The Bolivian mindset

I have to ramble a bit about Bolivia.

There's a lot of negative prejudice surrounding Bolivian attitudes, they´re often considered stupid or lazy, and there´s clearly a lot of euro-centricism and racism in that.

But, unfortunately, there are a few things about the way Bolivians get things done that are just... barmy.

I read a book about a woman who went across S America by horse back, and after she left Bolivia for Brazil, she was amazed of the initiative the Brazilleros took.... anticipating that horses need water and trivial things like that.

And I have to agree, Bolivians don't seem to pre-empt anything.

I heard the following examples secondhand:

At the airport, a small plane had been badly loaded, and instead of being on its three wheels, it was leaning back, balanced on its tail and the rear wheels.
Apparently they tried various things, like getting vehicles at the rear to try and push up the tail etc, and eventually they got some soldiers to enter the plane, and apparently they just kept putting soldiers on until it was balanced right, and the tail lifted from the floor, like the end of the see-saw, and it came down onto the front wheel with a thump. Sounds like a crazy theme park ride or a game on the crystal maze, but no, this is just running a Bolivian airport.



The Worlds Most Dangerous Road is in bolivia, and has been replaced by a new one, although only a few years in and it's showing signs of failing under the traffic, with cracks in the tarmac etc. It's feared the old WMDR will soon be the primary route again.

The WMDR itself used to have people who worked as human traffic lights, with green and red paddles they used to indicate to their colleagues further up and down the road if there was oncoming traffic. Perhaps the government might have paid some people to do that, you might imagine?

You might argue that maybe they just couldn't afford to have a hundred or more guys it would take to do the job. Although I would counter that , as there are few traffic light in La Paz but on occasion there are a group of 20 or so men dressed as Zebras acting like schools crossing guards (Zebra crossing, gettit???), having people on the WMDR wouldn't be that expensive. They wouldn't even have to pay for Zebra suits!!!

One or two of these things wouldn't be that big a deal, but you can see the pattern forming, right?

Do something, and if it all goes tits up, deal with it then...

There are even more examples: this is the only country Ive been too where, when u take a bus, you put your bags in the hold before they check your ticket.
So of course, loads of gringos have their bags buried deep in the hold before they realise that this isnt their bus. This is part of the reason that every bus in Bolivia is at least 30 mins late to leave.

The boat we took across the lake that didn't have enough gas, and everyone was singing hymns to keep the bugger going. And we'd all just paid, so surely there was money to be had to top-up the gas before setting off across lake Titicaca?

And finally, on my trip to the middle of freaking nowhere in the Bolivian salt flats, they cooked lunch in the desert.... and where going to just leave the rubbish in the middle of the road. There's no bin men out here, and this is your country - your national park in-fact - do you not want to keep it clean?


I wish I could have said that all the prejudices about Bolivia are unfounded, but as you can see, they definitely seem to have quite a "unique" mindset.

Uncertain Transitions III: Is that my bus on that boat?

Its common knowledge that traveling around Bolivia is a lot more ardouos than most of South America, with the Lonely Plant making ominous comments like "In Bolivia, getting there is half the fun!"

So my trip to Lake Titicaca from La Paz, with two other Brits, wasn`t helped by Russel, who signed us up to the first van that had a guy screaming "Copacabana", when for 50p more we could of had had a luxury tourist bus.

Instead, we had a tiny minivan with zero leg room. We then had to wait for it to fill up, all the time being taunted by the shining tourist bus at the other end of the road.

When we finally left, Russel simply necked a few valiums to make it all bearable, leaving me and Sarah to suffer for his impulse buy. He didnt even notice when we swerved massively, and for the briefest second I saw a cow flash past within inches of the window.

We stopped at the shore of the lake, and we assumed it was a toilet break. I asked the driver where the toilet was, and he pointed.

Me and Sarah returned from the toilets a few minutes later.

"Wheres the bus gone?"

Erm...

We spotted Russel, coming back from a food stall.

"Wheres the bus gone Russel?"

"Its on a boat on the lake."

Ha ha, very funny. But of course, he`s not kidding: we can see our mini van on a rickety boat, our rucksacks visible on the roof, half way across this bay of the lake.

"Im so glad youre here," says Russel, in a spaced out Valium way: "I knew you were pissed off about the mini van, but I didnt think you`d leave me!"

Theres a second or two of stupid giggling, the kind you get from being completely dumbfounded by a turn of events.

We ask another Gringo:

"Have you got any idea why our bus is half way across the lake?"

Of course, he`s a fucking American, replying "so you missed the speech in Spanish about the lake, huh?"

No you twat, my Spanish is good enough to pick out words like "lake", or "other side."

And when I asked him where the toilet was, he just pointed, he didn't say "by the time you get back, your rucksacks will be halfway across the water."

So, we rushed to get our own passenger boat across to the other side. Its a strange feeling, waiting for your boat to fill up as you watch your bags sailing off into the distance.

When we got to the other side, our driver was waiting for us. Everyone on the bus seemed annoyed that we had delayed them. Well, If someone had made clear that THE BUS WAS GOING ON A BOAT ACROSS THE BAY there wouldnt have been a problem.

You migh think that given this experience, the return journey would hold no surprises.

Well, welcome to Bolivia!

Our return bus was overbooked.

Backpackers generally consider themselves to be in the same boat (which would prove even more apt in a few hours), but its amazing how the atmosphere changes when you realise not everyone is gonna fit on the bus.

And when we're finally on and there are still people arguing outside, and they keep coming back on the bus reading out surnames they can't pronounce, of people who apparently have tickets for a different bus, you`re dreading the word "Casey."

And the poor buggers who are evicted have to run around like crazy, finding their bus, asking it not to leave, getting their rucksacks off our bus, etc.

When we finally made it to the bay crossing, which was at least expalined this time, although the fact that the bus was a lot bigger made the sight of it lopsided on a wooden barge halfway across the bay worrying none the less.

The boat looked in a lot better condition than last time, and it was mainly fellow gringos, with a final contingent of Bolivians, including a man who must have been completely blind and barely able to walk, the way he was led to his seat.

The driver, who had about three teeth in his mouth, had to pull the cord for the engine about 30 times to get it started.Some might have taken this as a hint that more gas wss required, but not this dude. We were finally under way, and inevitably, the boat stops half way across.

A few of the Gringo Reggaton afficonados on the boat, including msyelf, couldnt help but break into the chorus of Gasolina: "Te gusta de Gasolina, Da me mas Gasolina (She likes Gasoline, Give me more Gasoline)", but no one can remember any of the rest of the words, so that ends pretty quick.

A woman helps the driver, working the gas tube to keep the dribble of fuel going into the engine, and the locals have their own song: a hymn, sung to the tune of something a bit like "she`ll be coming round the mountain when she comes"

Temos Gracias mi Senor mi Senor... (*3) (We give thanks, my Lord, my Lord)

Temos Gracias... Christo Salvador....

Everyone is clapping along, all the gringos in their gortex or local alpaca hats, and the locals themselves all wrapped up in their blanket like things, singing with reverence from mouths with only a few teeth left. The driver himself is getting into it as well.

Obviously, all that praying did the job, and we got to the other side without the engine dying again.

We all clapped and cheered each other like it was some mutual effort that saved us, and some of the local women gave thanks to the local saint.

So yes, on balance, I think Id agree that travel around Bolivia is more taxing than other countries.

Deja Vu: Santa Cruz, Bolivia...

So, I flew into Bolivia, Santa Cruz.
And in case youre wondering, I chickened out of the 30 hour bus journey followe dby 15 hours on the train, charmingly called the `train of death.`



The first thing I thought about Bolivia , after hearing my first Gracias, was `thank fuck to be in a Spanish speaking country!` My Spanish is far from great, but compared to my Portugese Im absolutely fluent. No longer is every comment and quesiton a complete mystery, now theyre just mildly confusing, jigsaw puzzles with odd pieces, waiting to be moulded into some kind of sense.


The second thing I noticed is that, for being the most mountainous country in South America, so far its incredibly flat. Gone are the consistent cotours of Brazil and Colombia that I had become accustomed to. I already miss it, and dont know hwo Im going to deal with the monotony of the English landscape again.

Nexst, I notice the people: much more indiginous looking than Brazil or Colombia, broader builds, flatter faces and noses. I havent stuck out this badly since Guatemala.

Theres more and more reasons for deja vu: after the westernization of Brazil and Colombia, decrepid buses and dirty streets had almost faded from my memory.

Another welcome return is cheaper prices: from nine quid for a bed in a 10 person dorm in Rio, Im paying four quid for a five person dorm here, and Santa Cruz is supposedly one of the pricisest places in Bolivia.
And although Id been told food in Bolivia wasnt great, and food in Brazil was awesome, there was no western breakfast. As good as it was, man cannot live on steak alone: sometimes bacon and eggs is a necessity. Of course, with that comes familar poor service.... Id forgotten that breakfast could sometimes take up half your day. And finally, good old reggaeton.... I dont particularly like reggaton, but after so many months of it incentral america, I find it strangely comforting.

Our hostel also has the Spanish style courtyard with plants and hammocks, and a pair of Tucans. At first I thought it was kinda cruel to have their wings clipped, but they seem happy enough, hopping around from floor to trees. They also like to give u a cheeky nibble, especially on your toes: when you open the door to the shower and that big beak is pointing at you, you do feel a bit vulnerable.

And when theyre hosing down the floors, they tel the birds to get out of the way: their nickname seems to be pookey tookey. ¨Hey, Pookey tookey... Pookey tookey!!!¨

Rio Baby!!! That's right, Rio!!!!

Well, Rio isn't overestimated!
This city absolutely rocks. The sun shines, the beaches are clean and plentiful, the mountains and hills are visible form everywhere, the Cariocas (people of Rio) patient and friendly to gringos, and they speak a lot more English than people from Sau Paulo...

Easy examples:

• I was on a bus the other day... and it stopped for a couple of mins so the driver and conductor could get ice cream.
  
• There's a guy who sells pineapples on Ipanema beach, who has half a pineapple on his head, and tries to creep up on gringos and scream 'Abacaxi!!!!!´ (pineapple) to scare the crap out of them.
  

I dont know how much of that kind of thing is Brazil in general, but Im sure that living in a chill, pretty, sunny city by the sea helps anyones temperament.

Rio is full of landmarks and things to do...

• Ive taken a cable car to sugar loaf moluntain... in the mist... kind of creepy, like being on a cable car STRAIGHT TO HELL!!!!



• I went to see the Christ statue too, which has great views, and everyone posing for a pic with their arms outstretched, it must be one of the most cliched photos ever.
  
• I went to a modern art gallery, with loads of funky stuff you could really interact with, touch, smell, taste, wear... made the Tate modern look stuffy in comparison.


• I took a creaking, antique tram, which goes over a narrow aquaduct, then onto tiny old cobblestone streets... its the kind of death trap that you could never have in the UK.... the RMT would crap themselves at the sight of it.



• Favela tours, where you wonder around the Favelas with a guide (think city of God, but not so hard core).

I have had a fair amount of beach time, however. Copacobana... Ipanema.... every beach here has a song about it, that you can´t get out of your head, like a sound track for each beach.
There´s patterns in the paving stones on the sea front promenades, so you can literally tell where you are just by looking at the ground. It seems to rub off too, a lot of people wear black and white, consciously or subconciously matching themselves to the streets of the city.

Food is great, my favourite being kilograma restaurants, where you get your plate weighed and pay by the gram. Meat is amazing and dead cheap, apart from bacon (I cant figure out how they havent clocked how amazing bacon is).

The hostels are good, with hot tubs and bars... no wonder Ive been here so long!

Its killing my bank balance tho, I need to leave.... but theres always the lure of one more day, especially when the next step of my journey, to Bolivia, is like 40 hrs travel.

Another day on the beach for me then...

Salvador

Salvador, Brazil

Ahh, finally, something like the postcard Brazil.
Im rolling with two Belgians, they give me joke with their accents (`Germansh, eh? Fucking Bashtards!`).

The streets of Salvador are cobblestoned, and the buildings old and in pastel colours (apparently before street numbers, the colour of your hose was the way to address the mail to you).
We arrived on a Tuesday, a big party night here, and this old towen gives great acoustics for the drums and Frohha (?) rhythms echoing from every square.

Theres a lot of touts and salesmen, but mostly good natured: When trying to get rid of one of them, he said `maybe tomorrow?` Yeah, maybe tomorrow. ´Maybe never!!!!´ he said, then laughed as we walked away.
The most obscure thing someone tried to sell was a kind of marionette set piece, two caricature figures in black and white like something from a nightmare before Xmas, one bent over and the other with a big pole, and when you jiggle the wires the pole smacks against the arse of the bent over one over and over... puppet soddomy! Tim Burton would be loving this!

In the main square there's live music, people who want to sell you things, including themselves.
One short prossie we saw grinding someone earlier waltzes over, and asks for a little bit of one of the belgian guys drinks (pocito?)... she then snatches his caiprinhia, and tries to down the whole thing, but almost chokes, and starts coughing andd spluttering. Im sure theres a lesson to be learned there. She recovers quickly tho, and is onto me for my drink. I think Im being dead clever by holding it too high for her to reach: she then pinches my nipples hard. Im in a tug of war over a can of beer. I win!!!!! I feel like such a man.

She goes to the other Belgian, and starts trying to seduce him: she moans in cliched porno ways, then finds herself so funny she cant stop laughing at herself, then moans again, then cracks up, etc.
Normally I have no time for hasslers, especially prostitutes that arent even pretty (Im in Brazil, WTF???) but she gave me jokes, maybe she was on some decent drugs, but she had a fun energy about her, and I didnt mind her craziness.

When the live music started to wind down, we made ourt down hill toward the hostel.
Everyone says this town is kinda dangerous, the north east of Brazil has massive unemployment, and theres loads of tourists in Salvador, ripe for the taking.
Theres a big sign at the hostel saying to be very careful after midnight, especially when its rainging, cos the police go indoors and youre a walking target. You cna kind of feel it in the air too, the midnight thing is so true that its like some kind of fucked up CInderella story, after 12 the magical town turns into muggers alley.

Despite all this, one of the Beligian guys tries to buy some weed from a sketchy random.
After he tries to sell us tobacco, and the strets feel empty and people are eying us up as ambulatory wallets, we leave.

Well there you go. Music, beauty, party atmosphere, crazy prostitues, a mild sense of danger... that's what you expect from Brazil, no?

Medellin... in general

Medellin... well, for a start, the Colombians pronounce the ll as a j, not as a y, so it sounds like Medejin....



Medellin, home of Pable Escobar's coke trade, and of the current right-wing, hard line, FARK busting president.
Escobar's mark is still left on this city, he was defacto governer, he built houses and owned clubs, and died in a hail of gunfire running across the roofs of houses here... there's a picture by a famous Medellin artist, who's statues decorate the plazas, of Escobar falling, larger than life, like King Kong, from the roofs of Medellin... You can visit his grave on the outskirts of town, and of course all the 18 year olds take C up there and do a line of his grave.... (that particular tourist attraction doesn't do it for me).

Medellin is nestled in a valley surrounded by green mountains, and at night the lights from the towns on the slopes of the mountains sparkle like stars.



Medellin, home of some incredibly friendly people: I've had people chat to me in plazas, help me out of nowhere using pay phones, practice their English with me, let me practice my Spanglish...

Medellin, with a great metro train that becomes an L train in the centre, offering great views from the clean, quiet and safe train lines. Part of it is a cable car, so for a dollar you can travel up the mountain for a great view of the city, from one of the poorer burbs.

Medellin, with one of the nicest Spanish accents I've heard, with elongated As that sound like notes being sung a little flat, claro = claaaro, facile = faaacile....

Medellin, a place I could definitely live.

*sighs*

Nightlife in Medellin...

Mangos had been recommended to me as follows: "Hot Colombian Woman are literally falling out of the sky, from poles. "

I had already been to a club the night before with drinks all inclusive, serving blow your head off rums all night (and if you ask for coke they look at you like you're a pussy).
The bar was a circle in the middle of the club, with dancers on a platform in the center of it. There were so many glow sticks about that when the lights went out the other side of the bar looked like a massive light saber fight. So if Mangos was better than that, well....

Oh, and the other thing I had heard: "And there are dwarves, dwarf wrestling, dwarf salsa." Dwarves, you say? Well say no more!


I rolled 15 strong with the hostel posse, Israelis (so many Israelis in Latin America it's not even funnu), ozzies, Brits, and some Dutchies ('the girlsh here are shuper shexy').

The place is half saloon, half Latin cantina... wood and faded posters, mirrors, wagon wheels, cow heads... As we walked in there were Salsa partners on the stage, one of which is a dwarf couple.

Wandering around randomly are people in fancy dress; cowboys and cowgirls, all with crazy silicon: Medellin is full of cosmetic surgery, apparently wives are bought boob jobs for wedding presents, some girls even as a 16th birthday coming of age thing.
Besides the cowboys, there was a man with only one arm, in a hospital gown dragging his drip with him; and gypsy women with piercings and cigars; half doctors / half S and M gimps... it was all quite surreal.

The blokes toilet had sinks that were like a water trough, and the taps were actually replica horses heads, with the water flowing from the mouth, so as you walk in it looks like several horses are drinking from the trough.

The next stage show was even more crazy: first to slide down the pole was a Tarzan guy, miming his Tarzan call as it was played on the speakers, followed by a Jane character, then a guy dressed as a lion, then a zebra man, his skin painted in white and black stripes, with a headpiece of white fur from his crown to the bottom of his back.
Finally, a dwarf in a monkey suit shoots down the pole, and starts cartwheeling and rolling around the stage. I can almost hear Hunter S in my mind at this point.

Strobes again, as the strange jungle tecno with a Tarzan call as the main sample is syncronished to the lights and the dancing of this Tarzan and Jane family.

And whenever a dwarf walks by you have an irresistible urge to grab it, put it in a bag, take it to the hostel and make it dance for you.
Shows like this continue throughout the night, with sweaty, toned, and surgically enhanced Colombians dancing in various themed getups in strobe lighting, from break dancers to salsa to meringue to reggaeton grinding.

Outside in the street there's of course the obligatory guy with a tray of mints, sweets and cigarettes for sale, one at a time if you like, and a woman with a stall selling spicy sausage blobs you eat with a tooothpick and try to balance ketchup on without dropping it on yourself.

I left about 4AM, tried my best drunk conversational Spanglish with the taxi driver, and at the hostel found myself instantly taking over for someone in a Poker game, and winning 4000 pesos, about a quid.
That victory rounded of my night nicely, and I went to bed, my head spinning.

Cartagena, Colombia

Colombia : Cartagena

Cartegena is a cool place, and if the rest of Colombia is anything like it, I´m gonna like it here.

The old city is gorgeous, the only place to compete with Antigua, Guatemala... if Cartegena had cobbled streets and a Volcano, it´d win for sure. Say what you want about Spanish involvement in Latin America, but they built some magnificent places.

The old city is walled to prevent pirate attack from the coast, and attack from the British army (If you´re keen to know more, look up "the war of Jenkin´s ear", no lie!).

There are statues and churches and plazas every few minutes. The main plaza, plaza Bolivar, has fountains in each corner and a statue of him on a horse in the centre, and palm trees all around.
Between the palms, the african drummers that play here for tourists most days, and the sound of the water in the fountains shooting out at high pressure, it has a weird miox of the cultured with the exotic, the wild. You cna sit in the cathedral opposite, and hear the africna drumming echoing around... I´m sure Christ would dig it, although I´m not sure about his most ardent followers.

There´s a lot going on on the street here, at all hours: crazy Madames with missing teeth, cheap hos that blow kisses at you, old men gathered round a table playing cards or dominos, a young couple snogging (the girl with a lollipop in her hand), stalls selling lottery tickets, or building tools, or fried cheese, or fruit juices (Lulo juice is wkd)... and there´s always some weird sound somewhere, Reggaton or salsa or a room full of sowing machines going at full pelt.

Strangely, for a country so famous for its coffee, they don´t seem to savour the experience: there are precious few cafes, and people get their coffee from street vendors with thermoses, always served in tiny espresso sized cups, evne though it´s not that strong. Even the police take their coffee like this on the street, which makes them a lot less intimidating (You are under arrest for spilling my Machiatto!!!!).

They also have a particular phrase here, "alla arden," or something simlar, which means at your service, but it sounds exotic to me, and makes me feel like I´m very important when they say it.

Next stop: Medellin!

The Panama Canal

I actually visited the canal today.

There´s a pretty shit exhibition and museum, and an observation deck where you can watch the locks being filled and emptied for massive boats.

I enjoyed it... In the distance you can see ships all waiting for their slot, and as the cargo ships get closer you realise quite how fricking massive they are, and how little margin of error there is as they go through the canal.

It´s also the first modern tourist attraction I´ve paid to see, after Mayan ruins etc.
And I´m reminded that the things that we do now adayas and take for granted are pretty spectacular, and worth celebrating... we carved a water highway across a country to join two oceans so that bananas from Honduras can end up all over the world in a week or so, in cities, like Panama city where people work in skyspcrapers, towering so high above the ground that we could piss on Tikal and the Pyramids from a great height, and then we party in places like the jade seahorse in Utilla, a tree house gaudi mosaic bar, and we can fly around the world just for a business meeting, or to travel around.... wow, we´re so freaking lucky you have to take stock of it some time.
I´d liek to think that in the future there´ll still be tours of the canal, and they´ll be like "before the invention of teleporters, people would transport their goods in these masssive boats that look like they should sink, across a canal that bridges two oceans, just so they could all have their bananas in a timely fashion," and the future people will struggle to comprehend the way we lived, just as we struggle now to think about the Mayans and their weird football games and sacrifices.

Panama city

Panama city is a nice change of pace.
I love the beach, but I'm a townie at heart, and it's great to be in a place with some iron and concrete and real energy. Although the city also has an old quwarter, a mini crombling Havana with backaley rum joints and the presidential palac, which has amazing grey African cranes wandering around in the foyer, visible through the bars.

The Panama canal, joining the Atlantic to the Pacific, is the heart of this city: it's the reason for the American influence, te reason for the banks, the sky scrapers, the casinos, the 24 hour supermarkets. In fact, the answer to almost any question about the city seems to be the canal. It made it what it is. The canal was handed over to the Panamanians after years of American control in 1999. I heard about the history before from Paul Theroux, and from talking to Panamanians: entire sections of this city were American suburbs, the canal zone, and the zonians lived as if they were in buttfuck USA, not even larnign spanish, with their own schools, hospitals, and funeral homes.
Now the causeway, an island chain off the bay, joined up like the Florida keys, which used to be for the high up zonians, is full of restaurants and convention centres. From here you get great night views of the bridge of the Americas, supposedly joining central to south America, althougfh I´m not convinced that´s true (the darien gap, surely?).
An ex US army listening post there has become a hotel... we're making the world a better place guys, one mall at a time, sweet Jesus, one mall at a time.

The city feels really safe, I walk around at night coming back fom clubs and stuff with no worries, but I'm beginning to realise there's more to ti that mets the eye: the glass font to the building with our hostel has a small, neat bullet hole in it, and the other day, when I went to get some chow,I saw the aftermath of a shooting. Police had cordoned off the area, around a SUV, where a man lay, covered by a sheet, with one arm and the ends of his legs poking out.
It was outside a jewlers, so the contrasts of this dead man under the flashing neon lights saying 'joyeria' was quite darkside. I considered going back to take a photo, then decided that was too morbid. I'll never make a press photographer, clearly. I´ve asked several ppl what happened, and heard different stories from each: car accident (I don´t see how), attempted robbery of the jewelers (he´d have to have been very thick), and a drive by (more than likely) . The next some tout trying to tempt me to strip bars told me "this area isn´t safe, a Colombian killed a Mexican here the other day." Not safe, really? Do you think the fact that you work here trying to get Gringos into strip bars is a sign of that?


My next stop is Colombia, and despite everyone's recommendations to take a boat through the San Blas islands, I'm going to fly... right now, islands have lost a bit of their appeal and novelty, and I think I'm ready for some more city life. Cartagena, here we come!

Bocas to Panama city (uncertain transitions II)

I was leaving Bocas Del Torro for Panama city.

Waiting for my boat at the jetty, I was occasionally glancing at a pretty girl, all made up with tight jeans etc, when I noticed she had two machetes with her, and decided it would be best to stop looking.

The boats always seem full from the jetty, but they managed to squeeze me in, and as usual the ride was great, the boat banking and weaving like a fighter jet, or those land cruiser things from Jedi... although as we neared the shore, the great views couldn´t hide the squalor, where decrepid houses jutted haphazardly into the water and the shores were awash with filth and rubbish.


I took an unmarked taxi (always fun on your own) to the bus station, where a black guy spoke English and directed me, with some assertion, to the ticket office.

The ticket guy was crazily effeminate, and must have been gay, although this one-horse town didn´t seem like a hive of tolerance and gay bars. I think he was meant to be born in Thai land. Maybe somewhere in Koh Samui there´s a macho Thai guy that´s meant to be here.

He told me that the bus had broken and there was no direct bus today... which the black guy proceeded to translate for me.

The black guy offered me a hotel in the town for the night and to get a direct bus in the morning.

Having seen the town, but not wanting to laugh in his face, I said "If I was staying, i´d go back to
the islands...." when he suddenly remembered I could take another bus and get a connection.


I went to wait for the next bus, paranoid that he was lying to me so that I would miss my boat and have to stay in this god awful town for the night (trust is a very precious commodity when travelling solo), so I confirmed with like 5 people, as best I could in my broken Spanish.


The waiting room was also a cafe, and they were closing up, pulling the cloths from the tables to reveal that the surfaces wer wire mesh grills, like fences. I´m sure there´s a deep point to make about the thin veneer of civilization here, but I´ll let you think about that yourself.

When the mini bus arrived, the conductor was well dressed, all in black, with a fresh hair cut, and slightly bulbous features inside a well defined outline of a face.

He didn't say anything to me, and later I realised he was mute, the only sound he made was a high pitched squeak, like Beaker from sesame street.

Confirming for the Nth time this was the right bus for me with the man sitting next to me, I began to chat in my rubbish Spanglish. From his phone, he showed me pictures of his wife. "Muy bonita", I tell him. His daughters. "Que bonita, bonitas todas". He showed me a picture of his car. I couldn´t fake much enthusiasm for that.

A German traveller got on the bus. I was glad to have another traveller on the journey, so glad in fact that it took me quite a while to realise he was nice but a bit boring, telling every story in minute detail without putting any emotion into the telling.
We stopped in David for changing to the night bus for Panama city, and I bought some cookies from a stall there, form a woman with a lazy eye. I tried my best not to let the german guy know how bored I was by his conversation, so I kept going outside for cigarretes. We got the bus, I hardly slept, we arrived in Panama city at 4AM.

Ometepe: You just can't see too many Volcanoes, it's impossible

I spent a few days in Ometepe, an island in lake Nicaragua.
The lake is the largest in Central America, and whilst it isn't as breathtaking as Lake Atitlan in Guatemala, it's quite something to look across a lake that feels more like an ocean, with no sign of the other side even on a clear day.

The lake is also famous for the world's only fresh water sharks (bull sharks, mean fuckers), which had a boom and bust industry built around their wholesale slaughter in the 70s and 80s for their fins, making them practically extinct now.
I kind of wanted to see one, and I asked the woman at the hostel: she said she'd never seen one, but then again she rents Kayaks too, so you can hardly trust that, right? I didn't see any though.

Ometepe is a figure 8, with a volcano at the centre of each circle. When you're in the narrow strip that joins them, you can see a volcano on either side you. And the biggest, concepcion, looks like something from a movie: a subdued green in colour, it has cracks like deep scars, as if saomeone had raked massive claws down it from top to bottom.
The top is usually cloud covered, and it seems to wrap around the peak as if you'd taken the volcano and dipped it in the candy floss vat, letting the cloud floss spin around the top in whispy threads.

The place is also pretty underdeveloped, most of the roads are dirt tracks that turn to slush in the rain, and the buses are generally falling apart: I even saw a woman on the bus with a squirrel on her lap, with a lead of blue string, being fed mango.

Oh, and I was hanging with a Canadian, an Israeli and a Norweigan girl, and was pleasantly surprised when I told the Canadian guy to 'fix up', and he replied "fix up, look sharp! Do you like Dizzy Rascal?"

Adventures in Scuba

I realised I haven´t mentioned anything about all the diving I´ve been doing, so here´s a summary.

I didn´t take any of the pics I´m afraid, but they´re all of the right species or from the same dive site.

MEXICO

I couldn´t remember anything about the equipment, but being under water is like riding a bike to me, it comes back real quick.

I was diving with noobies on the team tho, so the comparison was bound to make me look good...



Saw a nurse shark, and loads of massive turtles, which are so chill, you just swim right by them, and drift along for a while...


BELIZE

The Blue Hole is a legendary trophy dive, and wasn´t cheap, and the dive masters were completely unprofessional.
You´re not supposed to dive below 20 metres as an entry level diver, and this dive was 40m... and they didn´t even ask about it!

It was like a 2 stage dive, first stop around 20m, then onto the 40m.
The second I got in the water I saw nothing but sharks; nurse sharks and reef sharks.

We descended to the 40m, which we can only stay at for about 8 mins, and once my eyes adjusted to the light, you could make out the creepy stalectites in the caves down there.



We ascended again for the 5 min safety stop, and were surrounded by the sharks again.
Quite intimidating when they head straight for you, believe!


HONDURAS


I did like seven dives in Honduras, including two night dives, which are awesome...
The torch lights cut through the darkness like scenes from a movie, and the whole thing has a kind of cinematic feel... I saw an octopus, which changed colours from orangey red to vibrant blue, a lobster, a hermit crab, shrimp...

We sat on the bottom and turned off the lights, and there were so many fish they were literally bumping into us in the dark, and we could see the phosphoresence sparkling like crazy fireworks in the water, and then we surfaced to have them replaced by the stars, real clear and vivid... and we swam back to the boat, feeling like we´d seen something fucking magic.


I also saw some Speckled eagle rays (see the pic), which are so smooth and graceful in the water, I would have done anything to followém, no matter how deep they went, or for how long...

So there you go. If I do any more, I´ll add em to this post... apparently you can dive the panama canal, which might be cool! We´ll see...

Progresso, aka The yoof, part II...

DAY 1

In Guatemala I met some guys from who work in Honduras, helping underpriviledged kids in orphanages around Progresso, Honduras. Justin is from the states, but is originally Bolivian, and Nima is form Sweden, but originally from Iran... crazy combos, eh?
They said I could visit any time... I´m glad they meant it, cos I did!

They picked me up from the bus station, and I can´t tell you how nice it is to arrive somewhere with friends waiting for you, instead of flying blind, being assualted by taxi drivers.

They drive an SUV, as does anyone whos anyone in Honduras... the place is a sharp contrast to Guatemala, it seems to want to be the US, wheras Guatemala seems happy with its mix of cultures.

We stopped at a gas station, and as Justin went to pay, a woman in another SUV started talking to him. She was behind the wheel, swigging from a beer, which is such an alien thing to see in a gas station that it jarred as much as almost anything I´ve seen so far. They then followed us back to Progresso, veering and swerving wildly on the freeway, and we laughed at them like idiots, shocked that we were being followed by three drunk women.

That evening, free of our stalkers, we cycled to the basketball court, and I sweated like a bitch while practicing my lay ups. Taking a break with a bag of water (cheap water comes in little plastic bags that you squeeze it out from like a bladder), the place seemed alive with the sound of balls hitting wood, and the open slats for windows gave glimpses of the neon fast food signs, burger king and wendys glittering like stars.
For the first time, I didn´t feel like a tourist one bit.

We cycled to a street cafe, and I tried to join in the Spanish conversations, whilst stuffing my face with street burrito things.

When we get back we find a girl waiting: not a drunk stalker, but a 16 year old they work with who got chucked out of home, and needed somewhere to stay.
They set her up, then Justin and Nim chat together: their office is their home, and they´re effectively on call 24/7, with no privacy.
Listening to them talk, it was kinda weird: these are not the kinds of people who I imagined doing this kind of work, I expect loads of crusty hippies, or idealistic bleeding hearts. These are just two guys, guys who shoot the shit, take the piss out of stuff, cruise around town in the SUV listening to Hip Hop, tell the kids they have cool scars (Justin:"Who gave you it?" kid:"My Dad" Justin:"He got you good, huh?" kid:"yeah, then I stabbed him") ; guys who wear ´pimp daddy´ T-shirts ("just in case they forget").If these are what volunteer organisations can be, I can see myself fitting in a lot more than I´d imagined.

DAY 2

Driving to the orphanage we cross the railroad tracks, and the phrase seems like it was born here... within seconds the only houses are corrugated iron shacks.

At the orphanage, we realise we've been beaten to the punch.. .a group of fat American women are here, preachng about Jesus to kids that are ex glue addicts from the street. I'm sure they really feel Gods love. This is apparently rare, but I love the image of my guys flooring the SUV, trying to get to orphanages before the God squad.

The kids here range from 7 to 15, and someone points out one of the older kids: "I'd like to beat the shit out of that kid man, he sexually abuses the little ones, like, some kids have escaped just cos they're afraid of him."
A part of me thinks of the cycle of abuse, that he must be repeating what happened to him as a kid... but my heart doesn't bleed much, I think I agree: If only the Punisher would spend a few days at these places, he'd separate the wheat from the chaff. (If you don't know who the Punisher is, fix up).
THe standard greeting here is like a mini high five hand slap, followed by a touch (I´m gonna keep it when I get back home) and I was doing it with all the kids that I met, and one kid comes up tome and I´m starting it before I realise he weas born with one arm ending just after the
elbow. Neither of us was phased however, I slap on his stump and do the touch on his elbow. He turned out to be pretty good in goal.
We walk around the orphanage: they have a monkey in a small cage here, going slowly out of its mind. The parallels are too obvious to spell out.


In the afternoon we visit a place for kids with downs syndrome and other learning difficulties, or whatever you fricking say. Personal space is a novel concept to these kids, and with my British reserve it took me a while to get used too.

In the evening I watched TV, and fought for the remote control with the girl who moved in the day before, who watched nothing but MTV. My Spanish and comfort level was high enough to mock her appauling taste in music.


DAY 3

Back to the ex glue sniffers again, playing football. One of the gits called a hand ball on me when it glanced off the top of my shoulder, like we're so fucking professional we're gonna bring out the off side flag any minute, but I get a look like "these kids will probably throw a brick at you if you say anything," so I let it slide.

I was sweating like an animal.
Progreso is hot, possibly the hottest place I´ve been in my life. You need to shower three times a day (No private shower, so I couldn´t) and to change your sweaty underwear three times too (not enough laundry, so I didn´t).
The only respite was the smoothie place near where I was staying, air con and awesome smoothies were absolute bliss.
We lounged watching TV till it was cool enough to think again.

It was Friday, so Nim's girlfriend and some other Hondurans they hang with came.
One of the Honduran girls had been to England.
"I ws volunteering in England."
"Where?"
"East Grinstead"
"Er..."
What do you say to that? Bad luck?

We all went for food, and it was so cool to be involved in conversations that didn´t start with "where you from, how long have you been travelling..." And the constant, fluid shifting from English to Spanish, with me understanding most of the Spanish too, was fun.

It felt like I was part of a real group of people, not just transients, who had more in common than their choice of Hostel and travel destinations. It was cool. And I get to feel like I helped the yoof.

The Yoof, part I... Visiting Camino Seguro

I took a tour of a volunteer organisations work with kids who´s families depend on scavenging in the massive garbage dump in Guatemala City ... Camino Seguro, aka safe pasage (http://www.safepassage.org/).

Families used to actually live in the massive dump (a good 5 Km square or so) in Guate city, until the combination of a tire fire and underground methane leaks resulted in a massive fire.

(The methane leak was apparently caused by chemical processes happening with all the weird waste they've buried there, and its strange to think of this man made tip having natural processes, like its a real ecosystem, although I suppose it is, even if its made of junk.)

Without anyone keeping check they have no way of knowing how many people died in the blaze. Since then theyve built a wall around it, and theoretically no children are allowed in. However, when the dump trucks (which come in a constant stream) drop off their loads, hundreds crowd round them looking for choice things to eat, use or sell.

Cam Seg pays for the childrens education, (as it´s not free in Guatemala), and provides a place for them to study, and help them with their homework, and compensates their family for the lack of income if one of their kid is no longer helping out, scavening in the dump, etc. They also have more extreme interventions for kids who are abused.

On the chicken bus into Guatemala City I chatted with our tour guide about the recent death of the founder of the organisation, and where it left the project.

I get the impression that the founder, some kind of vaguely hippyish woman from the US, was a micro manager, and an idealist. The guy doing our tour was trying to get more vocational kids of education started, like metal work, bakery, and things the kids might have a chance of being employed for in the near future.
A standard education is obviously vital, but from what I can tell Guatemala´s class system is alive and well, and the more Spanish you look, the richer you are, and the reverse if you have a native/Mayan appearance. I doubt that these kids, with their backgrounds, can walk into office jobs, no matter how qualified.

We saw their first site, a hothouse next to a recycling plant (how apt that the waste is recycled by both machines and the people next door). Its like a warehouse they've tried to make a nursery from, with kids up to about 3 years old.
People are taking pics of the kids, and I cant help but smirk at the swedish guy who brought a swish camera is swamped by kids putting their fingers all over it, pushing the buttons, trying to see their own pictures. He tried to be cool about it, but he so clearly wasn't.

Theyre all so eager to be the centre of attention they push each other out the way, or put their hands in front of shots of their friends. I havent spent enough time with groups of kids to be sure, but I guess this is pretty normnal, and 3 year olds are selfish gits the world round, no matter how rich or poor.

On our way to the newer premsises we get more background, about how the dump has been expanding over the years, again like a natural phenomenon, like a crevice or fault line, which has pushed people into the surropunding areas. There are literally houses of nothing but corrogated iron, whole streets of tinky shacks like that. The man who owns the surrounding property can do nothing about it, and for that reason he gave Cam Seg a 20 year lease of the property for free. The first thing they had to do was build a wall, to stop people putting their shacks there the next time the borders of the dump changed.

When you open the metal security door to the courty yard, its literally like being transported. There's grass and plants and a few bright orange butter flies fluttering about, and clean classrooms as good as any primary school in England, and all these kids up to about 5 or 6 are playing and some are having their hair cut. I think I'd stay here all day and never go home, given the choice.

As we walked to the next site, through cramped streets with teenagers dismantling bits of car parts and other bits of machinery I couldnt recognise, and broken down rusted cars and garbage everywhere, we passed a makeshift basketball hoop, with a few guys playing half-court in the road, and reggaton blaring from somewhere, and for a second we could have been in almost any city in the world.

The final site we visit is for older kids going to proper schools already, with more formalised learning and curiculums. Theres a class going on in the grass area here, where the kids illiterate family members are given Spanish lessons, including a granny of about 60 years old.

They even have an IT room, where the kids can apparently earn Microsoft certification. In the past Ive scoffed at MS as they disguise market dominiation with charity, but I suppose Word and Excel and Powerpoint are possibly the most useful skills to have if you want an office job, and Gates is apparently the worlds bigggest philanthropist or whatever, so Ill cut them some slack.

On the way back for a bus, a man rounds a corner. I´ve gotten used to seeing people carrying rediculously heavy things on their back, often with the aid of a strap around their forehead, but this one still surpruised me: on his back was a coffin.
It looked like it might fall any minute, any I could imagine some corpse tumbling out.

We soon passed his destination: a coffin store. In the whole afternoon, these coffins were by far the most pristine and expensive items to be bought in the area.
It reminded me of a Paul Theroux comment, about the high quality of the cemetaries compared to the houses in Latin America in the 80s: The houses are for a few years at best, but the coffins are forever.

Pacaya Volcano

Guatemala: Volcan Pacaya

I went up an active Volcano yesterday, Pacaya, in Guatemala.
At the bottom, laods of kids tried to sell us walking sticks, and small horses were available for those who couldn´t hack the climb. In fact people brought the horses with them in case we changed our mind half way, and were constnatly calling "taxi, taxi!!."

Near the top the landscape was really strange, these bands of dark black old lava cutting across the soft, green grass. It was like when a dog diggs up a garden, or maybe as if someone had poured crude oil haphazardly all over the place.

Abruptly, the green ended, and qall there was was black rock. We could see in the distance the red lava, and occasionally a boulder would come tumbling down, noisy and smoking. We started up the blakc rock, which was weird stuff: it sounded almost hollow when you walked on it, like it was from a film set or something, and when we were all walking you could constantly hear the weird scraping noise it made, like the sound of fibreglass, or polystyrene. It was so loud it was lieka bad home movie, the blair witch, where you hear every sound like it´s right by your ear.
The stuff was real sharp too, so when the loose rock gave under you, you had to gently put your hand somewhere ot balance you, putting your full weight down immediately would cut your hands up.

There were wierd patterns in thie stuff where Lave had flown and cooled recently, like the bands and ribbons made in the mud by tractors, like a bad glastonbury.


We were getting closer to some real lava flow, and could see the distortions in the air caused by the heat. This is the kind of fun that western health and safety wouldl never allow, people were getting so close to take pictures that the rocks would suddenly fall behyind them and they´d leap away from lava, no joke.

I got close enough to toast some marshmallows, but even with a massive stick it felt like my hands were burning, and I had to half cover my eyes from the hot air and gasses. It was weird, cold one minute, then the wind would suddenly change and you felt like you were in a sauna or a steam room. As we made our way back someoene would occasionally point out a gap in the rock where you could see the bright red molten stuff, and along with the hollow sound beneath our feet, it was like we were walking on a weak surface that might crack at any moment, dropping us into burning hot molten rock.

In short, it was a cool day.

Maximon

This was a mission to another town on the lake, the most indiginous town in the area, or however you put it.

I had one goal: To see the shrine to Maximon, some kind of hybrid deity based on Mayan beliefs, and evolved after Christianity. I had read one paragraph about him, that he was killed every night by Christians or something, and that he returned every morning with a rotten hangover, and a cigar in his mouth.

Arriving on the boat, all the tuk-tuks and kids were asking me "Maximon? See Maximon?" but I never trust that shit, so I went wandering. This town has a history of misery, with massacres during the civil war and mass hurricane damage in the mid nineties... Although compared to the Gringo lagoon I was staying at, it all seemed in quite good repair.

I bumped into a French guy, who I assumed was here for Maximon as well, there wasn´t much else to see in this town. He wasn´t really here for anythgn in particular, so I semi abducted him to give me a travel buddy. I got to the top of the town (all the lake towns start at the shore and have their centres up a hill or slope), where there was a small park and a church.
I asked if this was the Church of Maximon, and a woman laughed at me: "No, es Catholica. " She pointed us in the right direction.

No wonder I amused her, Maximon´s shrine turns out to be a room in a house.
The door is covered with a large sheet, so it´s hard to tell what´s inside. I drag the Franch man inside, and the temperature goes up by like 10 degrees, sweat forming instantly. Inside the room is the statue of Maximon, cigar in his mouth, and a man swinging one of those incence balls around (which makes the place sound a lot biger than it was).

It was so small and intense it was a bit awkward, "I´ve come to visit some statue I know fuck all about. Oh, and take a picture of it. " I felt bad for the Frenchman, I had dragged the poor fucker into a weird situation, and there was nothing he could do but sweat. I noticed in the corner there was a glass mausoleum thing, which upon closer inspection had a statue of dead Jesus. It was weird, like it was a rusted bike or box of old clothes, the way it´d been stashed in the corner there. I think it´s a way to placate the Catholics, as if you´re worshiping both of them. I have a cigarette, as there´s not many holy shrines where you can smoke, I wanted to make the most of it. I took some pictures. The French man looked out of his depth. I probably did too.

We left Maximon, and headed back towards the jetty. We stopped for a beer, and on the tabl enext to us was some kind of psychadelic cowboy. He had a black cowboy hat, and black tgrousers, but his shirt was white and lime green, with strange patterns. His skin was brown, and tight - people here donçt seem to age like us honkies, rather than their skin going flabby and loose it seems to go taught, and when he smiled deep creases formed around the sides of his mouth. To top it all of, one of his eyes was, well, deformed? Pale and milky and grey white. He´d make a great villain in a cowboy movie.
My boat was good to go, and I sat on the roof. It was like surfing across the lake or something, and I could see all these guys in canoes so far out it looked like they were heading for another world, and the mist meant you couldnt see the other side of the lake, it was like seeing some guys paddling across the ocean.

Mystical Volcano Lakes and the lagoon of cainers

My next stop was somewhere on the shores of Lake Atitlan, a lake formed in a volcano crater and surrounded by dormant ones, declared by Aldous Huxley to be thne most beautiful in the world.

I´d been warned not to risk the boat journey in the evening by the owners of the hotel in Antigua:

"At around five, the lake just changes man, the myst like rolls in, and the lake gets this undertowe that can drag boats right down. Don't do it man, i'm not kidding!"

The boat has four rows of seating, most of which is under a plastic roofo with the windows covered with thick pastics. It looks like it could seat 12, and not many more.
It's 4:30pm, it's starting to rain, and we're waiting for a full twelve people to make the journey worth their while.

I'm waiting with Justin; a half bolivian, half american, who started a non profit org in Honduras to help out orphan kids. My predictable life and egocentric travels seem somehow shallow in comparison.

We´re both a little concerned that our cheapness will get us drowned, and saving a few dollars doesn´t seem worth it... but hell, we go for it anyway.

We finally set off, and the majestic green mountains-volcanoes surround us, and a myst does indeed descend, giving them a spooky, mystical appearance. This place is apparently quite sarced to the Mayas and their ancestors, and the local communities still have a lot of indiginous culture.

As the rain intensified, a plastic tarpauilin was pulled out, and stretched across the front of the boat, covering the only opening you could really see through. Cocooned in ghostly white plastic, looking behind me i could see similiarly expectant and tense faces, and the lastraphopic, encapsulated feel was like we were all in some kind of submarine, the outside world just visible through the plastic coverings, like portholes.

Thankfully, we arrive safe and sound, to a small jetty in a remoter, party town in a lagoon on the lake. Wandering around for only a few minutes reveals two things: the place is smelly and dirty, and rife with drugs.

Many buildings are just revealed concrete brick on the exterior, and there´s a lot of corrugated iron actings as walls for half finished buildings or building sites. Even the hotels that look complete - in fact, almost every building- still has metal struts emerging from the roof, as if either a new floor is expected to be built any day now, or they simply couldn´t be arsed with such trivial final touches.

As we turn the first corner from the jetty, we catch a glimpse of a rasta guy selling instruments and other hippified knick knacks has a farewell hand shake with some guy, and it looks like a subtle handover. He then turns from his customer and begins to play the drums and chant. It reminds me of something from the Wire. Within a second I´m propositioned by the pastry ladies, "Quiere pan? Pan de Coco, Pan de Chocolate, Pan de Banan..." this chant becomes background noise here, you can soon tune it out, like radio static.

We find a cheap hotel recommended to us, and meet another guest outside his room, a brit/american, with a nervous, jittery energy. Too much, my friend, too much, I can´t help but think to myself, in the voice of the lawyer from Fear and Loathing.

We blaze a little, hoping for the manager to show up, and just as the effects are kicking in, a woman emerges from upstairs. She´s half asleep, her eyes bleary and red, and her top is up high to reveal a massive pot belly. We´re tryin to check in without bursting out laughing. Later we give her the loving nick name ´Shrek.´ It´s strangly comforting to mock some one, it feels like it´s been too long.

After a little talk wth the Brit-American, rumours are confrmed: All the shiffing in this town is run by a family, some kind of matriarchal mini mafia: I had heard of Granny Gloria as far back as Mexico. In my hotel, there´s some graffiti on the wall, accompanied by a smiley face: "I´m going to Gloria´s, does anybody want anything?" Taxis will even take you to her. Some say her son is the chief of police, some say her husband is the local Vicar.

After a hookah pipe and some thai food (and being offered some more banana bread) , me and Justin go to her place. She´s got a wide face, greying hair, and a kind yet savvy look about her. We´re ushered into the bedroom, where her two daughters are watching tele novellas. Gloria gets out her box, starts weighing, measuring. It´s pretty clear she´s a pro at this, no waffle, no barter, here´s the bags, here´s the prices, and by the way, would you like some of XXX while you´re here?

After a day or two here of living in Gringo village, you begin to get ideas about this place.

Gringos sit side by side with Guatemalan women on the street, both selling their home made beads. Maybe I should be impressed by the cultural interchange, the comradery between gringo and guatemalan, but to be honest I find them comtemptable: leave the little money to be had from street trinkets to the fucking Guatemalans, go home and work in Burger King and earn ten times the wage! Go Home!!! And don´t even get me started on the westerners working in bars that expect tips... but I digress.

The place is filthy, with dog crap and flies every other street. Cockroches are perhaps to be expected, but they don´t help, especially the little flying fuckers.
Some streets have massive pot holes, others barely qualify for the term ´street´ in the first place. It reminds me of that joke that can be rephrased for any town: the best part of the view from London´s SOuth Bank is that you can´t see the south bank. This is painfully true here, find a seat overlooking the lake and you can forget the mess directly behind you. Maybe that´s another reason why the movies are so popular here, anything to distract from the surroundings.

Perhaps this desolation is partly due to hurricane damage, but even so, one thing´s clear: If you want a town with next to no rules run by Gloria, then you get what you wish for: the place seems like the natural conclusion of the cainer life style, with cheap beer and rum and movies in the bars every night, people walking around with nervousd energy or extreme red eye. Like Amsterdam without any class, this town seems to be spiralling toward something ugly.

There´s also a god awful smell around some kind of agricultural equipment, slap bang in the middle of tourist town. It takes me a whle to realise what it is, even when my Spanish teacher in Antigua had mentioned it to me: this is the smell of making coffee, of treating and deshelling the beans. I guess by the time they realised the best place for the tourists was the same place as this exposed, mini factory, there was nothing that could be done. But you feel like the town doesn´t know how to seperate the consumption from the waste, something the west can do amazingly well (reminiscent of the greatest trick the devil ever pulled, perhaps...), hiding the dumps and the waste from plain site as you recklessly add to it without thought.

But here, the double shot cappuchinos are linked to the late night, smelly, noisy bean processing done by drunk Guatemalan guys, leaving piles of coffee husks; the relaxed, hippy vibe inseperable from the pale, red eyed guys wandering around town a bit shaky, clearly heading towards Glorias.

There is some real life here, up the steep slopes away from the shore or further along the shore away from the jetty.

As you get further from the jetty, you come to a loads of massive rocks, quite fun to tackle, but you feel like a bit of an intruder as you pass loads of locals washing their clothes, some women and kids some half naked. I´m sure the guys who sell their beads on the street don´t feel like that, but I don´t even want to muster a polite ´buenas dias´ as it means looking at them going about their business, and I have no idea if this is something that they´d rather keep form prying gringo eyes. I keep my eyes straight ahead, on the big boulders, and the zen like concentration required for traversing them makes me feel something like a child again.

Up the steep slopes around the lagoon is where non gringo related life takes place.
People like me occasionally trudge up there into something approximating the real world, and we must appear like the undesirable neighbours, sweaty, squinting in the sunshine in our identikit shorts and sandals, grunting at people "Donde esta el ATM?"

You frequently hear the locals speaking something that sounds like Hebrew, one of the local native languages. It´s quite disconcerting, after becoming accustomed to the rhythm of Spanish and picking up the familar words and phrases, to be totally in the dark again, especially with a language that sounds so different from what you´ve come to expect.

On the way back from the bank, I heard a strange noise, a rhythmical, metallic clakety-clak-clak-clak, familiar yet antique: I follow, and yes, in between two empty internet cafes is a type writer school, with around 20 kids between nine and 13 or so, all typing away. I don´t think I´ve ever seen so many typewriters. For a second you feel incredibly wealthy.

But hang on, didn´t the Mafia support their neighbourhoods? Does Gloria not invest in her community? Does all this foreign currency do nothing for this town?
Maybe after kick backs to the police and wide screen TVs for showing the pirate DVDs on, there´s nothing left for the people of this town, for street sweepers or computers that aren´t for tourists, only the noise of Western music and the sweaty, hung-over/come-downers, making their way up the steep roads to the ATM. I hope the klackety klac of the typewrites drowns us out.

Semana Santa en Antigua

Antigua, Guatemala is the country´s old capital, (hence the name) and former capital of colonial Central America as a whole.

Not only does it have the beauty you would expect from a Spanish colonial capital, It´s also surrounded by lush hills and volcanos. It´s hard to imagine making somjewhere more scenic even if you planned the entire landscape.

It´s famous for its crazy easter celebrations, or saints week, semana santa, as it´s known here.

One feature of the festivities is the alfombras, or street carpets: Intricate designs and patterns on the streets and the floors of churches, made from sawdust dyed in vibrant colours, flowers, and petals.

http://www.7is7.com/otto/travel/photos/20030504/semanasanta_21alfombrastreet3.html


The construction of these is a mean feat, and the night before good friday nothing really shuts in this town, as everyone´s up to pitch in. Many of these take hours to finish, only to be walked over by the morning processions, after which they just make some more to last till the evenings processions, when they´re marched over again. I´m sure there´s some analogy to all of human endeavour in that, but I can´t be arsed to make it sound good.

Outside every church an impromptu market appears, a labyrynth of stalls with all kinds of foods, meats I can´t even recognise, whole pigs on a spit, sweets and pastries, drinks, and more. My favourite pitches were "Aguas, hay aguas, aguas frias, hay aguas!" and "Incensio Romantico, quatro por cinco"... kind of beats "Three for a fiyvva, three for five paaahnd."

I spent the night wandering the streets and ducking into the bars, buying random foods, and checking the progress of the alfombras.

At three in the morning outside the largest church, a troop of men dressed as Roman legions appears, in two facing lines, leading up to the church. They have uniforms, and spears and standards are held high, and then the Roman cavalry appears. This troop marches through the streets, and without daylight, the sound of horses hooves and spears and boots hitting the cobbled streets, and lights reflecting of the armour that looks passably real if you don´t inspect too closely, you can almost suspend disbelief as you follow the legion as it marches through town, tstopping at the four corners of the town to read the scroll that proclaims the crucifiction of Jesus by Pontius Pilate. To be honest, that was probably my favourite part of the whole thing, imagining the cavalary charging down the streets at a phalanx division, but I don´t think that´s the intent.

At five in the morning as it begins to get light, the main procession begins, as massive floats, carried by thirty or so people on each side all dressed in robes of vidid purple, with statuary and illustratiopns of Jesus on them, are led through the streets, accompanied by children with placards and incence bearers, destroying the alfombras.

In the evening, when Jesus is officially dead, the processions become slower and more sombre, and all are dressed in black: literally hundreds of womenm, of all ages, form the roots to the shoots, are dressed in black with intricate lacey head scarves.

And these things are literally carried around from 5am to 2am, you can´t cross town without gettting stuck alongside one.

At 1am, I was in a a club, dancing to reggaeton, and when I left I was confronted by horders of people in the black robes hoisting their float with Jesus´s body in the air, and hymns being sung.

A strange contrast...

Welcome to Belize: The end of the comfort zone

So the Ruta Maya, mainly the Carribean coast of Mexico, is full of McDonalds and Hotels and everything western.

The change from air-con bus showing movies (Kung fu hustle: I´m an Englishman on a bus in Mexico watching a Hong Kong movie, how small our planet is now), to small, open windowed Venus bus, painted in Belizian colours and playing Mexican pop, was the first sign that things were about to change.

At the border crossing for Belize, ("Any fruit or Veg?" "Erm, I have a couple of plums in my bag. I think I eat half of one of them... ") the first thing you notice is the patois-creole-spanglish, with a shop with the sign "get mah fo ya dollah!", then landscape so green you can´t help but think the colour´s been fiddled with in your eyeballs´post-production suite, which is occasionally interrupted by broken down and rusted cars and little kids playing with kites made of bin bags, flapping around in the wind.
More and more people pile on this bus, and I notice how diverse this place is; Hispanics, Caribbean guys, Chinese, Whites, and every shade in between, with hints of Native American too.
As night falls, the music on the bus shifts to Reggaton, and the lights go out to be replaced by pulsating blue ones that make you think you´re going to a rave (or maybe taking the lengendary Venga Bus...), I resign myself to a night in Belize city.

As we draw closer, my eyes desperately seek signs of something I laughably seem to think of as civilization, i.e neon and brands and logos, but all it finds are lean-tos and decrepit wooden houses on stilts. I fear a hostel with hammocks and internet access might be a little too much to ask for.

We pull into the bus station, and my only tourist company is a father and son combo from the US, the Dad with his camcorder blatant in his hand, as the touts realise we clearly don´t have a clue what to do here.

We head, our troop of three, toward the center of town, with various looks and hollahs as we go by.

We find a grimy guest house that perfectly fits the cliche of flea pit.
The owner seems half asleep, a skinny, frail bald man in a dirty tank top.
The room is filthy, the sheets stained - but it beats the streets. We take it, dump some stuff, then head out for food.
We found a Chinese take away place, where the guy is separated from customers by iron bars, which is never encouraging.
The first thing the American Dad says to me is:
"So, is it true that England has been taken over by Muslims? Cos they´ve taken over France,
you know."
The comment needs contradicting on so many levels, but thankfully, his son steps in: "You read too many small town news papers Dad. "

The fried rice is surprisingly good, the money here has pictures of the Queen on it, and from many years ago: this $10 dollar bill is older than me.

Returing to the guest house, I pass out as quickly as possible.

I awake to the American Dad speaking to the manager in the corridor, and the first thing I make out is "Actually, most of the prostitutes are Spanish. " Well, good morning Belize!

The manager ushers me into his room to show me his trophy: A large shell of a turtle, which he holds high like some kind of ancient shield, glimmering in the morning light. "Be careful...", he warns me. "It´s not dry yet."

One look at the bathroom and the cockroaches there make me decide to skip the shower. I stand on the balcony-porch thing with the manager and the American dad. The manager and I smoke cigarretes. One thing for Americans, they will fill any awkward silence for you. He keeps chatting away, and the manager turns out to be an ex US Navy diver, who goes out to the Cayes all the time, where he got his recent Turtle trophy. He tells me my destination has nothing but tourists. I don´t mention to him that that´s kind of the point.

The last time he left Belize was to get to a decent hospital.
"What did you go to the hospital for, " asks American Dad.
The manager takes a deep drag on his cigarette.
"Cancer," he replies.

Time to leave.