lessons and listening to Latin music has paid off. Now for the funny part, at the end of the evening I explicitly came out to Mr. Gay ( could not hear/understand his name after he told me five times) and he said he had no idea I was gay. It is amazing how being in a cultural melding pot like Antigua mutes so many social ques. I was laughing explaining that I am muy gay! We made a date to dance together again in two weeks. He was totally sweet and hilarious! I have pictures (don´t know where/how to download yet). I have been very cautious about coming out, especially with the westerners not being too friendly and Guatemala being conservative and Catholic. Because I live in the bubble of San Francisco and hang with people who really push the envelope in so many ways (especially with sexuality) I feel I need to check myself a little....see what is ok, safe. The upshot, I was a buzzed, sweaty, smokey, tired, super happy mess when I got home....and Antigua has suddenly become very friendly. Muchos gracias Mel and Mr. Gay.

It is Official, I am Not Retarded

2007-12-07T09:40:00.000-08:00

In making this comment I mean no disrespect to those who are, it is just that I have been called retarded and told that I have a learning disability when last I tried to learn Spanish. Today my teacher told me that I learn very fast and that I am a good student. It was good news....it has bolstered my confidence given my history. And I have achieved this with not much out of class study....but I do do some everyday. Much to my surprise, I am actually learning Spanish!

Robbery a Real Threat

2007-12-06T17:06:00.000-08:00

Today I learned a woman from our school was robbed early this morning while she waited at a bus stop with her host family who were wishing her so long. Because she was leaving for home she had everything with her and four men took I am not sure what all. I heard this second hand from someone who heard it in broken English....but the fact is she was robbed in Antigua. It is the third robbery I have heard about. Another happened to my roommate who is 70 (god bless her brave travelling soul) and was approached by two young men with a gun. They took only her money and thanked her profusely. The second, a woman was watched by a beggar women at the bank as she put her money in her bra. When she stepped into the street the beggar women asked her for money, she declined to give. A few blocks away she was approached by the woman who was now accompanied by four men who insisted she give them the money in her bra. Now Marcy (concerened little sis), I know about now you are thinking about how nuts I am, living in the fifth dangerous city in the US (Oakland) and travelling down here. But rest assured there are many things one can do to lower the chance of getting hurt or losing something important in a crime. I am doing all that I know. I carry only money I need, leave credit cards and passport in le casa (I carry a photocopy), walk my big butch confident don´t-fuck-with-me gate, use my camera sparingly and discretely, be very discrete at the bank, and stay in parts of town that are safer. I feel very safe here. I don´t look the easy target (hope I don´t jinx myself with this assertion!). In no story have I heard of any violence. People here are poor, the majority of folks in Guatemala live in what we define as poverty. I feel privileged beyond words to be here and be treated so warmly by the local folks and my host family. Every single local I have greeted or encountered has been so very friendly....I am a very lucky woman. Adios.

Peacock Soup for Lunch

2007-12-06T14:21:00.000-08:00

Yep, you read that right! I had peacock soup for lunch today. It was explained that this is a Mayan dish and the birds are raised in Coban, a town north of here. But let me start at the beginning. Last night we all (Angela, her daughter Rebeca, Judy the New Zealander, and me) went to dinner at Cafe Flor, a Thia food restaurant near the center of town (great food!). Angela seemed quite excited to go and dressed for the occasion. In fact we all took showers and put on clean clothes. I explained (via interpreter) that it was my gift to her to buy dinner in appreciation of all her hospitality and generosity. After reading the menu she ordered only an appetizer salad. With the help of a very sweet Guatemalan waitress who spoke excellent English, we encouraged Angela to order more and she did....and then agreed to desert! After fractured conversation it came to light that Angela hosts many students every year, too many to count. I inferred from the conversation and the bits and pieces I understood, that most students do not do things like take her to dinner. My suspicion is they are mostly younger students with little money. She said many times that it was a special night and gave me many hugs and sweet smiles. We drank sangria and made American, New Zealand, and Guatemalan toasts, glasses raised high and big laughs all around. And so it was that I came home for lunch today and Angela announced that we would have a very special lunch. Then came the peacock soup. Her husband, who is rarely around (and always greets me with two kisses and a big hug), handed me what I thought was a glass of coke. I sipped it and something was off....Cuba Libre! My coke came with a lime and a shot of rum in it! For sure Angela had explained that the loca gringa really liked the sangria....so rum and cokes for lunch! Good lord. So I ate peacock soup and drank a Cuba Libre for lunch (I also toasted to Cuba´s freedom and that got a laugh and raised glasses). At Cafe Flor we met a young Canadian woman, Mel, and a Guatemalan man, Pelan, who were very friendly. They both work as guides for tourist trips all over Central America. I stayed after dinner and partied with these new amigos, drinking sangria and singing songs while the restaurant owner, Jose, played the piano and encouraged us enthusiastically. Pelan could not sing to save his life, but Mel and I held our own. We were alone in the bar and we both noted that it was best that way. They were very very nice, gave me a ride home and invited me to a club tonight.

Spell...I Don´t Do It Well

2007-12-05T13:17:00.000-08:00

Please excuse any and all spelling and grammar errors. I am doing these posts quick and dirty and without a much needed editor. Thanks for your understanding....especially you writers and teachers (i.e Jill...hee hee).

A Quick Note on Food

2007-12-05T12:55:00.000-08:00

My school package includes full room and board with my host family. Meals with my family means an enormous amount of carbs....something my body is not most fond of. For instance, last nights dinner was the following: iceberg salad, potatoes, cheese, fried plantains, and bread. If I were to actually eat with my host family every day I would come home 200 pounds heavier and ready for my first cardiac arrest. Last night I ate little, trying to be polite, then stole away to a local cafe for some chicken and vegetables. I excuse myself for lunch citing the need to study and wanting to be in the marketplace. My host madre is so kind and generous and so tonight we are going to a restaurant. Staying true to form (I can´t not invite people to dinner...it is a compulsion!) I invited her family (she and her youngest daughter accepted) and my New Zealand roommate out to dinner. I get the feeling that Angela rarely if ever goes to restaurants and she lit up at the invitation. I am taking her to a fine cafe that serves great food. I am a very very rich woman in this country. It is astonishing, humbling, troubling, and comforting all in a moment....but tonight we shall eat good food and Angela will do no work, save for lifting her own glass and chewing her food.

My School Routine

2007-12-05T12:39:00.000-08:00

Wake at 6:30am to the buzz of my travel alarm clock. Pull out earplugs and hear roosters and people and trucks. Stare at ceiling and try to remember where I am. Remember where I am. Blink and put on glasses. Take shower. Dress. Read flash cards for a few minutes....Spanish that is. Eat breakfast with my host madre...Angela, cornflakes and fruit. Collect books and bag and walk a few blocks to school. Sit with sweet, patient Alejandra from 8-10am while she tries to teach me Spanish. Take a break from 10-10:30am. Wander around courtyard being ignored by snotty young westerners. Check email. More studying with teacher. Done 12noon....exhausted from being clueless and concentrating so hard. Wander the streets of Antigua seeing the sights and smiling at the wonderfully friendly Guatemalans. Yesterday afternoon rode a horse through a neighboring town. Life in the highlands..... A strange thing is happening...I am starting to understand a little Spanish. God bless Alejandra! She has the patience of a saint and the laugh of an angel. Sorry folks, being in this town dripping with Catholicism, I can´t help but employ such religious allusions!

Special Shout Out to Marcy and Jonald!

2007-12-04T15:26:00.001-08:00

So sorry my little sis! Forgot to mention your sweet self and your generosity in carting my ass around SoCal for last minute preparations....and staying late to drive me home after an evening of partying with my crazy friends....listening to me prattle on about this and that...always joking and laughing. And lastly, for taking me to the airport and sharing my nervousness...you are the best. You too Jonald! Thanks for always giving me the yellow room and drinking wine and being so primed to laugh....and for never ever judging me for being such a freak! Every wild story I bring to you is greeted with your sweet grin and an irreverent joke. You are both food for the soul...HB/FV is truly my home away from home.

Guns, Cobblestone Streets, Volcanos, Chicken Busses & Cranky Westerners

2007-12-03T17:53:00.000-08:00

This city is beautiful. Built on a grid, it is squaty, cement and plaster, and occasionally painted. The center is a park with trees and a fountain in the middle, benches and trees scattered about. Around the park are restaurants, cafes, small stores, language schools, and a grand cathedral, old, unpainted, guarded by small brown men with sweet round faces dressed in military fatigues.....they stand all day holding assault rifles, always responding when I bid them a good day or evening...sometimes smiling shyly. They are young and a reminder that this is a country that has endured decades of civil war and political and racial strife.

Here is not the only place where guns are seen. Visiting the bank one is accompanied by young men in municipal uniforms, ballistic vests, and the equivalent of a sawed-off 12 gauge shotgun, pistol-gripped. For those of you who know guns, you know that these are weapons designed for immediate and total close range "stopping power"...and the spread of a shotgun blast is not discriminating. Such short-barrelled pistol-gripped shotguns are illegal in the US. Rob a bank....get blown in half. Sobering.

The streets are cobblestone, a course type without sand-fill to smooth the surface like I have seen in the villages of Mexico. The streets are swept clean, but nothing grows here....it is all cement and plaster. The plants are saved for the courtyards and gardens that live behind the heavy wooden doors leading to houses and businesses. Most places seem to be built around a courtyard in the traditional colonial style...open air, a fountain, flowers and trees and ivy climbing the walls. And pardon my candor (those of you who have travelled in Latin America will appreciate this) the city does not smell bad.....(save for the vehicle exhaust) no sewage smell.

The dominant forms of transportation includes small cars, scooters, chicken buses (rehabilitated and wildly decorated school buses) and dirt bikes (motorcycles)...the latter making a lot of sense given the rough road. There seems to be absolutely no regulation of emissions. In the narrow wall-lined streets, a cluster of passing vehicles means a hefty dose of inhaled toxins.

The city sits in a valley, fronted and flanked by volcanoes, some large some less imposing. These are not quiet little buggers, no, many are active and moody. This morning I was attracted to "oohs" and "aaahs" in the courtyard at school where everyone looked up as the volcano Fuego (fire) erupted! White and grey smoke puffing up into the sky, mixing with the lenticular clouds. Apparently this is a regular occurrence...every few days or so. The rumor is that the volcanoes are more active in December, but this assertion seems apocryphal given my understanding of geology (but then volcanism is hardly my specialty!). I will hike a volcano soon. Guide books warn to inquire carefully as some hikes present the real danger of blasts of poisonous gasses or small burst of hot rocks. Hiker beware.

People are friendly, except the westerners. I am so surprised that when I try to engage westerners most literally avert their eyes before I can bid a greeting. Finally, this morning a young friendly guy from Chicago saw me desperately walking around on my morning "coffee" break looking to say hi to someone....he called "hola" across the garden and introduced himself. His group of young men were friendly and kind and I thanked him for saying hello. I could opine for some time on possible reasons for the cold shoulder....many of the young women are French and such behavior feeds the stereotype....but I will conclude for now that they just want to speak Spanish. I shan't take it personally for now....but starting Thursday I will (ha ha).

Oh, an exception to this was today in a cafe where a man wore a Missoula shirt and I asked if he was from Montana. He said no, Iowa. He asked where I was from and I said San Francisco. His reply, "oh we don´t even think that is part of the United States.....the coasts that is" he explained. Hmm. He continued to explain that folks in the middle of the country are a little more conservative. Wow, I never knew sir. Thanks so much for the clarification.

Muchas, Muchas, Gracias

2007-12-03T17:04:00.000-08:00

When in doubt, say "thank you"....and smile. That has been my strategy so far. Most of the time I have no idea what the hell is going on. I am sure many of you who know me have noticed through the years that I like to talk. I have had a life-long love affair with words, with writing, with reading. I appreciate the nuances and complexities of use and meaning and feel a certain satisfaction in picking just the right word for a given purpose. Well, that is all gone here. I have little idea what the hell is going on. People everywhere conversing and gabbing and gesticulating....turning to me and hurling sentences at me.....smiling and waiting for some response. I stand there, searching for a single word...let alone a phrase that I can understand. It rarely happens. Tonight, at dinner, my heart leaped with joy when my host's daughter arrived with her dog...perro! I know the word for dog! I could say something besides thank you (which I say incessantly). At 43, educated, confident in my use of English, I am now reduced to absolute beginner. I am a toddler again looking at the world, listening, trying to assign sense to it all....to recognize patterns, rules, exceptions....to make meaning (but unlike a toddler, I promise not to throw tantrums or piss myself.....I hope!) There is a kind older woman from New Zealand who is also staying at the house. She speaks English to me some and has translated a bit. She keeps looking at my exhausted self and saying, "I know how you feel. It is all so overwhelming." Yes, stunningly so. I slept all afternoon again. She said her first time it took a week to settle and not feel overwhelmed. My teacher is young and kind and has been teaching for four years. She likes to laugh, thank god, and I take every opportunity to provoke it. Got a big laugh when I explained that I can't even spell in English let alone Spanish. Funny, but true. It is easier to wander the streets alone, order a meal or a cup of tea, sit with a book or my journal, take it all in smaller doses....alone in restaraunts with books is my way, even at home. Being from southern California I am use to the sing-song of Spanish in the background...it is familiar and comforting, and much less intense than a table full of fluent speakers expecting comprehension from this clueless gringa. Alas, this evening a visitor who works at a language school assured me that I would be speaking Spanish by Saturday. Of course it took ten minutes and a dictionary to communicate this dubious conjecture to me. We will see!

Home Sweet (New) Home

2007-12-02T16:19:00.000-08:00

My host family seems kind and sweet and greeted me with warm hugs and Spanish. There will be no speaking English here! Here, I am a giant, I tower over the local folks. People are short and I am not used to looking down to greet so many folks. My new home is a squatty cement and plaster building very typical of this sweet colonial town. My room is small, maybe six by nine feet. I have a very small closet with exactly 7 hangers and a couple of plastic bins. A bookshelf, night table, another small table, a plastic chair, a single fluorescent light bulb hanging bare from the ceiling. I have a twin bed with a Winnie the Pooh bed spread just like those I see at the border in TJ. And Jesus is there, a portrait gazing down from the wall....looking suspiciously Anglo....but kind nonetheless. The house is open, rooms off of a central courtyard. There is a shower with hot water (haven't tested that yet), and two large cement basins that serve as the kitchen and bathroom sink. There is a spiket, a catch-basin, and then a slanted basin where one scoops from the catch-basin and pours over the slanted basin which drains through a rock covered hole. Jesus and Mary and the pontiff are everywhere in the main room. Jesus is a statue carrying the cross over the stereo, he hangs on the walls in several places. The pontiff stars on every month of the family calendar and is in statue form in several places. Mary is a statue on three walls and on my house key chain. She is also a clock in the main room.....time ticks across the virgin mother. Interestingly enough Guatemala is the least Catholic Country in Latin America. But that is not too hard to achieve. I read that the country is about 66% Catholic, the rest being mostly evangelical/ protestant, with a small percentage practicing an indigenous religion and/or a hybrid Christianity. My flight was fine, I am exhausted. I ate eggs and ham and OJ and passed out for a few hours. I have not slept to completion in days and days. School starts tomorrow at 8am. I will wander the streets tonight....hang in the plaza. It seems everyone is taking to the streets at about this time...just like the small towns in Mexico that I love so. More soon. Adios.

Awesome SoCal Send Off!

2007-12-02T16:07:00.000-08:00

This is my shout out to all who came to celebrate my last night in the USA before I took off on my Central American adventure. Deb, thanks for hosting at your sweet home….you smart, self-possessed 40-something beauty. You are my soul sister, a fellow traveler in this mortal drama, and you have the cleanest house known to humanity. And way to punctuate the night with a bang! Wink wink! Thanks for always being willing to fly your freak-flag with me (Elvis lives!) Kiss Zane for me….he is a wise young one. Rod, you made the best chicken tortilla soup ever! You could sell that shit, really. Thanks. I am so glad you came. You are hilarious. Make up with Jimmy soon…ok? Tell him you are sorry. Alicia, I commend you for your generousity of spirit....and your loving bravely, without shame. We all should take a lesson. Yes, we will do lunch. And thanks for the great hugs. Kim-bar-lee! So good to see you….um….what is your nationality? Foxy? Aren't you from Foxlandia? Yep, but I gotta remind you that you are young (not 105 years old) and you left far too early and were sorely missed. There was a whole other party with dancing to Motown and everything! You owe me a dance when I get back. Chris, love you. Take a day off! I will say hello to the orchids for you….and any plumerias I see, of course. Kandi, god bless you and your enduring romantic spirit. TS Eliot and Walt Whitman live! "Let us go then you and I…" Love and poetry….and the love of poetry. Thanks for always being so generous to me. More than 30 years have passed and you still offer up the sweetest smiles, the warmest hugs, and the kindest words….and you are still a nut…"somebody better play some Bee Gees or I am going to kill myself." Kandi, you are a master of hyperbole! Dan, you are a very sweet man and always so generous…and I am so glad you both came. Jimmy, thanks for calling when you're ears were burning. And as far as getting a pass, well, the jury is still out. I'll keep you posted. You were missed, my favorite bro. Jennifer and Tim, soooo glad you came. Always love your company. Thanks for the Kettle One and shaker….perfect timing! Jennifer, I look very forward to talking more about this and that and everything else. Thank you very much for the camera aid. Very thoughtful. And thanks for offering up your place for a little reentry singing. I will do my scales as I walk the cobblestone streets of Antigua.....you and me Tim, a country duet. Professor Chris, am very excited about doing a guest lecture on queer theory and ADR in an organizational development context. Fun stuff. We will definitely talk soon after I get back. Was good to meet you. Sara, breathe baby, breathe! It is all good. I think it quite fitting that I spent my last night in the USA with some of my oldest and craziest friends. You guys make me laugh more than anyone….there is genius in your humor, especially knowing the roots from which it came. I felt absolutely overwhelmed with love and gratitude. Thank you all.

School, Shots, and Martinis

2007-11-17T00:09:00.000-08:00

I have registered with a language school:

The Language Travel Company in Antigua.

Check out the website for details and contact information: http://thelanguagetravelcompany.com/index.php

Had a great conversation with a school rep who inquired about my Spanish level. I confessed that I can order lunch and a beer, ask where the bathrooms are, say "nice dog," and cuss a little. This vocabulary is revealing don't you think?

I am taking typhoid inoculation pills and have an aching arm from a tetanus shot. Good fun! Two weeks to go!

For my SocCal friends, Deb is throwing me a bonvoyage party on November 30th at her house. Be there at 7:30pm for martinis and good times!

Please take me with you!!!

2007-11-11T22:40:00.000-08:00

Oh please take me with you....please. I will be good! I promise!

2007-11-11T22:36:00.000-08:00

FYI

2007-11-11T22:18:00.000-08:00

Getting ready to head south. For those of you who have an interest, my basic itinerary is the following:

Oakland to Long Beach - November 30, 2007
LAX to Guatemala City - December 2, 2007 (12:45am....ouch!)
Travel throughout Central America to be determined
Guatemala City to LAX - January 4, 2008
Long Beach to Oakland - January 6, 2008

Then off to the foothills on Monday to facilitate meetings! I will provide contact information soon. You can always email me.

2007-11-04T21:05:00.000-08:00

Antigua, Guatemala...that is where I am headed to study Spanish and learn something about something. I leave LA early on December 1, 2007 and I return on January 4, 2008. I will study during the week and travel as much as possible on the weekends. I intend to go back to the jungle...Tikal this past January was intense and amazing and filled with amazing birds and screaming monkey's and mosquitos. After catching some tenacious bug in La Paz Mexico this past August, I am going to get shots for the various diseases Central America offers. Also, back on the malaria meds for a couple months....the amount of mosquito's in the jungle was incomprehensible...they seemed quite partial to my particular flavor of blood. So pink pills and shots it will be.

Welcome!

2007-11-04T20:57:00.000-08:00

Hello to those who might find themselves reading this....friends, family and stumble-uponers. I have set up this blog as a place to post musings, pictures, ramblings, learnings acquired and experienced on my trip to Central America late this year and into what will hopefully be a thrilling 2008.