I spent 10 years of my life getting on and off big yellow American school buses as a child, being picked up at home (near home more likely, as I seem to recall a few freezing walks to the bus stop) and dropped off at school. The back door of the bus, emblazoned by its large "emergency exit only" brand always made it a completely devilish pull. I always wanted to grab that large handle and escape from this forbidden portal, but never took the risk. Ten years later, on my first yellow bus ride in Nicaragua, as the local from Managua to Granada is leaving, the operator opens the back door while the bus is in motion and waves me in. I climb the stairs as the bus is already pulling away, just in time to make the one and a half hour journey.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Time seems to be slipping fast already. It was less than a week ago that I left my house at 4am in -10 degree snowy weather to get in my JFK bound taxi.
They don't make Decembers like this in New York. It's currently 32 and very humid here in Nicaragua. All of the United States was cold though, it was not until I was flying over the clear aqua waters of the Florida Keys and Cuba that things started to look a bit warmer. I could tell the temperatures were sweltering over the next landmass I saw near the Honduran/Nicaraguan border.
Sir William and the Valley of Good Coffee
The descent into San José, Costa Rica is the most beautiful landing I have ever experienced. Thick clouds and clear skies share the space above the central valley of Costa Rica, and the surrounding rolling hills and volcanoes make for awe-inspiring views. I was secretly hoping we could circle the airport a few times so I could continue watching. The plane has to follow the valleys on its descent, making many turns and accelerations on its way down. The landing was done very well though, and I was for the first time with my feet on the ground in Central America.
After waiting a whole two and a half minutes in customs (and no, they NEVER put the stamp where you want them too, even with inserted and bent pages to guide them) I wandered outside to find the bus stop for San José. The taxi drivers were very helpful even though I was not asking for their service, a distinct difference between here and other places I have visited already. After another five minutes of waiting at the stop, the bus came, I paid about 75 cents, and was on my way downtown. The area can be traversed in almost no time, so I could use the next day to take a small trip to a nearby town and coffee plantation. Unfortunately there was one beer-bellied Oklahoman in my path. William, or Sir William as the Hotel Washington calls him, was eager to make friends. I am sure I am not the first starry-eyed new arrival to be subjected to his routine, as he told me he rolled into this hotel 2 years ago and never left. We had breakfast together (“together” used in a technical, physical sense, as it was just me in his immediate proximity listening to his stories) at a nearby place and started walking around the city (me following and desperately formulating my way out). He was sharing stories ranging from abandoning his kids back in the United States to how great the main whorehouse in San José was. Little did I know it, but we were actually on our way there when I found this out and told Sir William I was not interested. I think this was the last straw our budding friendship could take. I had already cringed numerous times when he referred to Costa Ricans as "motherfuckers" and seemed without pity when he spoke of his alcohol problem. It was Sir William who decided to part ways at that point.
Buses, and especially local buses, have always been one of my favorite parts of travel because of the ability to observe people's lives both inside and out of the windows. On this particular trip, I was the voyeur of several small moments, including the filling of a monstrous sized Coke bottle and a woman helping a tourist get his earring back in. Unfortunately the last coffee plantation tour is at 11am, and I could not be a part of it this day. I was happy that the gift shop was open, and they were more than delighted to send my 8 packs of coffee beans back to New York for me. Everyone else on the grounds of this plantation must have come by tour bus from somewhere else, for I walked to it from the small town and was in the middle of a very sleepy nowhere. The walk was very nice, with picturesque views over the valley and plenty of smiles from people tending their gardens.
Upon returning to the hotel, William is drunk at about 6pm and again fixated on what seems to be his personal television set in the lobby. So far he is locked on CNN or ESPN, and makes me wonder again why he is here in the first place. It's not hard to deduce that Costa Rica is some sort of escape for him. He can speak not a word of Spanish, so no one here can learn to dislike him as it seems his friends and family back home have. I feign exhaustion and slip upstairs to my very basic accommodation, eager to spend some time with my notebook after my first full day in Central America.
This trip is decidedly not about Costa Rica for me though, and the next day I am on my first international bus since Southeast Asia. I've taken a few trips in between, but there is something fantastic and peculiarly rewarding about crossing borders on land. Somehow you find a microcosm of all that is bad in a nation at its borders, the seedy underbelly ready and looking for scraps. Each experience of crossing a border on land is different though, and I can remember the signs perfectly in Malaysia, efficient warnings of eminent death by firing squad for transporting drugs into the country. The Costa Rican-Nicaraguan border has just about the bureaucracy I was warned of and expecting, maybe two hours or so at the border getting the stamp out and then into Nicaragua.
The rest of the drive in southern Nicaragua passes the large double volcanoes that create the island of Ometepe in Lake Nicaragua, the largest lake in Central America. The double cones dominate the view for at least 30 minutes. The highlight of the trip for me though is talking to the man next to me, a migrant worker from Guatemala who works in Costa Rica and is on his way home for Christmas. He speaks no English, so our conversations depend on my limited but improving Spanish. He has his eyes on my passport whenever it is in my hands, a look not of any bad intentions, but rather of envy. He sees an access to the world with my passport that is entirely unavailable to him now, as a citizen of Guatemala. He is even working illegally in Costa Rica because fares are better and jobs more abundant than back home. When speaking of what traveling or living in the United States would mean to him, the ability to bring his family to such a place and make a better life, I am captivated and at the same time feeling a little guilty. My passport is given to me for $100 or so, and no other questions asked. I have never met one person during my travels that made me feel that international borders should be strengthened for reasons of security or anything else. The arbitrary conditions of birth give some people so much and others so little. He was a happy man though, clearly content in the thoughts of his wife and children, and the gentle nature of his speech and character were so pure that I wished for nothing more than helping him. If he did ever make it to the United States, I hope that the country did not let him down like it did so many others in search of a similar dream.
The rest of the drive in southern Nicaragua passes the large double volcanoes that create the island of Ometepe in Lake Nicaragua, the largest lake in Central America. The double cones dominate the view for at least 30 minutes. The highlight of the trip for me though is talking to the man next to me, a migrant worker from Guatemala who works in Costa Rica and is on his way home for Christmas. He speaks no English, so our conversations depend on my limited but improving Spanish. He has his eyes on my passport whenever it is in my hands, a look not of any bad intentions, but rather of envy. He sees an access to the world with my passport that is entirely unavailable to him now, as a citizen of Guatemala. He is even working illegally in Costa Rica because fares are better and jobs more abundant than back home. When speaking of what traveling or living in the United States would mean to him, the ability to bring his family to such a place and make a better life, I am captivated and at the same time feeling a little guilty. My passport is given to me for $100 or so, and no other questions asked. I have never met one person during my travels that made me feel that international borders should be strengthened for reasons of security or anything else. The arbitrary conditions of birth give some people so much and others so little. He was a happy man though, clearly content in the thoughts of his wife and children, and the gentle nature of his speech and character were so pure that I wished for nothing more than helping him. If he did ever make it to the United States, I hope that the country did not let him down like it did so many others in search of a similar dream.
If Everyone Jumped Off A Bridge, Would You?
The drive into the city of Managua is a fair bit intimidating for me, as the city has no real downtown, is very dark without working street lights, and very spread out. As I exit the bus station, I am prepared with my guidebook info and try to look as not lost as possible, passing through the touts and taxi drivers towards my guest house only two blocks away. The first item of business for me here in Nicaragua is the very American-like passion of baseball that the country shares with me. I walk to the stadium and find times for a game supposedly to happen on Saturday afternoon. Night is falling so I decide to retreat this first evening into the safety of my guest house's neighborhood, eat and have a few drinks, a coffee, then retire to bed early in preparation for a sunrise start.
A few days later I am off to Granada, a colonial (1600-ish) city of bright color and shady trees. It is this bus ride that I spoke of earlier, sharing a worn-out but reused yellow American school bus with Nicaraguans, all traveling for their own reasons. It is my guess that Nicaragua is where the majority of these aged yellow monsters so familiar in American suburbia come to die when they are too decayed for our haughty standards and “buy a new one” culture. Besides aesthetically, they do not seem in too bad of shape. I never saw one broken down on the side of the road like the countless buses of other countries. Better mechanics? Better Drivers? After exploring lovely Granada on foot, I headed back to Managua on a similar ride, and was able to answer the question of "If everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you?" The answer was a resounding YES for me, as everyone on the bus jumped off near what seemed to be the starting point of my previous bus. To my dismay, I was thoroughly lost in this sea of dust and smog after 30 minutes and hailed a taxi to bail me out. I never did figure out where I was, somewhere off the boundary of the map I was carrying.
I am lucky to make some friends here and at night am swept into the opposite world of Managuan wealth, with people who scowl their faces at even a mention of such transportation. I wait in a beautiful home for other friends to arrive and notice the small comforts afforded to more affluent people: The breezy home, the ability to relax and be clean, and later the time available to enjoy life. I guess I am used to this even though I am not considered wealthy in New York. Meeting so many friendly faces that evening and seeing the excitement for these proud Nicaraguans at the concert we attended really gave me a great reason to love this country. The temperatures in the evening dropped to reasonable, and under the stars I was able to see Perrozompopo, the number one band in Nicaragua make thousands of people happy for about three hours.
Game day has arrived and after purchasing my $2.50 ticket from a "ticket booth" more fit for dumping rubbish, I approached the "main" entrance. The ticket-taker was basically asleep, and shook awake when someone called his name as I waited. After he tore my ticket in half, I was inside Dennis Martinez Stadium, which must have seen better days. Since I began planning this trip, the game I was to watch inside this stadium has been a major highlight in my mind. Unfortunately, the place was empty. There seemed to be more vendors than patrons in the stands. As in American baseball, it is male-dominated and alcohol driven. The slurs are similarly funny, but the people give these players absolutely no mercy, no matter the team. A player needing assistance to get off the field after an injury is proof, as fans whistle and cat-call after him to imply his femininity. The hometown prevails though, 5-4, and as the final out is recorded, the children in attendance all find holes in the chain-link fence separating the spectators from the playing field and run onto the diamond to congratulate and run with the players.
I keep reading that baseball is big here. Bigger than fútbol even, in a football-dominated world. A trip to the stadium on this day is certainly no proof of this popularity, but maybe baseball is just too rich of a game for the hemisphere's second poorest country, with all the necessary equipment, apparel, and grounds to play. Later from a city bus I watch kids with sticks and rocks playing on dirt and proving me wrong; the game that American marines brought to Nicaragua almost a hundred years ago during one of many occupations lives on.
I keep reading that baseball is big here. Bigger than fútbol even, in a football-dominated world. A trip to the stadium on this day is certainly no proof of this popularity, but maybe baseball is just too rich of a game for the hemisphere's second poorest country, with all the necessary equipment, apparel, and grounds to play. Later from a city bus I watch kids with sticks and rocks playing on dirt and proving me wrong; the game that American marines brought to Nicaragua almost a hundred years ago during one of many occupations lives on.
As I sip my café con leche this morning at breakfast, I wonder why despite the importance of the coffee industry to the economy here, I am drinking instant.
This is Where All the Old Dollars Went
I really was being spoiled the other day in La Libertad on the Pacific coast of El Salvador. Cervesas by the sea, the sound of the waves, the sunset. The best part was probably the drive back to San Salvador with the perfect endofdayjustwenttothebeach music, and my arms and head out the window as we climbed the mountain back to reality. I feel like a kid but might be one anyway. La Libertad is probably nothing special by the standards of Central American oceanside towns, but today is just what I need. I´m ready now, no matter what I happen to be ready to take on exactly.
I must return a few days though to tell the whole story... as crossing the borders, four customs posts, and random bag searches along the way between Managua and San Salvador were nothing short of an exhausting day. It was a day to test my will after a morning rise before 4am. After all the bureaucracy, waiting in line, and 14 hours on a bus, San Salvador was supposed to be relief but was only a suburban city littered with malls, at least on the surface. I decided to use that to my advantage though, enjoy the calm. Maybe I needed this... but decided to think about that tomorrow. The 20th of December ushered in a lovely cool autumnesque breeze that made my latte enjoyment all the better.
San Salvador is filled with glossy, neon malls, acting as showpieces, proof of economic vitality greater than its Central American neighbors. With stickers on all windows and doors to prove a charge card economy, Visa and Mastercard, Amex and Diners are all accepted, please come in. But are the people using these cards or spending their money in these places? The malls are jammed with people, even on this Tuesday afternoon, but no one has bags in their hands. Is it just a destination for families and friends? The stores are not filled with patrons, just salespeople with bored looks on their tired faces. This particular mall is stuffed with people in all its outdoor/indoor above-ground/below-ground corridors, but those that do venture into the stores only seem to be browsing. Maybe not even browsing, but wasting time.
A trip to the Museum of Art is further mystery, as a brand new polished and truly modern building houses some really fantastic work, but is filled with only myself and the guards who look like they have been bored for a century.
The ocean and La Libertad come later in the day, followed by yet another trip to see a country's most famous band, this time Friguey! The venue for this was just a standing room only bar, making the quaint environs perfect for being close to the music. Salvadoreños seem more interested in life in general than nationalism, as proof of the lyrics, which in Nicaragua were very much based on civil war and political hardships. Is it less in the minds here? It´s barely a dozen years since the last major conflict ended, but perhaps the younger crowds are less interested to talk about these events since they seem to have the money to be concerned with more enjoyable aspects of life.
The Food Never Stops on Christmas
The next day I wake up early to get to the bus station for the first of three buses to the Honduran border. It´s a hot day, but the early start helps beat the heat a bit. An oddity for me on a bus in El Salvador is the way a woman carrying a baby is offered to give her baby to other women seated, rather than the seat itself. One hundred percent of the time this offer is taken, allowing the mother to grab a hold of something to stay on her feet, an impossible task sometimes even with two arms free. I just keep imagining how shocking this scenario would be if it played out in New York, as I could never picture a mother giving her child to the arms of a stranger. It is an entirely pleasant sight to see two strangers, both humans, trusting one another even for such a small and daily task.
Two quick stamps and $3 later I am walking across the border separating these two countries, and onto another bus headed for the capital, Tegucigalpa.
Tegus, as the locals call it, is a very nice city, with enough cultural identity and modern amenities to create a good balance for a tourist who seeks both. I am very comfortable here, and a walking tour of the city center brings me alive. The street vendors have smiles on their faces and the whole town is buzzing with energy. The houses climb the surrounding mountains in every direction away from downtown and the base of the valley.
As in San Salvador, but not as ubiquitous, Tegus has its strip of chain restaurants and fast food joints. I have been told that TGI Fridays is *the* place to see and be seen on Friday nights, a far cry from the eat or be eaten quality of the American version of this chain restaurant, with its generous proportions and waist lines to match.
As in San Salvador, but not as ubiquitous, Tegus has its strip of chain restaurants and fast food joints. I have been told that TGI Fridays is *the* place to see and be seen on Friday nights, a far cry from the eat or be eaten quality of the American version of this chain restaurant, with its generous proportions and waist lines to match.
On Christmas Eve, I visit some nearby former mining towns nestled in the mountains. Now these sleepy pueblitos just maintain a quaint charm perfect for a stroll. It is very hard for me to get into the Christmas spirit even though the daytime highs have dipped to the high 20's instead of the 30's. Something tells me a white Christmas is at least 366 days away. Christmas Eve is the real day of celebration for Catholics in Central America, and I am treated to dinner at midnight with my friend's family. I never find the bottom of my plate as food was constantly heaped onto it with a smile. Plato tipico is just fine for me on Christmas Eve!
Christmas day seems to be a day everyone sleeps as proof by the empty roads in every direction. I visit the former capital of Honduras and spend more time with my friend and her friends in the city, which is seemingly devoid of nightlife. The next day I head to the far west of Honduras and begin the Mayan portion of my trip with a visit to the second most important Mayan site at Copán. Afterwards, onto Guatemala and beyond.
On this supposedly six, but more like eight hour stretch, I was subjected to the worst bus ride in history. We are talking less legroom than the worst of United Airlines fleet. To seal the deal, the chairs recline almost laughably far back to horizontal, and I am officially trapped. Nowhere to go, and an entire day to enjoy it. Luckily I am able to doze off and on for a while, speeding morning somewhat. My head is killing me and my back does not feel too good either. Away from Tegucigalpa now and on my way to the Mayan city of Copán in far west Honduras. On the connecting bus, my head wants to explode as the potholes in the road make sure I cannot relax, the little boy next to me pukes on the floor, and we stop every two minutes to pick up or let off, making the final 60 kilometers last a good two hours.
But that is only the low point, and with that out of the way, I am happy to begin discovering the world of the ancient Maya, a goal of mine for many years. The first signs of white people on my trip are here, but to be expected as this is a world heritage site and major international tourist destination. It makes me wonder if people are afraid of culture that is still alive... as almost no tourists have been in the cities I have visited to this point. Even though I am interested in this place that was inhabited over a millennium ago, I thrive on the present. Maybe if everything in the present cities had a handy descriptive plaque next to or under it, western tourists would be more eager to visit. A gift shop maybe?
My mid-afternoon arrival into the small town close to the Mayan ruins is heavily burdened by my now immense headache, and I check in to a hot, unappealing hotel and try to sleep off the pain. I wake up just before midnight and it seems to be subsiding somewhat. After some reading I am back asleep for the rest of the night.
Clouds have been absent during this journey, or at least in the tiny minority. Rain has never even threatened. Only in Tegus did the sun have to compete with the clouds, in a very San Francisco-like valley/fog type setting, minus the ocean. According to Brooklyn schoolchildren in love, the sun belongs together with summertime, but Central America has something else to say about that.
On this supposedly six, but more like eight hour stretch, I was subjected to the worst bus ride in history. We are talking less legroom than the worst of United Airlines fleet. To seal the deal, the chairs recline almost laughably far back to horizontal, and I am officially trapped. Nowhere to go, and an entire day to enjoy it. Luckily I am able to doze off and on for a while, speeding morning somewhat. My head is killing me and my back does not feel too good either. Away from Tegucigalpa now and on my way to the Mayan city of Copán in far west Honduras. On the connecting bus, my head wants to explode as the potholes in the road make sure I cannot relax, the little boy next to me pukes on the floor, and we stop every two minutes to pick up or let off, making the final 60 kilometers last a good two hours.
But that is only the low point, and with that out of the way, I am happy to begin discovering the world of the ancient Maya, a goal of mine for many years. The first signs of white people on my trip are here, but to be expected as this is a world heritage site and major international tourist destination. It makes me wonder if people are afraid of culture that is still alive... as almost no tourists have been in the cities I have visited to this point. Even though I am interested in this place that was inhabited over a millennium ago, I thrive on the present. Maybe if everything in the present cities had a handy descriptive plaque next to or under it, western tourists would be more eager to visit. A gift shop maybe?
My mid-afternoon arrival into the small town close to the Mayan ruins is heavily burdened by my now immense headache, and I check in to a hot, unappealing hotel and try to sleep off the pain. I wake up just before midnight and it seems to be subsiding somewhat. After some reading I am back asleep for the rest of the night.
Clouds have been absent during this journey, or at least in the tiny minority. Rain has never even threatened. Only in Tegus did the sun have to compete with the clouds, in a very San Francisco-like valley/fog type setting, minus the ocean. According to Brooklyn schoolchildren in love, the sun belongs together with summertime, but Central America has something else to say about that.
Copán in western Honduras is said to be the Paris of the Maya lands, with low buildings and an incredible array of sculpture and art. The numerous stela (almost totem-like structures of stone depicting one of the kings in costume or action) around the grounds are testimony to this, with sophisticated attention to detail that has withstood the elements over time, for the most part. The Maya have confirmed that I am not in fact crazy as well. Whenever I look into the night sky and see Venus, the second brightest object in the sky between sunset and sunrise, I have always seen it as a diamond shape. The Maya glyph, or pictoral symbol for Venus is a diamond, proving they must have seen the planet in this way as well.
On the walk back into town I see a car on fire in the middle of the street, I think a first for me. My first instinct is to take pictures and pretend I am somewhere far more dangerous, but this "bombed-out" vehicle has only succeeded in gathering people to watch rather than scatter them in fear.
Out of the way border crossings are usually hassle-free, and another easy crossing awaits me into Guatemala from here, as well as an attractive drive into the country. Off the main Pan-American Highway, which actually runs from Alaska to Argentina in disjointed portions, the border crossings in Central America are straight-forward, not time-consuming or frustrating, and very efficient. The entry into Guatemala has not changed the frequency of cowboy hats yet, as over 50% of the male population is still wearing them. I start to see women in traditional native dress and recall that 60% of people in the country are of native origin, despite government statistics that try to cover this fact up.
I am not used to sharing a bus with a man wielding a machete yet. In both Honduras and now Guatemala, men carry machetes with them, presumably from home to work and back. These men almost have looks on their face that say "If I find myself any gringos on this bus, I am turning this blade red." This is obviously an active imagination on my part, but I think it will take quite a few more machetes before I get used to it. If a man boarded a subway car in New York holding a machete, everyone would jump out of their seats and bolt for safety.
With so much time on the road, I have been sticking my hand out the window more than usual while driving through the countryside, realizing that it is not just the feeling like a kid, but actually feeling less like an adult. I think that New York City makes a person very grown-up, for obvious reasons, and travel allows me to stop living like that for a brief moment.
On the walk back into town I see a car on fire in the middle of the street, I think a first for me. My first instinct is to take pictures and pretend I am somewhere far more dangerous, but this "bombed-out" vehicle has only succeeded in gathering people to watch rather than scatter them in fear.
Out of the way border crossings are usually hassle-free, and another easy crossing awaits me into Guatemala from here, as well as an attractive drive into the country. Off the main Pan-American Highway, which actually runs from Alaska to Argentina in disjointed portions, the border crossings in Central America are straight-forward, not time-consuming or frustrating, and very efficient. The entry into Guatemala has not changed the frequency of cowboy hats yet, as over 50% of the male population is still wearing them. I start to see women in traditional native dress and recall that 60% of people in the country are of native origin, despite government statistics that try to cover this fact up.
I am not used to sharing a bus with a man wielding a machete yet. In both Honduras and now Guatemala, men carry machetes with them, presumably from home to work and back. These men almost have looks on their face that say "If I find myself any gringos on this bus, I am turning this blade red." This is obviously an active imagination on my part, but I think it will take quite a few more machetes before I get used to it. If a man boarded a subway car in New York holding a machete, everyone would jump out of their seats and bolt for safety.
With so much time on the road, I have been sticking my hand out the window more than usual while driving through the countryside, realizing that it is not just the feeling like a kid, but actually feeling less like an adult. I think that New York City makes a person very grown-up, for obvious reasons, and travel allows me to stop living like that for a brief moment.
By the time I get to the capital, New Years Eve is approaching. On the big night, professional fireworks technicians are in abundance here in Guatemala City. Most of them are not yet 12 years old. There does not seem to be a central organized place that celebrates with fireworks, so citizens take the task into their own hands, with very sophisticated displays launched in the streets in front of their homes. Noise seems to be the most desired outcome of the displays with smoke possibly second and actual colorful display a distant third. Every 30 seconds or so someone lights a mini-bomb that sets all the car alarms off within a half kilometer and rattles the senses. The first few that shake my body terrify me into a short hop, but after a while I tentatively get used to the blasts.
Compared to the rest of the countries in Central America, Guatemalan roads are in fantastic condition. Thus, a journey of equal distance will take far less time when the driver is not busy making sure the bus is not swallowed by the earth into a pothole. I am up early on this second day of 2006 and headed northeast to the Atlantic coast. On one stretch of uncharacteristically bad highway, I notice an unnamed dance being followed in synchronization by pothole fillers and vultures, each hopping on and off the road in unison to avoid buses and semi-trucks, one crew attempting to repair the surface, the other more interested in pulling apart an unlucky dog who never made it across the road.
Puerto Barrios is the termination point of my bus and the jumping off point for boats to Livingston, my final destination for the day. Boats are the only mode of transport in and out of this small town on Guatemala's tiny Atlantic coast, and on this night my timing is perfect as the sun is setting as my launch backs away from the dock. After a very steamy day in the Caribbean, the twilight hour is almost perfect with the sea air blowing through my clothes and hair as we ride towards Livingston with less and less light. I am especially pleased with the effect that this twilight has on the horizon, as the blackness of the jungle terminates at its peak in an amazingly crisp outline of many species of trees in front of an orange then pink then violet sky that seems to be endlessly dimming but never quite finding black.
Livingston is quite a divergence from the rest of the country and first portion of my trip, with a Caribbean feel, my first on an otherwise Latin American journey. Since my travels have never landed me on a Caribbean island before, I feel almost as if I am wandering around Crown Heights or Bedstuy in Brooklyn, which has a certain effect of making me smile and feeling home.
The relaxed pace of life in Livingston immediately possesses my body and has the real possibility of causing me to linger for quite some time, but I wake up on this day of my birth determined to catch another boat upstream to Rio Dulce, through jungle blanketed cliffs. The ride turns out to be fantastic, setting up an afternoon connection with another bus northward into deeper jungle of Petén province and the center of the Maya world.
Oh... the birthday bus ride. In Rio Dulce, the bus comes relatively often, but as this is not a terminus, the rider risks not having a seat. After letting one bus pass that was so full of humanity that they had to push the door shut from the outside and cram all the standing people in further (think Tokyo, Shinjuku station, morning rush hour), I took a slightly less jammed bus and arrived in my tiny place in the aisle, conveniently beside the armpits of two men who had obviously had a full day of manual labor. The journey was to last four hours and I just had to suffer it since I had no other travel options. But once we were moving and air was circulating from outside throughout the cabin, it actually was not so bad. After about an hour my legs were beginning to ache a little since I really could not adjust them, so I pulled out some music to relax myself a bit, and once again got in the groove of making the best of it. After four songs, the bus was pulled over at the first of three police checkpoints we would have to endure. Every passenger was made to get off the bus and form a line. I was almost immediately checked for documents and allowed back on the bus. A few others, mostly woman with children, were let back on, but the vast majority of riders were led into a building that was not letting any light out of its windows. This was nerve-racking for me even from the comparatively friendly confines of the bus interior, as I had no idea what was happening to everyone in this the most remote of Guatemalan provinces. After about 10 minutes everyone came back out, crammed back into the bus and we were rolling. I was beyond confusion, but the disgruntled looks everyone had and the eerie silence in the bus helped to keep questions to myself.
Not 20 minutes later, the bus pulled into what seemed like a legitimate "Fruit Inspection" point. I read perfectly official signs saying they were keeping pests out of the region by not allowing fruit to be transported past. Having done this countless times in California, I did not think much of the second inconvenience and again was let back on the bus as others were "inspected." Back on the road again, it was not until probably 45 minutes later that we were again off the highway. This time a police officer boarded the bus and instructed everyone to leave with their documents. He spotted me and told me to have a seat as the others left. Once they were out he glanced at my passport quickly and went outside. A few other passengers got back on the bus here and there, with angry looks on their faces, and after a period of 10 minutes, less than half of the seats were filled and no one was standing. The driver boarded with the money collector (there are always at least two people in charge of each bus), started the engine and drove away. As we passed the mass of people now walking down the highway who had purchased tickets for this bus, my curiosity could not handle it anymore. Since all the conversations to this point had been out of earshot, I had no idea what was going on and decided to strike up a conversation with one of the men who was able to rejoin us. Apparently these checkpoints posing as immigration and fruit control were actually posts for police to demand bribes. The last bribe was of such an amount that two-thirds of the original passengers were either unable or unwilling to pay and forced to walk in the dark. I still cannot believe the events of that night and have not really formed an opinion beyond the immediate disgust I felt. I just wonder why I was not a part of the extortion.
Livingston is quite a divergence from the rest of the country and first portion of my trip, with a Caribbean feel, my first on an otherwise Latin American journey. Since my travels have never landed me on a Caribbean island before, I feel almost as if I am wandering around Crown Heights or Bedstuy in Brooklyn, which has a certain effect of making me smile and feeling home.
The relaxed pace of life in Livingston immediately possesses my body and has the real possibility of causing me to linger for quite some time, but I wake up on this day of my birth determined to catch another boat upstream to Rio Dulce, through jungle blanketed cliffs. The ride turns out to be fantastic, setting up an afternoon connection with another bus northward into deeper jungle of Petén province and the center of the Maya world.
Oh... the birthday bus ride. In Rio Dulce, the bus comes relatively often, but as this is not a terminus, the rider risks not having a seat. After letting one bus pass that was so full of humanity that they had to push the door shut from the outside and cram all the standing people in further (think Tokyo, Shinjuku station, morning rush hour), I took a slightly less jammed bus and arrived in my tiny place in the aisle, conveniently beside the armpits of two men who had obviously had a full day of manual labor. The journey was to last four hours and I just had to suffer it since I had no other travel options. But once we were moving and air was circulating from outside throughout the cabin, it actually was not so bad. After about an hour my legs were beginning to ache a little since I really could not adjust them, so I pulled out some music to relax myself a bit, and once again got in the groove of making the best of it. After four songs, the bus was pulled over at the first of three police checkpoints we would have to endure. Every passenger was made to get off the bus and form a line. I was almost immediately checked for documents and allowed back on the bus. A few others, mostly woman with children, were let back on, but the vast majority of riders were led into a building that was not letting any light out of its windows. This was nerve-racking for me even from the comparatively friendly confines of the bus interior, as I had no idea what was happening to everyone in this the most remote of Guatemalan provinces. After about 10 minutes everyone came back out, crammed back into the bus and we were rolling. I was beyond confusion, but the disgruntled looks everyone had and the eerie silence in the bus helped to keep questions to myself.
Not 20 minutes later, the bus pulled into what seemed like a legitimate "Fruit Inspection" point. I read perfectly official signs saying they were keeping pests out of the region by not allowing fruit to be transported past. Having done this countless times in California, I did not think much of the second inconvenience and again was let back on the bus as others were "inspected." Back on the road again, it was not until probably 45 minutes later that we were again off the highway. This time a police officer boarded the bus and instructed everyone to leave with their documents. He spotted me and told me to have a seat as the others left. Once they were out he glanced at my passport quickly and went outside. A few other passengers got back on the bus here and there, with angry looks on their faces, and after a period of 10 minutes, less than half of the seats were filled and no one was standing. The driver boarded with the money collector (there are always at least two people in charge of each bus), started the engine and drove away. As we passed the mass of people now walking down the highway who had purchased tickets for this bus, my curiosity could not handle it anymore. Since all the conversations to this point had been out of earshot, I had no idea what was going on and decided to strike up a conversation with one of the men who was able to rejoin us. Apparently these checkpoints posing as immigration and fruit control were actually posts for police to demand bribes. The last bribe was of such an amount that two-thirds of the original passengers were either unable or unwilling to pay and forced to walk in the dark. I still cannot believe the events of that night and have not really formed an opinion beyond the immediate disgust I felt. I just wonder why I was not a part of the extortion.
Tikal is magical. There is a reason that it sat at the center of the Mayan world and was arguably its most important city. It lies over many hundred (more?) square kilometers of jungle in northern Guatemala, with its main temples soaring over the canopy offering views to all limits of every direction. Images of Tikal have made my imagination run wild for many years, and this visit was no disappointment. I was in tears on top of Temple IV, the highest of the city. I hope my pictures can start to bring justice to this place, but I fear that as with my words, they will not even come close.
Into Belize today, for one day, offering a nice change in cultural diversity, as Caribbean people mix here with Latin, and even a few Chinese as well. After finding my way to the border, and getting through another efficient border post, I am faced with the extortionist ways of the taxi cartel on the Belize side of the border, ready to pinch off as many dollars as possible from people like me without a ride. I was ready to walk the three kilometers to the nearest town and grab a local bus, but I manage to hitch a ride with an Austrian family that has hired a van to take their group of seven on to Belize City. I am dropped off at my destination for the afternoon, San Ignacio, also called Cayo, just 13 kilometers in from the border. To get the ride, I think my answer of "yes" to the question "are you a student?" was critical, and saved me a ridiculously expensive cab ride. I was forced to reinvent myself as a 24 year-old in the final year of Architecture school in Cincinnati, but that was not *so* long ago and I think I pulled it off swimmingly. From my highway drop-off point it was a quick, albeit humid after the comforts of the air-conditioned van, walk into the town center, where I had a relaxed lunch and watched the slow-paced city go about its business. Lunch was nothing special, but changing scenery and country were, for there is always a difference from one side to another. I was glad to have come, even for an abbreviated afternoon.
On the way back I grab another yellow school bus for 50 cents, which goes as far as the last town three kilometers from the border, and walk the rest of the way through some farmland. A nice stroll only broken up by the occasional taxi driver whom I always seemed to anger with my determination to walk.
Back across the border and into the exact same seat of the exact same minibus and exact same driver who brought me here. I might not have noticed this occurrence if it was not for the streak of blood on the side from the man he punched out and threw against the van on the way here. I missed the cause of the fight, but our driver was definitely the winner, and apparently thought the record of his glory should be left on the van for at least the remainder of the day.
Up at 04.30 to catch a five o'clock bus, I idle impatiently on board the bus in front of the office while we apparently wait for some passengers who were not as efficient with their alarm clocks, if I stole segments from the conversation outside correctly. $30 today was to get me a three-hour bus ride to the river separating Guatemala and Mexico, a thirty minute boat ride between border posts, and another three hours by minibus to Palenque, in Chiapas state. The bus ride was fairly uneventful over mostly dirt roads, a brief stop at the Guatemalan side to get our stamps out of the country, then a walk with all of our gear to waiting boatmen.
The boat ride was superb, only checked by a cold rain that started almost immediately upon departure. No other boats shared the water, and I caught no glimpse of any people along the route, so there was a nice feeling of solitude as we glided downriver through jungle-lined banks of a fairly wide river. Upon arriving at the Mexican border post, the rains got heavier and accomplished their goal of soaking my clothes and gear, which I had not covered with my rain sack since to this day I had barely seen clouds.
A quick gathering into the minibuses and off we went, with the oversight of not demanding to be taken to the immigration post in this small town. We were told we could do this in Palenque, and as the rains were drenching everything outside of the minibus, nobody wanted to disagree with this logic.
The Palenque immigration office was not very keen on this thinking though, and after a few minutes negotiation, stamped us into the country, but with a 210 peso fine (about $20) that had to be paid before leaving. Soaked and warn out from the travel and border miscues, I purchased a ticket for my next destination, San Cristóbal de las Casas, upon hearing the forecast for more of the same the next day.
After four hours, I descend from the bus into the absolutely freezing city of San Cristóbal, my teeth chattering as I walk to my hotel at around 9pm. There are two beds in my room, so I am able to gather all the blankets together and sleep rather warmly and wait for the sun to come out the next day.
On the way back I grab another yellow school bus for 50 cents, which goes as far as the last town three kilometers from the border, and walk the rest of the way through some farmland. A nice stroll only broken up by the occasional taxi driver whom I always seemed to anger with my determination to walk.
Back across the border and into the exact same seat of the exact same minibus and exact same driver who brought me here. I might not have noticed this occurrence if it was not for the streak of blood on the side from the man he punched out and threw against the van on the way here. I missed the cause of the fight, but our driver was definitely the winner, and apparently thought the record of his glory should be left on the van for at least the remainder of the day.
Up at 04.30 to catch a five o'clock bus, I idle impatiently on board the bus in front of the office while we apparently wait for some passengers who were not as efficient with their alarm clocks, if I stole segments from the conversation outside correctly. $30 today was to get me a three-hour bus ride to the river separating Guatemala and Mexico, a thirty minute boat ride between border posts, and another three hours by minibus to Palenque, in Chiapas state. The bus ride was fairly uneventful over mostly dirt roads, a brief stop at the Guatemalan side to get our stamps out of the country, then a walk with all of our gear to waiting boatmen.
The boat ride was superb, only checked by a cold rain that started almost immediately upon departure. No other boats shared the water, and I caught no glimpse of any people along the route, so there was a nice feeling of solitude as we glided downriver through jungle-lined banks of a fairly wide river. Upon arriving at the Mexican border post, the rains got heavier and accomplished their goal of soaking my clothes and gear, which I had not covered with my rain sack since to this day I had barely seen clouds.
A quick gathering into the minibuses and off we went, with the oversight of not demanding to be taken to the immigration post in this small town. We were told we could do this in Palenque, and as the rains were drenching everything outside of the minibus, nobody wanted to disagree with this logic.
The Palenque immigration office was not very keen on this thinking though, and after a few minutes negotiation, stamped us into the country, but with a 210 peso fine (about $20) that had to be paid before leaving. Soaked and warn out from the travel and border miscues, I purchased a ticket for my next destination, San Cristóbal de las Casas, upon hearing the forecast for more of the same the next day.
After four hours, I descend from the bus into the absolutely freezing city of San Cristóbal, my teeth chattering as I walk to my hotel at around 9pm. There are two beds in my room, so I am able to gather all the blankets together and sleep rather warmly and wait for the sun to come out the next day.
The town is nicely set up for exploration on foot, and that is precisely what I do on this sun-soaked day. It would be a delightful Autumn day, but I realize I am not equipped for this climate and am cold whenever I stray from the sun's protection. The colors of San Cristóbal are very alive though, as are its people. Hippie travelers have obviously staked their claim here, as in San Miguel de Allende north of Mexico City, and somehow their presence always makes me feel out of place and unable to soak in what I have come for. I guess it is just the feeling of not being first, or maybe not being alone.
I'm wasting time in the morning until it warms up, so I take my backpack to the Left Luggage desk at the bus terminal only to turn right around and walk the kilometer back to my hotel and ask to leave it there for the day. The prices are absolutely extortionate to the point that I could pay for my room another night and save money. I find a pleasant café afterwards, take a coffee and a pan de queso and read for a couple hours.
After I venture out, it is obvious what day of the week it is by all the doors and metal gates still closed. Sunday. I am sick of Sundays. After finding a decent breakfast, I linger for longer than usual with a second coffee and people watch from my window seat. The official best sign in history is found on a garage door nearby, next to a normal "NO ESTACIONARSE" or "NO PARKING" sign, reads another: "SE PONCHAN LLANTAS GRATIS" which translates to "WILL PUNCTURE TIRES FREE OF CHARGE."
After my coffee runs out again, I decide to try for a beer, and learn that any place is willing to sell alcohol, if just asked the question. I do not think there was anything in the fridge but when asked "Hay cerveza?" I was immediately greeted with "Si, claro!" It only took him a minute or two to hit the store and bring back a couple cold Negra Modelos for me to enjoy.
After I venture out, it is obvious what day of the week it is by all the doors and metal gates still closed. Sunday. I am sick of Sundays. After finding a decent breakfast, I linger for longer than usual with a second coffee and people watch from my window seat. The official best sign in history is found on a garage door nearby, next to a normal "NO ESTACIONARSE" or "NO PARKING" sign, reads another: "SE PONCHAN LLANTAS GRATIS" which translates to "WILL PUNCTURE TIRES FREE OF CHARGE."
After my coffee runs out again, I decide to try for a beer, and learn that any place is willing to sell alcohol, if just asked the question. I do not think there was anything in the fridge but when asked "Hay cerveza?" I was immediately greeted with "Si, claro!" It only took him a minute or two to hit the store and bring back a couple cold Negra Modelos for me to enjoy.
For a second night I am able to watch a storm forming to the west over one of San Cristóbal's churches, perched on top of a hill. I thought rain would be imminent in both cases, but for a second time the clouds have drifted just outside of town without bringing any moisture to us. It is really quite dynamic with the suns rays reflecting off the brightly painted buildings as complete darkness hovers just above.
After an overnight bus ride of 14 hours (or so), Oaxaca greets me with more of the typical Central American city I have come to know: more grime and ugly concrete buildings. I am not sure if I missed these things after the beauty and freshness of San Cristóbal, but there is something about it that makes me more comfortable. The city also greets me with high hotel prices, and I end up in what might have been a prison before being converted into this hotel. It's only $8/night, but that is more than I have been paying.
I take care of business (laundry and onward bus ticket) before strolling around and spending the afternoon in the overpriced restaurants around the zócalo. The settings make the prices worthwhile though, first for a great lunch and then a couple of beers with my new Scandinavian friends. I feel like I move on fairly quickly in general, but I find travel friendships that last the span of a few hours or even a day to be quite convenient. Open-minded people from places around the world to share and explore with and then leave behind, with no expectation of muddled future contacts. Sure, there is always the polite exchange of email, but neither party actually expects to write or be written.
Back in my prison cell fairly early, I get a good sleep and am ready for my early bus to the capital in the morning.
After an overnight bus ride of 14 hours (or so), Oaxaca greets me with more of the typical Central American city I have come to know: more grime and ugly concrete buildings. I am not sure if I missed these things after the beauty and freshness of San Cristóbal, but there is something about it that makes me more comfortable. The city also greets me with high hotel prices, and I end up in what might have been a prison before being converted into this hotel. It's only $8/night, but that is more than I have been paying.
I take care of business (laundry and onward bus ticket) before strolling around and spending the afternoon in the overpriced restaurants around the zócalo. The settings make the prices worthwhile though, first for a great lunch and then a couple of beers with my new Scandinavian friends. I feel like I move on fairly quickly in general, but I find travel friendships that last the span of a few hours or even a day to be quite convenient. Open-minded people from places around the world to share and explore with and then leave behind, with no expectation of muddled future contacts. Sure, there is always the polite exchange of email, but neither party actually expects to write or be written.
Back in my prison cell fairly early, I get a good sleep and am ready for my early bus to the capital in the morning.
