The Girl On The Lake

Watch Everything

Group Email: 25/07/07

Dear Friends,

Today is a lazy day on Caye Caulker (Belize), as is every day in Caye Caulker, if I interpret it correctly. A good beach town is a well-engineered tourist machine, designed to squeeze money out at every opportunity, and creating a strange otherworldly feel at the same time; the sky is too blue, the water too clear, the sand too... Caye Caulker is not a good beach town.

It is shabby and though every business has a patch of sand (and our shoes and showers are filled with the stuff) there is no real beach. The multitude of lost-looking tourists content themselves with hanging out at a bar called the Lazy Lizard (which has a swimming pool) and sitting on a row of deck chairs on the concrete dock.

We met up with M. yesterday (you may recall I described her last minute decision to stay in Central America in my last email) who has been here for 6 days; I think I would go mad. Most of the group today has gone snorkeling, but I am staying in "town", partly to conserve funds (as I know I will be seeking out every ruin between here and Mexico City, of which there are many), and partly because I am 400 pages into a phenomenal book*, and for once curling up in a deck chair, reading and being soaked by that restless wind seems like the best alternative.

I could talk about Tikal. Could I ever talk about Tikal-- about climbing rickety ladders up several stories to stand with my back pressed to the wall and gape at the stone structures peeking out from the trees far far below. About walking with a guide who had worked on the excavation of the place for 14 years, and continually stopped the tour to howl at the monkeys or call to "rare" birds that none of us could see. Of the death-defying stair case up to Temple 5 where we would watch the sunset; of the lightning storm that lit the forest around us --us, the highest point, above the trees, surrounded by metal scaffolding-- and sent us scrambling back down again. Of blinding sun and age and meditations on graffiti:

how could anyone, ever, think it was alright to scratch their name or dates onto such incredible buildings? We stand in temples that have lasted, will last thousands of years and our contribution is to leave our mark on top of it "Look, here-- I was here too, once." And yet is "vandalizing" great works of others not an internationally time-honoured tradition? How many pyramids, palaces or temples were covered up and repainted by conquerors, or by the next generations; placing their own history and achievements over top of the original? How does SARAH, 05, XO compare to this? Just thoughts.


But what I really want to share with you is my day at the caves. We move now to San Ignacio, Belize. I had been looking forward to this particular destination since the start of the trip (not for the sake of the town, believe me), as I have always been a great lover of caves and I had heard from several sources that this was a trip not to be missed. The main attraction for the area is the Actun Tunichil Muknal (also known as ATM) cave, named after the 20 year old female sacrifice at the heart of that seemingly endless darkness. The Maya believed that such caves were the entrance to the underworld, and having spent only a few hours inside it is not hard to see why.

We got picked up at our hotel at 7 AM sharp, and then puttered around town for a while so the tour operators could pick up some groceries (?). We drove for an hour and a half in almost complete silence (we are at that stage of group life where the less we have to do with each other the better, with a few notable exceptions), and I watched the clouds and wondered what the odds were of getting caught in a flash flood while underground. When we stopped in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere one of the two guide´s (Orlando and Juan-Carlos) told us to leave everything but our water bottles in the van, as we would need the dry clothes when we got back. Reluctantly I handed over my camera, which he promised would be kept in a dry bag until we were in the main chamber; did I mention that for 3/4 of this trip we were in the water?

The hike to the cave involved 3 river-crossing (literally crossing the same river 3 times) and as the clouds rolled in it was almost chilly, which is not something I often have the chance to say. Orlando said we "must not touch the vegetation", and as we raced after him along the fern covered path (not even stealing time to take photos) I assured myself that that didn't apply to the vegetation directly in our way. When we arrived at the camp site half of the group was ready to sit down and have lunch (at 10:30) and the other half was ready to get away from the first half, so K, A, R, and I (plus two random American girls from another hotel) put on our hard-hats and started down a slippery hill to the key-hole shaped mouth of the cave.

I should have known what to expect, as the long-winded tour operator had come to the Trek Stop (our hotel/cabins) the night before and given us a slide show, but even as I waded into the river, hopped from rock to rock til I was looking directly into the darkness of the cavern did it really hit me I was going in. I stood there, hypnotized for just a moment until Juan-Carlos said "Jump in now!" and I heard K leap into the icy neck-deep water. Now I am a good swimmer, and not afraid of the dark, but the shock of that first impact, paddling into nothingness was so striking I could feel my heart racing in my throat, and only when I got far enough in and found my feet again did I let out all the air I had been holding.

That first hour in ATM, walking in single-file, following the shuddering pool of light from our headlamps, I think (and thought at the time) was one of the most staggering extended periods of sheer terror I have ever experienced ** But what a wonderful terror it was! I was frightened, disoriented, wet, and frequently forgetting to breathe for longer than advisable, focusing every bit of my will into each footfall. We walked in a line and every few minutes a message would be passed down between us "Rock to the left! Rock to the right, big drop, watch your knees, watch your shins, watch your head!" which I occasionally shortened to "Watch everything!" which seemed far more logical.

The water level rose and fell drastically from chamber to chamber, so sometimes it was only our feet covered and the stony bottom was clearly visible, and other times it came out to my chest and I could see nothing at all, and held tight to the wall until our guide stopped suddenly to point out some new wonder, and we crashed into each other like soggy dominos. At that point the cave seemed like any other, littered with stalactites and stalagmites, multi-coloured rock and formations that glittered like underground stars. Every few minutes the rooms narrowed, and we had to clamber up and over and around whatever obstacle was in our way. Time and time again I shook my head thinking "No way, no way can I get through that", not in the dark with my dripping clothes and slippery shoes, and then over I'd go, calling "Watch everything" to R who was walking behind me.

Somewhere in the midst of that silent walk (silent but for the swish swish slosh over our bodies through the thick cold water) the fear died down to a faint crackling in my ears, and left behind it mostly joy and disbelief. It couldn't be real. I couldn't really be here. I look for a shelf, a hand hold in the sharp cliff wall and pull myself up and up into the dry chamber-- a great echoing space where our shadows creep and dance along the ceiling til it seems alive. We take off our shoes (cave regulation, to minimize damage) and get our cameras out and wonder what sort of picture would even begin to capture this wondrous place.

ATM is famous not just for "adventure caving", but because it is also an archaeological site. As I said, the Maya believed caves to be the entrance to the Underworld, and many of their religious ceremonies were performed in them. In ATM alone there are 15 human remains, as well as several hundred pots and jars, ranging from shards to complete, carefully arranged place settings (for feasting with the dead). We were careful to walk only in the guide's footsteps, as every time we stopped he would call out "Look behind you please!" and we would see another piece of pottery within crushing distance.

The skeletons (some partial, or partially buried and some, like Actun herself, fully exposed) were sacrifices offered to the gods to bring rain or fertility. Most of them, according to our archaeologist guide, were hit over the head, with their hands tied-- unwilling sacrifice. We climbed a (very out of place) metal ladder up to see Actun's skeleton, for whom the cave was named (because there is no evidence the Maya went in any farther in than where she was found) and Juan-Carlos proved he had led the National Geographic photographers in by doing some really terrifying lighting affects that made it look as if her skull was glowing.

We were moving quite slowly, as we asked so many questions, and the other half of our group (who had left about 20 minutes after us) passed by us, on their way out; they were chatting very loudly about something on TV and the guide made a rather (unfair) scathing comment about the English. Apparently Canada has helped to fund most of the work in ATM, so I was alright.

K, A and I were on the verge of bribing the guide to take us in farther, but it had already been in for 4 hours, and still had to get out again. The water seemed colder the second time around, and even more so when he told us to turn off our lamps and walk hand and hand behind him through the dark. K claimed she could see, but I sure couldn't, and the giddy racing sensation returned, though not the fear. It wasn't until the lights came back on that K slipped off one of the large rocks and twisted her ankle, which left me crouching with my lowered head pressed against the ceiling til she had her strength back (luckily it wasn't serious) and I was able to slide down after her. The light at the entrance was blinding, and as we swam out into the pool in front it started to rain, so even after the 45 minute trek to the parking lot we were still soaking wet. As we took turns changing clothes behind a blue tarp, the rest of us stood and ate thick slices of pineapple, with our eyes on the rain.

Oops, I have already passed the 2 hour mark at this (extortionist) internet cafe, and I really must sign off. Love to all!

Nel

*Ahab's Wife, by Sena Jeter Naslund. Read it!

**Topped of course by the fire at Enkosini, which lasted 3 days-- for those of you who don't go back that far in the narrative.

--
"If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole life would change." Buddha

The Story to Come

I have had the most thrilling, terrifying, disconcertingly wonderful day.

But I am not talking about it now.

Love FM

My first hour in Belize, taking the bus from our little hotel (Trek Stop, complete with frisbee golf pitch and butterfly garden) to "downtown" San Ignacio. I sat down beside a man with yellow eyes, who introduced himself as Numbert. Cheesy love songs are playing. I am surprised to see English advertisements along the side of the road. Suddenly...

Numbert: You goin to belize city?
me: just to town, here.
Numbert: you a mission group?
me: no, just travelling.
Numbert: we get a lot of mission groups here.
me: i'll bet.

There is a pause.

Numbert: What part the States you from?
me: I'm from Canada.
Numbert: Canada. Is it cold?
me: In the winter.

I am still shocked to be having an english conversation on the bus. I wonder if english is Numbert's first language, but think it might be rude to ask.

Numbert: you ever heard this song before?
me: no.
Numbert: you ever been in love before?

I laughed at this, because I didn't think he was serious.

Numbert: you have a boyfriend?
me: Why do you ask?

Uncomfortable silence.

Numbert: I don't know why they play these songs.
me: right.
Numbert: I was in love with this girl and now... phew (makes a crushing guesture with his hands).
me: And now you don't like love songs?
Numbert: I do, but brings back memories. I used to sing her this song. Well, not sing, but I used to play it for her on the radio.

At this point Numbert began singing along to the radio, and I was glad he had not used it as an instrument of seduction.

Numbert: You gonn' be here long?
me: Just two days.
Numbert: You like Belize?
me: I've only been here an hour. But I like it so far.
Numbert: It alright. If you have the good people.
me: I'm sure.

Pause.

Numbert: Will i see you again?

I laugh again. What else can I do?

Numbert: You talk on the computer? We chat?
me: Um, this is my stop.

Darn. I was just starting to make sense of Spanish!

From Flores

Oh how I love book exchanges! This made me laugh, and is travel related so thought I would share it.

Copied with respect, but without permission, from A Spot of Bother (by Mark Haddon).

¨His main memories were of sweaty pre-packed cheese and that roar as the toilet bowl opened into the stratosphere. At first he had noticed only that everyone in the departure lounge was driving him to distraction. And when they boarded, something in the cloistered, chemical air of the cabin itself had made his chest feel tight. But only when they were taxiing to the runway did he realize the plane was going to suffer some catastrophic mechanical failure mid-flight and that he was going to cartwheel earthwards for several minutes inside a large steel tube with 200 strangers who were crying and soiling themselves, then die in a tangerine fireball of twisted steel.

He stared doggedly at the seat-back in front of him, trying desperately to pretend that he was sitting in the living room at home. But every few minutes he would hear a sinsiter chime and see a little red light flashing in the bulkhead to his right, secretly informing the cabin crew that the pilot was wrestling with some fatal malfunction in the cockpit.

For several weeks afterwards he was unable to see a plane overhead without feeling angry.

It was a natural reaction. Human beings were not meant to be sealed into tins and fired throug the sky by fan-assisted rockets.¨

Lunch in Livingston

Am currently in a wee town called Livingston, which is where Guatemala meets the Carribean. One boat ride away, and it seems we are in a completely different culture. Already we have been mobbed by women wanting to braid our hair (none of them have braided hair, I notice) and A. has had it done.

We are staying in Rio Dulce, a hotel (literally) on the water; little cabins over a swamp, connected by wooden platforms. I spent most of yesterday (after our 8 hours of travel) sitting by a pool listening to late early 90s disco music, watching certain members of the group get steadily drunker, and willing time to pass. I would have preferred a slightly more active afternoon, but there was literally nothing to do except wait. And write postcards. By evening, with the lights glowing on the pool and the symphony of lurking insects it did seem idyllic.

Sleeping was not quite so smooth, as my mosquito net was several decades past its prime, and I ended up tangled up in it-- over and over again. And every time I woke up in the dark (too many times to count) I wondered where I was. K. woke up at 5 AM to go kayaking with howler monkeys. Then we set out at nine for the tour to Livingston. I was not particularily interested in this one, but the prospect of another day of inactivity was too much to handle.

People are eating something which is a dish of coconut milk with whole crabs in it. This morning we stopped at a store in the middle of the lake, surrounded by lily pads, and bought hole coconuts. They are not as good as they look, or sound, but still...

Off to Flores tomorrow, and Tikal the day after!

Sending my love for this crazy, sunburned life out into the cyber-void.

N.

Talking to the Other World, Part II

Group Email: 17/07/07

Dear Friends,

Today is our 4th day (though not in a row) in Antigua, which is the longest I have spent anywhere since leaving San Jose. I will be sorry to leave here, and not just because I have figured out how to get from the hotel to central park in less than half an hour. Thankfully the looming prospect of Tikal is enough to keep me going. Let´s hope I have not been spoiled by the wonderful cool weather of the last few days.

Just one note before I continue on with my Talking to the Other World. I have been asked to properly define chicken buses. I have heard this term used all over the world, and while the technicalities vary from place to place, the vast and unparalleled discomfort is truly universal. In Central America, Chicken Buses are old (and I mean really old) American school buses (some of which still have the names of primary schools on the side) ¨decorated¨ elaborately, inside and out. Highlights include a dip stick with a revolving Virgin Mary in inside it, Christmas lights on the handrails, giant American flag bumper stickers, hood ornaments shaped like naked women (of the playboy variety) and religious decals on every window. It is not so much the disrepair, bad music or lack of air conditioning that makes a chicken bus the unforgettable experience that it is. School buses are designed to hold 40 people, and on the trip from Lake Atitlan to Antigua we counted 75, plus luggage. Do I need to go on?


¨I am perfectly capable of ripping some guy´s throat out with my teeth. Can you say the same?¨ L.G.

The trip from Utilia Islands to Copan was another long 12 hour stretch, but not nearly so bad (could anything be so bad?) as the one previously described. We had to change buses twice (after watching some mesmerizing Spanish equivalent of Judge Judy on the ferry) along the way, both in towns where

There is a concept in anthropology called (I expect it has a more formal name, but all I remember is the phrase) Imagined but not Imaginary. The applies to things like borders: the border is not a fact, if you were to take away the walls and guards and passports you wouldn´t know where one country ended and the next began. However, because we have instituted walls and guards and passports the consequences of this imagined divide are real. I got thinking about this immediately after crossing into Nicaragua-- no sooner had we left the border than everything changed. The pavement disappeared, signs vanished, small children wearing ancient formal wear chased the van down the highway. And horses. Tall, bony horses were everywhere, grazing in ditches, in fields, flank-deep in the lake. I asked Jon who the horses belonged to, and he said ¨Ït´s more like, who belongs to the horses.¨

The transition from Nicaragua to Honduras was not as extreme, but it was still noticeable. Thankfully there were no begging children and fewer starving horses, and there was much squealing in the van as we drove through the town and saw Burger King, Wendy's, Baskin Robbins etc. There is just something about fast food when travelling; you don´t even want to eat it (I don´t, at least) but just seeing the sign seems to restore normality to the world. Í'm not sure what that says about ¨our¨ world.

The second bus dropped us off downtown (another town I never learned the name of) and we split up into four taxis to take us out to the long distance bus station. When our cab (which had large chunks of foam missing from the seats) arrived the first thing we saw was a hoard of men surrounding A, N, C and M, and A (who had rarely shown any enthusiasm for anything except dunkin donuts) shouting (words which will not be repeated here) at a smirking Honduran. When we stepped out of the car someone grabbed my arm, and someone else my other arm, and I tried desperately to make sense of the things that were being shouted to me, at me, all around me. People kept trying to take our bags away, leading us towards the parking lot and yelling out the names of nearby towns we might be trying to get to.

On top of it all there was a row of vendors pacing up and down by the fence, calling out food and prices-- full cooked chickens in tin foil, thick brown liquid in plastic bags, fruit and marshmallows, fried plantains and cigarettes. We managed to wrestle the bags away from the imposing crowd, all of whom were hissing at us (the Central American version of cat calling) and making faces so ridiculous I couldn´t decide whether to laugh or ignore it or make faces in return. By the end of it we had tried all of these things, as well as using a whole lot of words I had never said outl oud before; entirely deserved, I assure you.

This would have been one thing if it were just a question of walking to the bus, but none of us knew what bus we were meant to be taking, and the taxi with Jon in it had yet to arrive. More than 20 minutes we stood there, waiting for him, trying to figure out what we would do if he didn´t show up at all. The crowd around us ebbed and flowed, and we got more and more nervous, as a 10 year old tried to sell us porn and one of the vendors asked L if he paid her one dollar could he kiss me. I think it was about that point L snapped and started pushing him (literally) back away from us, yelling at him in Spanish; at first he just laughed at her, but he backed up and no one touched us after that. D lost himself some points by standing far too the side and watching this whole spectacle, but boy was I impressed with L just then. When Jon did show up (along with the Chicago teachers and the Sweeties) it turned out he couldn´t find a taxi and had stopped to buy a coffee.

Ït wasn´t a drunken decision. Well, it was a drunken decision, but I´m sticking to it!¨ M.K.

I have mentioned M only as a part of Team Canada, but she deserves her own bit here. Of that clique --sorry, group-- she was the most outgoing, and the one I had the most to do with. She was studying some sort of science I had never heard of, and is moving to Ontario for 8 months to do an internship. She is stunningly beautiful (the only one of ¨the girls¨ without blond hair), took partying dangerously close to the compulsive, and had a fling with Jon (though I was not supposed to know about that). This was her first travel experience.

About two days before we arrived in Antigua (and said goodbye to the first group) she suddenly decided to stay in Guatemala at the end of the trip. She said she would do two weeks of Spanish classes and then travel across the country on her own. For those two days she talked of little else, borrowing somebody´s Rough Guide and plotting out all the places she wanted to go and stay. I listened as this went from a off the cuff fantasy to a life or death mission. Now I am all about travelling; in general I don´t have enough good things to say about solo travel and all thrill and growing up it brings with it. But to hear M sitting there with her friends in the back of the van chattering away about sailing trips and 30 hours bus journeys I was worried for her. I couldn´t help but feel she was making it into some glamorous fantasy (and if there´s anything you can say for certain about this kind of travel, there is nothing glamorous about it), and really had no concept of what it is to travel alone. But then neither did I, not so long ago. I got an email from her today. She says she is lonely.

¨I just want to pop in, see them, and pop out again. 5 minutes, done.¨ D.L.

It is odd, considering that Copan has been my favourite thing of the trip so far, that I am not going to describe it for you in any depth. We had a fantastic, 75 year old guide who said he was in the Guinness Book of World Records for length of service. He made a lot of dirty jokes and talked as much about himself as about the site, and a creepy geographer in a Tilly hat (who was tagging along with us) described for me the best ways to travel through Egypt, and fought with the guide over the genus of the national tree of Honduras. I´m sorry, but there is only so much you can say about a ruin without seeing it with your own eyes. That´s what the pictures are for!

¨We wanted to feel in touch with the culture. Now we´re ready to go!¨ A.G.

The first night with the new group, the majority of them went off to do (yet another) volcano hike, and I stayed behind (letting my lungs require from the smog of Guatemala City). At about 8:30 I started out to find an internet cafe and ran into Jon, and two of the newbies in the lobby; he said they were off to the carnival, and did I want to come? We had heard that on this leg of the trip there was to be a father and (13 year old) son, but nothing could have prepared us for this father and this son. The father is 35 at most, and has long shaggy hair and the most piercing eyes I have ever encountered; he has a slow quiet voice (as if everything he says is coming from a great distance) and when Jon introduced us I thought he was going to kiss my hand.

He and his son had been in Antigua for a week doing language classes, and he described to me how they had a Mayan priest purify them ¨to prepare them¨ for the trip. He seems fascinated by everyone and everything, and I have yet to decide whether he is incredibly smart and insightful, or if he has fried his brain on drugs. For a few maddening hours I was afraid I was in love with him, but I realize now it is merely fascination; originality will get you far, in my books. R rarely talks. One can hardly blame him.

That night the four of us wandered through the market and listened to a terrible band singing Copacabana in Spanish, flashing strobe lights into the still, disinterested audience. Apparently this was the first night of the fair, and the place was thick with people, all of them in ¨traditional dress¨. Behind the endless tables of textiles and tomatoes there were a few decrepit looking carnival rides-- a ferris wheel, bumper cars, all twisted metal and old paint. A and Jon rode a flying pirate ship while River and I waited. We walked back to the hotel and A said if I needed to buy any jade he knew someone who could ¨hook me up¨. R told me the only thing he had learned to say in his week of Spanish classes was Shakira. Having a new group stopped being a nuisance.



¨I need a shaman. To help me talk to the other world.¨ A.G.

4 chicken buses later we were in Panajachel, a town (basically a market and a few hotels) on the shores of Lake Atitlan, enjoying the most comfortable weather of the entire trip, despite the rain. Panajachel is basically the stopover point for two activities: taking a boat trip to Santiago Atitlan, and the other is going to the tongue-twisting Chichicastenango (literally a giant market, a church, and mind-boggling assortments of tourists). Santiago Atitlan is a village noted for its puzzling ongoing mixture of Mayan religious belief and Catholicism (and remote enough that the men still wear ¨traditional¨dress, as well as the women).



The highlight of a visit here is the visit to the god/saint/devil Maximon (pronounced Mash-ee-moan). As it was explained to us on the boat, Maximon is in charge of all the evil and vice in the world, and people pray and make offerings to him, asking that no harm will come to them or their families. He is kept inside someone´s house, and every year on Easter he moves in with another family. A lit cigarette is kept in his mouth at all times, and every day he is given a shot of rum. From this description I wasn´t sure what to expect, but we followed obediently behind the the two 7 year old boys who met us at the dock and agreed to take us. We walked up a steep hill, stopping twice at small shops because Aaron wanted to buy cigarettes as an offering (apparently they do not sell cigarettes on Santiago Atitlan), and by the time we arrived in the dirt kitchen of Maximon´s current home I couldn´t have told you where we were if you´d paid me.



We had to wait a minute, as only 5 people were allowed in to see him at one time. K (who is my new roommate, and a good friend already) was talking to the man who´s house it was, translating something A was saying as he handed him some money. W (another new guy) who was standing next to them asked what the money was for.

A: I´ve sent him to get a shaman.
W: For what?
A: To help me talk to the other world.
W: Uh huh.

Before I could hear the end of that exchange someone ushered me through the curtain into the presence of Maximon. The room was very dark, and the first thing that entered my head was that I wasn´t sure which of the objects in the room was the one I was looking for. Directly in front of me was a clear coffin with white Christmas lights on top of it, illuminating a plastic figure of Jesus. Was this Maximon? I looked around and saw 4 men sitting at a table watching me through a cloud of smoke. What was I supposed to be looking at? Feeling rather stupid I started towards the door (from door to door the room was less than 10 steps across) wondering what it was I had missed when I saw him, standing in front of the kitchen table (for as my eyes adjusted to the light I realized we were in someone´s kitchen). He was a wooden statue, about as high as my waist, wrapped in women´s scarves of every conceivable pattern. In his hand he held a bowl in which to deposit the 2 Quetzals (Guatemalan currency) required for the visitation. And that was it. The scarves, the kitchen, the glowing Jesus... and back outside I went.

The rest of us sat on the curb for half an hour waiting for A, K (who was translating), P (who was video taping), and Jon (who was in the right place at the right time) to emerge from their time with the Shaman. This little ¨stunt¨ of A´s had made him rather unpopular with the other guys (not that I suppose he would care much about that) and I pretended I wouldn´t have given anything to see what was going on in that little room. Finally they stumbled out, reeking of incense and looking as if they´d never seen the light of day before. Jon kept saying ¨Wow¨, over and over again, and A put his hand on his shoulder and said Ït´s going to be that kind of trip!¨

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

That about brings us up to speed on the peculiar goings on of the last week. (Not too bad for a week, is it?). Hope you are well and happy. Keep your eye on my blog for pictures.

Adios,

Nel

--
¨I believe in quality, descriptive, and well-crafted writing,¨ she began ¨And all I can think to say is Wow!¨ Nora Roberts

Talking to the Other World, Part I

Group Email: 16/07/07

Dear Friends,

*Just a note-- I began this email yesterday, but ran out of time as predicted! I fear this will be another two-part-er, as there is much to say, and my attempts at brevity rarely work out as they should.*

It seems I am behind again. So behind that I doubt I can catch up, at least not in the over-priced over-air-conditioned Mayanet, in Lake Atitlan. In lieu of a full report on recent goings on I have decided today to write the way I remember; not dates, towns, and itineraries but people, images, and those strange inexplicable moments that stick out in your mind and transform your memory of a place.

Since I last updated we have added 9 new people to our little company. Here are some random statistics I came up with on the last bus ride from Antigua: 7 Brits, 6 Americans, 2 Canadians. 2 teachers, 2 accountants, 2 political science students, 2 returning to school to study a different subject, 2 vegetarians, 2 celiacs, 2 named after plants, 3 named after saints, 3 who aren't sure what's next. An interesting collection, though I've not had time yet to ferret out the little details I do so love. I tell you nothing brings you closer to people than travel-- sometimes a little too close, as anyone who has ever ridden a ¨Chicken Bus¨ can tell you.

¨It's not, like, 5 Star, but we'll have some things, like, running water and power in the rooms.¨ Jon N.



When I last wrote I had progressed as far as Ometepe. Ometepe is a small island in Nicaragua, that appears to be operating entirely on its own time. I was still not feeling very well after the border nightmare (I have since been told this is the worst border in Central America-- makes me feel slightly better about passing out!) but it was too hot to go to bed early. Instead we sat out on a patio facing the water and passed a bottle of bug spray around the table and counted the geckos on the wall. Someone ordered a bright purple drink and no one seemed to know what it was. Then the power went out.



The power came back on about half an hour later, though personally I found the darkness just added to the intoxicating where-am-I-now sensation that had been trailing me all day. The next day the power went out again, and that time it stayed off. No explanation was ever given as to why the drinks became warmer and warmer as the hours passed, but the staff seemed so nonchalant about it I decided not to ask. Besides there was much to occupy oneself with-- like watching a cross-eyed volcano-guide hit on Lisa, and watching the moody sky so you'd make it back to the house before the rain began again. By early evening the clouds were so thick it was impossible to tell what was dusk and which was storm. I went for a walk and, just because, sang something from Anything Goes and felt the sound yanked away by the wind.

The next day we travelled to Granada (3rd largest city in Nicaragua). Where there was still no power, and little water. Apparently the whole country is having an energy crisis. I ended up with heat exhaustion and spent the night sleeping on the floor of the hotel, because it was cooler.

''Can we come back again tomorrow?'' N.S.

In Leon (still Nicaragua) we stayed in a beautiful hotel, and I had my own room, which was a nice change. I took advantage of this by washing my clothes in the sink (which had no plug) and hanging them from every surface, praying they had time to dry before the trip to Utila.

That night we went to a cinema nearby and saw Die Hard 4, which was the only thing in English. I had never seen the other 3 in the series, and while I expect I will see them eventually I don't think I'll ever hear of Die Hard again without thinking of Leon.



¨This would be way less creepy if I understood it!´´ Random American tourist

(Also in Leon) Somewhere in my epic search for a post office which I never found, I stumbled across a museum called Legends and Traditions. The building had originally been a prison (another of those political torture and death prisons), which closed down in 1979. The walls of the larger cells were covered with childish murals of prisoners sitting on beds, smoking, playing cards; in a somewhat puzzling organizational decision, the displays for the advertised legends and traditions were in the same rooms.

The legends were illustrated by full sized paper mache figures-- a headless priest, a golden donkey, a row of skeletons pulling a black shrouded cart. I´m afraid I didn´t get much out of that part, as all the signs were in Spanish. What I can tell you is that when the sun came through the prison bars, making the skeletons glow, it didn´t matter how disorganized or badly run the museum was-- there was something eerie in the air then that made me eager to get back to the real world, to the ice cream trucks and abandoned churches of old Leon.

´´This place has become my own personal hell!´´ C.C.



The trip from Leon to the Utila Islands was, without much exaggeration, hell. The 16 of us got on the bus at 4 AM, and didn't stop til we crossed the border into Honduras about 6 hours later. Then back onto the bus, and another 6 hours driving. By early evening we had arrived in a town who's name I can´t remember (made a real impression, obviously), checked into a equally ambiguous hotel and wandered around looking for a grocery store. We slept about 5 hours, then it came to 1 AM, and we got back on the bus for 10 more hours of driving. This was the low-light of the journey, as I couldn´t sleep (characteristically) and was crammed with 3 others into the back seat with no room to move my legs, nothing to do, and nothing to look at. To make things even more comfortable, there was a serious disagreement over the temperature, and even when everyone else had gone to sleep I couldn´t move to turn off the blasting air conditioning. About 8 AM we stopped at a Dunkin Donuts, and I was not the only one considering hiding out in the parking lot, rather than getting back into that miserable vehicle.

After that we had another hour, a ferry ride, and a walk that seemed endless. All that stands out about the two days in Utila was my spectacular lack-of-sleep-induced bad temper and that the town wasn´t worth the trip. (I also fell off a motor bike, but that was actually pretty funny; both at the time, and in retrospect.) On the plus side I finally found a post office (hey, a mission is a mission) and had some excellent falafel at a Middle Eastern restaurant on the beach.

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

If you are still with me at this point, I´m impressed. I will aim to send you Part II tomorrow, so I can be back on track by the time we leave Antigua. A month today I come home.

Thinking of you all, with love,

Nel

--
´If you're not confused, you're not paying attention.´ Tom Peters

You Say Goodbye, And I Say Hello

Hola!

Have spent the morning lurking around our hotel here in Antigua (Guatamala) giving goodbye hugs and promising to keep in touch-- the first section of this trip is over. Of the 8 people from our group who are leaving, none of them are going straight home. The Chicago teachers are staying in Guatamala City. The Sweeties (Swedish couple) are going to Mexico. Team Canada is going to Belize for 10 days. Lisa is taking a private trip to Tikal. It is her I will miss the most, though I will most likely be seeing her again tomorrow, as she is going to stay for two days in the next place we are going. Wherever that is. On the first day of this trip we were given an itinerary for the fist 17 days. Now we are technically ¨starting over¨ and I have no idea where we are going. It´s okay though, it´s an adventure. I have clean laundry and three new CDs of burned pictures, and am ready to handle anything. Now a little something I have been working on...




You Know You´re In Central America When...

-The first question you ask about a new hotel is ¨Do they have power?¨
-The grass is cut with machetes
-5 vehicles fit in 2 lanes
-Showers have two temperates, icy and boili... wait it´s icy again
-The only english on television is CNN and Law and Order
-You have to wrestle your bag away from people at bus stations
-Ice cream make an excellent breakfast
-The horses are thinner than you are

-A truck stop is a hammock suspended underneath a truck on the side of the road
-Rice, beans and avacado.
-¨Yo, mummy, I love you!¨ is used as a pick-up line
-Every rock is decorated with political symbols
-Trucks, Buses, Vans, Rick Shaws, Motorized Rickshaws, Bikes and Horses belong on the road together
-The bus driver honks and waves at the driver of every passing car
-You twist your ankle walking down the sidewalk
-The centre of every town is a church
-You check all beds for bugs before getting in to them
-All prices come in American dollars first
-You fear the only Spanish words you´ve learned are chicken and bathroom
-The term ¨chicken bus¨ makes sense to you, terrifyingly so


This list covers several countries, so may not (do not) apply to everywhere. Still.

Blast From The Past

Was checking out the Lonely Planet website today and saw there is a new warning listed for the mines in Potosi. (You may recall I went there last year.) I´m glad I went when I did, as I would highly recommend it!

Mine Tour Warning

Travelers planning a trip to the cooperative silver mines in Potosí should first be aware of the risks involved. These are working mines and conditions are harsh. At an altitude of over 4200m (13780ft) temperatures can range from below freezing outside to over 45°C (113°F) deep in the mines. Visitors may be exposed to a range of harmful substances including silica dust (the cause of silicosis), arsenic gas, acetylene vapors, asbestos fibers, the byproducts of acetylene combustion and explosives residues. Medical experts, including the NHS, note that limited exposure to these conditions is extremely unlikely to cause any lasting health damage. However, if you have any concerns about exposure to these potential risks, you should reconsider taking the tour. Anyone with medical conditions such as claustrophobia, asthma or other respiratory conditions should not enter the mines. Serious accidents can also occur and all tour operators should make you sign a disclaimer waiving any liability for death, injury or illness; if they don't, choose another. Visiting the mines is a serious decision. If you're undeterred, you'll have an eye-opening and unforgettable experience.

Lucky Day

Since today is meant to be a lucky day (7/7/7) I thought I would post something inspiring. To me at least. Never miss a chance for luck!

¨Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day.¨

Rainer Maria Rilke, from Letters to a Young Poet

Welcome to Central America

Group Email: 07/07/07

My Dear Friends,

How time flies when you´re having fun! How time flies when you are moving too fast to notice it passing. Because I only have half a day left here in Leon (and have only just raced through two of the fifteen churches, and one of the innumerable museums) I will get right to it:

I usually write these group emails in my head. On the bus or walking down the street, or trying to sleep while the geckos chirp at each other from some dark hidden place overhead-- a phrase will pop into my head, or I´ll think Ï must remember to mention this...¨. This time though, I am coming in cold. It´s not that there´s nothing to say, oh no, I´m not just sure how to narrow it down. Which story is the most interesting or revealing of the life I have here, what details will make it real to you?

Let´s start with the heat. I thought it was hot in San Jose, admittedly it was not as hot as I had expected (especially since the sun rarely made an appearance), but even so the air felt heavy and damp, and the feel of it followed you everywhere; indoors as well as out. La Fortuna was not a bad temperature at all, though my clothes were always wet so I guess that makes it harder to judge. Monte Verde (don´t worry, I´ll get there!) was chilly by comparison (long-sleeves-at-night chilly) and also damp. That made the next transition (12 hours in transit, crossing the CR-Nica border) cruel and unusual. Since then the heat has been unreal, and increasing brutally with each place we go. It has been 3 days now since we have had rain (though the clouds roll in and out at lightening speed) and I actually miss it. It is not considered winter here because of the temperature, but because of the rain, and without it...

Monte Verde is a small town surrounded by cloud forest (imagine large wisps of cloud floating down ¨¨main street¨), about four hours from La Fortuna. We were staying at a hotel called Dan Tacos, peppered with atrocious white porcelain lamps, shaped like naked little boys. Like San Jose, (and indeed La Fortuna) the attraction here is not the town itself, but the imposing jungle and the ultra-hyped ¨zip lining¨ it contains. Zip lining, to give a brief description (I had never heard of it) is when they strap you into a harness attacked to a wire and you go zipping across the wire through the forest canopy. When we got up that morning the guide said how lucky we were to be there on a day it wasn´t raining (it rained later, but the sun was shining as we drove out). As it turned out a little rain might not have been such a bad thing, as the moisture keeps the wires slick and fast moving; without it three members of the group ended up getting stuck mid-zip and requiring one of the operators to slide out and pull them back in. I´ll tell you right now, I had no intention of doing this (I am saving my money for a caving trip in Belize) but I went along for the canopy tour, walking on long suspended bridges over the treetops, taking too many pictures as always, and trying hard to spot the birds L. insisted she could see.

Speaking of L, one of the highlights (and I don´t think she would mind me calling it that) of the time in Monte Verde was L discovering cockroaches in our room. Not that I am a big fan of cockroaches, but my hellish night in the hotel closet in Thailand did wonders for my stamina (did I ever tell that story? possibly you don´t want to know) and my strategy would have been to ignore them completely. L´s strategy was to search every inch of the room (including the ceiling and curtains) and whack anything that moved with her shoe. I do wonder what the people upstairs must have thought as she squealed and smacked and left brown smears all over the walls. We have become excellent friends she and I, so I was allowed to laugh and take pictures, while she laughed right back, called me Brat (as she usually does), and took the wads of kleenex I handed her to collect the bodies. Adventures come in all shapes and sizes.

The next day we had a long and rather disheartening journey into Nicaragua. We took the bus from Dan Tacos to the border, unloading our stuff on the dirt road by the Costa Rica office, already reeling from the heat and the crowd and the shouts of the shady looking money changers and women selling frozen brown liquid in clear plastic bags. Everything here is loud, one voice drowning out another and another overpowering it, all of them speaking words I don´t understand. Culture shock is not the result of a different place or a different language, it is the feeling you get when you look around and nothing looks familiar, sounds familiar, smells familiar; I would be the first to tell you there is something incredible about that feeling-- but not just now. Not with the sun bearing down and settling like a stone on your shoulders until your head aches and you´re sure you will lose your mind if you hear one more cry of ¨Cambio Cambio, Change Dollars!¨.

We get through the border, walk for 20 minutes through a dusty machine-gun ridden No Man´s Land (this must be the most impractical border I have ever gone through), only to find out that one of the Canadian girls (who now go by Team Canada --which apparently does not include me) realized the officer had forgotten to stamp her passport, so she and J. had to go back and get that dealt with while one of the British girls had her pictures taken with two of the guards, who obviously thought they´d died and gone to heaven. The passports were checked and rechecked, and finally we arrived at a small door which was the entry point to Nicaragua (literally, pay your $8 and walk through the door into a new country). Beyond that there was more chaos, as we maneuvered our way --after prying both arms away from two taxi drivers intent on taking me somewhere or other-- between buses and bicycles and the odd horse and cart. I´m not sure if it was the dust or the heat or the fumes (or my heavy backpack) but I was having trouble breathing, and so kept getting shoved farther away from the group and the bus we were walking towards. When I finally did get there, and felt the driver taking my bag away (tossing it up to a man on the roof), one of the teachers who was dawdling by the bus asked me if I was alright, and I found I couldn´t answer her.

My memory is a little hazy, but I remember many hands being offered, pulling me up off the road and into the shade by one of the coca-cola stalls. J. was summoned off the bus, and all of the vendors were asking him what was wrong with me while he made some gesture which I interpreted as ¨bad lungs¨ and one the men said Öh asthma!¨, grinned at me and thumped his chest enthusiastically. This cheered me up considerably and I got onto the bus, which was mercifully uncrowded and hide wide windows which blew gusts of sweet air in my face for the next 4 hours of the journey. After that there was a ferry ride and another bus, before we finally arrived (about 6 PM) on a flower-strewn hotel on the island of Ometepe. ¨Welcome to Central America,¨ J. says, ¨Costa Rica doesn´t count.¨ And I cannot help but agree with him.

This is growing far too long, (as a side note someone is setting off fireworks in the street outside the internet cafe) and I still have three places to describe before I am caught up, but I had better close this off now. I have something like 30 hours in transit ahead, beginning at 5:30 AM tonight/tomorrow, and no internet in the next place I am going. Still, I will write and close the gap as soon as I can; in the meantime do check out my blog for additional writing (and photos!). The next time I write I will be in Honduras. Hope you are all well, and keeping cool!

Love lots,

N.

P.S. I am feeling much better now: in excellent spirits, and finally growing accustomed to the heat. So don´t worry! Ciao.

Random Uploads

No time to sort these now, and not sure how good they are (the CD is clashing with the computer system) but I want to make sure I´ve actually got these images down (don´t ask, current technological nightmares in Nicaragua)...

Granada

I am now in Granda, the third largest city in Nicaragua. (I have finally learned how to spell it!). It is not at all what I was expecting, which is why it is wise not to expect anything while travelling. Not that I am disappointed, I am quite entranced by this intricate, colourful town... my only regret is that the power has been going on and off the whole time we´ve been here (two days, though to be perfectly honest it´s been going on and off the whole time we´ve been in Nicaragua), and the water which is more off than on. And the heat! This may in fact be the hottest I have ever been-- not helped by the lack of water and the stuttering fan. We arrived here yesterday about noon, and in the half an hour or so it took me to locate coke light and internet I had a full-blown migraine and a nice case of heat exhaustion-- so much so that I spent almost the entire day hovering by the fan in my stuffy little room. The good news is that I caught up on my journalling, reading, currency sorting, picture filtering and, well, downtime. Today I am feeling stronger (helped I expect by the impending clouds) and have filled up my memory card for the fourth time. Can I help it if everything here is beautiful and interesting and unique. I wanted to write a group email today and sat staring at the computer for almost an hour, trying to think what to say about this place, how to describe it. I am not used to it yet, it is hard to write about something I have not yet got a handle on myself. That´s what the pictures are for-- take them now, figure it out later. I´ll get back to you on the words.

N.