Yesterday at 4:33 a.m. I got off a bus in downtown Bangkok. Being near a popular destination for travelers, Kho San Road, I headed that dirction to find some accomodation and some rest. For those of you who know it, Kho San Road is a pretty wild place. By day it is filled with hawkers and tourist traps, cheap clothing stalls, and the occasional fake ID place that does anything from student travel discount cards, Australian work permits and UK drivers licenses. By night it's the social scene in Bangkok, for tourists and locals, and if you're still looking for beer at five or six in the morning Kho San is your place. As usual, there are a large number of pretty, young Thai girls with their arms draped over a number of white men, young and old, who will pay them for a nights' company. And, if you take a closer look, you might get a little surprise.
Every "westerner" hears the horror stories of the Lady-boys. Some of them look so much like women that the only way you can tell they're men is when it's too late. I personally feel, since I'm not really a fan of sex exploitation, that's it's hilarious to hear these stories and that karma has simply found its way with these unsuspecting louts. But then, here I am about to tell you MY Lady-boy story...
As I was saying, it was early in the morning or really late at night, depending on how you look at it. The people I had gotten off the bus with had found the hostel they booked for, yet there was no room for me. I headed back out and checked four or five hostels to no avail. After a twelve hour journey, including a hellish boat trip and an overnight bus I couldn't sleep on, I sat down on the curb to rest, think, and look at my map.
There were a lot of people on the road, but I was having a hard time communicating through my exhaustion and their drunkenness. You may think this to be a hazardous predicament, but I have to honestly say I have not once, in almost a month here in Asia, felt any danger whatsoever. The people here are fantastic, smiling, lovely people. And that is why I didn't feel any hesitation at all when a group of young girls walked up to me and sat down for a chat. They asked me why I was sitting there, if I had a place to stay, why I wasn't with my husband or boyfriend (in that order) and seemed generally distressed that I was traveling alone because they thought I was lonely. And truth be told, at that moment I was a bit lonely and truly relished their company.
They couldn't have been more that 18 or 19 years old, all dressed in modern, western party clothes, and seemed to be having a great time in each others' company. They all spoke English reasonably well, which is more than I can say about my Thai, and their conversations seemed quite clever, even if it was five in the morning. I was pretty damn sure they were prostitutes, but hey, who am I to judge? I liked them, and we sat there talking about everything, from American politics to the best beaches in Thailand.
The conversation took an interesting turn when one girl said something to another in Thai, and they all started giggling while one of the girls blushed. As she turned back to me, she translated in to English:
"Jay here, she want show you new boobies. Just got them. Grade-A boobies."
"What?" I reply, confused and not clear if I had heard correctly.
"Jay is full girl now, just get boobies last week!"
***Now, this was not said in a sexual way. More like a girly confession right before a pillow-fight at a teenager's sleepover; something you would only admit to your best girlfriends.
The young girl blushes again, but looks at me with a proud and excited eye, expecting me to fall into the role of girlfriend confidant. I am stunned and amused. Ok.
"So Jay, I like your boob-job. Have you always been a girl, or is this a new thing?"
(They erupt in giggles and now I'm not sure I've said the right thing. Jay smiles and speaks.)
"Oh Ray-chu, I am always being a girl in my head. Just born male parts. Now work very hard have new boobies!" she squeals.
"Excellent. I'm very excited for you."
"Would you like to see? To touch na?"
"No."
"Oh yes you must! Very nice for touch, see?"
"Wow. That's your boob. I'm actually good thanks."
"Please touch, see they are nice, na?" chide the girls together.
"Shit.......ok."
And that is how I came to touch a transvestite's fake tit yesterday at 5:30 a.m.
To be honest, the entire time with the "girls" was pretty funny, and I'm glad I met them. It's funny the life lessons you learn whilst traveling, even if unexpected. Jay was simply being herself, and I think that's all anyone could ever be. I liked her and her friends, all confident seemingly care-free, although I'm sure their lives were a lot harder than they let on. The story ends with them taking me to a cheap, clean traveler's hostel who did have a bed for me. Instead of sleeping I sat and wrote down this story.
As I sit here, relaying it to you, I smile. I have loved Thailand from the first five minutes of being here, and like all new loves, it contiues to teach me and surprise me. Jay's lesson to me about being myself, knowing myself inside and out, and loving everything around me is one I will cherish. I think we have a lot of doubt in ourselves sometimes, about what we feel we can and cannot accomplish, or our outward appearance attacked daily by tabloid media telling us what we should or shouldn't look like. I am going to try, although it won't be easy, to be more myself everyday.
Today I put on a pair of baggy pair of thai pants, a tank top, and spent the whole day reading my book under a tree. I feel that is me, and I haven't wanted anything more all day. Whether I met you in Austin, London, Mexico, or some other part of the world, the reason I'm emailing this letter to you is because I think you have a beautiful soul. And I think people should hear that more than it's said.
You are a beautiful person with a beautiful soul, and I thank you for being a part of my life, and for improving on it.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
Lean On Me
Written 7-12-08
I was so sleep deprived while writing my last letter, and I forgot to thank a few people. I find that being constantly surrounded by the greatest friends anyone could ask for makes every day so much better, and I am thankful for the companionship, laughter and light you have bestowed on me so graciously. Alex and Gini Lowe, for your constant hospitality, love, and the Merseyside Derby. Natalie Kissane for your friendship through multiple cups of coffee and conversations. James O'Mahony, Baker O'Sullivan and Jason O'Sullivan for your laughter and potatoes, you crazy Irish bastards. Shaun Edgerley for the terrorist firetruck Lego hour and for knowing how to push all my buttons. I expext my UK Government Drinking Pass anyday now. Brittney Covey, for your spirit. Jim and Sandy for your inspiration and unwavering support. John Martin, Tony, James and Sue for your matching jumpers and the Pineapple Express. (Tony, I will never forget how you ripped off your shirt to Eye of the Tiger in O'Neills) To Dougie McGilvray for the haggis, Shaolin Soccer and your fabulous accent, I promise that one day I will show you Austin. Simon McKay for your smile. Rishi Dave for your laughter. Simon Day for your fantastic shoe collection and your stories. And to the regulars still drinking at the Selkirk pub, you are all crazy. I find that it's my friends who teach me the most about life. Through our actions and dedication to each other, or simply being there for one another when needed is the greatest gift anyone could give. I was thinking a lot about friendship the other day as I sat on a bus headed back to Malaysia from Singapore. I spent an amazing few days with some wonderful people, the time dubbed "Fear and Loathing in Singapore" by the collective group. When it was over we said our goodbyes and walked off down our individual paths. It's quite an intense stir of emotions, the Traveling Friendship. Like speed dating you bond, travel, and experience the most amazing things together in a very small window of time. In the end though, we are all nomads and must move when the wind compells us. Sometimes we move in the same direction, sometimes not, and it's always a little heart-breaking when the seperation happens, no matter how long you spent together. It's funny how I even meet half the people I meet. Jean Michel and I met in the Qatar airport and were joined at the hip. We picked up Michael from Sweden at a hostel in Malaca, and all went to Singapore together in a spontaneous flurry. There we meet Zack from Alaska who was sitting at the next table drinking a beer while we ate breakfast. In a grand total of two days we ran all over Singapore like kids who ate a bag of sugar and were set free in a toy store. When it was time for Jean Michel and I to pick up our backpacks and head to the bus station, a silence fell over us for the first time in days, and I was thankful to not take the bus trip alone. What were we going to do without each other? Who else would understand our inside jokes and unexplained laughter? And two days later in Kuala Lumpor, I packed my bag and walked to the bus stop myself, bound for Tanah Rata in the Cameron Highlands.
Saying goodbye to Jean Michel was heart-wrenching. Just like leaving my friends in London, I wondered what it would take to fill the void. We were like siblings, the two of us, and who knows when we will see each other again. I often prefer to travel alone because it forces me to meet new people and I hate compromising, so the trip alone and the last few days have been nice for me. Such is life. As I've said before, it's my friends who teach me the most:
THINGS I HAVE LEARNED IN ASIA (so far)
1. If an Asian looks you in the eye and tell you something is spicy, for the love of all things Holy, please listen to him.
2. They don't like toilet paper here, and instead prefer a hose that blasts out water to clean yourself with. I don't like it, and like every self-respecting traveler I now carry toilet paper with me everywhere I go.
3. Malaysia is a predominately Muslim country, and I've been struggling to keep my shoulders, stomach and knees covered in a very HOT country. I still get stared at lot, but at least I'm making an attempt to be respectful of their religion and customs without wearing a sari or burka.
4. No one goes to a doctor unless they are dying. It's easier to go to a pharmacist who will diagnose your symptoms and give you cheap medicine. I know this because I'm apparently allergic to something here and currently look like I have the chicken pox.
5. The word for 'Thank you' in Malay is 'Terima kasih,' and I get a big smile and a 'Sama sama,' (Your welcome) every time I say it.
All is good.
Life is good.
I was so sleep deprived while writing my last letter, and I forgot to thank a few people. I find that being constantly surrounded by the greatest friends anyone could ask for makes every day so much better, and I am thankful for the companionship, laughter and light you have bestowed on me so graciously. Alex and Gini Lowe, for your constant hospitality, love, and the Merseyside Derby. Natalie Kissane for your friendship through multiple cups of coffee and conversations. James O'Mahony, Baker O'Sullivan and Jason O'Sullivan for your laughter and potatoes, you crazy Irish bastards. Shaun Edgerley for the terrorist firetruck Lego hour and for knowing how to push all my buttons. I expext my UK Government Drinking Pass anyday now. Brittney Covey, for your spirit. Jim and Sandy for your inspiration and unwavering support. John Martin, Tony, James and Sue for your matching jumpers and the Pineapple Express. (Tony, I will never forget how you ripped off your shirt to Eye of the Tiger in O'Neills) To Dougie McGilvray for the haggis, Shaolin Soccer and your fabulous accent, I promise that one day I will show you Austin. Simon McKay for your smile. Rishi Dave for your laughter. Simon Day for your fantastic shoe collection and your stories. And to the regulars still drinking at the Selkirk pub, you are all crazy. I find that it's my friends who teach me the most about life. Through our actions and dedication to each other, or simply being there for one another when needed is the greatest gift anyone could give. I was thinking a lot about friendship the other day as I sat on a bus headed back to Malaysia from Singapore. I spent an amazing few days with some wonderful people, the time dubbed "Fear and Loathing in Singapore" by the collective group. When it was over we said our goodbyes and walked off down our individual paths. It's quite an intense stir of emotions, the Traveling Friendship. Like speed dating you bond, travel, and experience the most amazing things together in a very small window of time. In the end though, we are all nomads and must move when the wind compells us. Sometimes we move in the same direction, sometimes not, and it's always a little heart-breaking when the seperation happens, no matter how long you spent together. It's funny how I even meet half the people I meet. Jean Michel and I met in the Qatar airport and were joined at the hip. We picked up Michael from Sweden at a hostel in Malaca, and all went to Singapore together in a spontaneous flurry. There we meet Zack from Alaska who was sitting at the next table drinking a beer while we ate breakfast. In a grand total of two days we ran all over Singapore like kids who ate a bag of sugar and were set free in a toy store. When it was time for Jean Michel and I to pick up our backpacks and head to the bus station, a silence fell over us for the first time in days, and I was thankful to not take the bus trip alone. What were we going to do without each other? Who else would understand our inside jokes and unexplained laughter? And two days later in Kuala Lumpor, I packed my bag and walked to the bus stop myself, bound for Tanah Rata in the Cameron Highlands.
Saying goodbye to Jean Michel was heart-wrenching. Just like leaving my friends in London, I wondered what it would take to fill the void. We were like siblings, the two of us, and who knows when we will see each other again. I often prefer to travel alone because it forces me to meet new people and I hate compromising, so the trip alone and the last few days have been nice for me. Such is life. As I've said before, it's my friends who teach me the most:
THINGS I HAVE LEARNED IN ASIA (so far)
1. If an Asian looks you in the eye and tell you something is spicy, for the love of all things Holy, please listen to him.
2. They don't like toilet paper here, and instead prefer a hose that blasts out water to clean yourself with. I don't like it, and like every self-respecting traveler I now carry toilet paper with me everywhere I go.
3. Malaysia is a predominately Muslim country, and I've been struggling to keep my shoulders, stomach and knees covered in a very HOT country. I still get stared at lot, but at least I'm making an attempt to be respectful of their religion and customs without wearing a sari or burka.
4. No one goes to a doctor unless they are dying. It's easier to go to a pharmacist who will diagnose your symptoms and give you cheap medicine. I know this because I'm apparently allergic to something here and currently look like I have the chicken pox.
5. The word for 'Thank you' in Malay is 'Terima kasih,' and I get a big smile and a 'Sama sama,' (Your welcome) every time I say it.
All is good.
Life is good.
So Much To Say
Written 28-11-08
I really wanted to write to you about Scotland. About the beautiful architecture, the flowing rivers of scotch, the haggis and black pudding I ate, Edinburgh Castle, the music and dancing, the arctic temperatures, the pikey market called The Barras where people sold valuable items such as stolen children's bikes, Viagra, used doorknobs, and had a live auction for cuts of steak and designer perfumes. I wanted to write about Dougie and Cat in Glasgow, who took me in and are the best tour guides and friends anyone could ask for, Felix in Edinburgh for showing me the beautiful city, and all the amazing people I met.
Then I wanted to write about the petrifying fear I felt before leaving London, even though I tried to hide it. About my lip trembling on the plane, knowing that I am not brave, only curious and a bit distracted from reality. About how I know virtually nothing about where I was headed and definitely didn't speak the language. About feeling my heart sink to my stomach at the thought of all the wonderful people I left behind in London for yet another trip.
It was exactly this last thought as I waited in Qatar for my next flight to Thailand that I was informed about the riots. Political unrest blocking my way to the sunshine. How selfish of them! Those of you who know that Qatar is a predominately Muslim country also know they don't serve beer anywhere near the airport, so those were a few s l o w hours, but I managed to pass the time by befriending a fellow traveler, Jean Michel, who has become my new travel buddy and French tutor. We are finally allowed to head to Bangkok and an hour before we land are informed that they have re-closed the airport and that we're headed to Kuala Lumpor, Malaysia.
Perfect timing, Rachel. Way to go.
As usual, the Universe in its infinite wisdom has decided to mess up my plans. After countless hours waiting in airports we find out that Bangkok is closed and that we're headed to a hotel. The Crown Plaza, to be exact! Never would I abandon my traveler ways, but I was a bit overwhelmed by all the shiny expensive things and might have gotten a bit carried away. As I sit soaking in my giant bathtub with my fancy bubbles and oils I reflect on the events of the last few days, and can't help but feel a little guilty for staying in a five-star hotel while the people in Thailand hope a grenade doesn't go off near their house.
The last few days I've been reading a lot of news, and it's not just Thailand, but all over the world. One hundred and thirty dead in Mumbai in a dozen bombed buildings. Hostages still being kept hostage. Indian-Pakistani tensions. It's frustrating to sit here, to try to write down my thoughts and fears for this planet. There are so many ugly things in this world, all the killings, bombings, bloodshed, and for what? Politics. Religion. Hatred. Wealth. Poverty. Resentment. Fear. To never be able to turn on a TV or read a newspaper without hearing about destruction and despair.
The worst of it is how easy it has become to turn away. To tune out the bad news. To ignore what is going on in our world, the world we are supposed to share. What can I do? I don't have the answers I'm looking for, but I truly believe that each person makes their own mark in this world. Each person tries to make a change, a difference, even if it's in the simplicity of a smile or picking up a piece of trash on the street. What I think I'm trying to find here is a little inner-peace, to know I am doing something worthwhile and helping where I can. We can't all go join the United Nations and fight injustice with our bare hands, but I know, without a doubt, that we do what we can in our own special way.
Because what would this world be like if we didn't help each other out every once in a while?
I really wanted to write to you about Scotland. About the beautiful architecture, the flowing rivers of scotch, the haggis and black pudding I ate, Edinburgh Castle, the music and dancing, the arctic temperatures, the pikey market called The Barras where people sold valuable items such as stolen children's bikes, Viagra, used doorknobs, and had a live auction for cuts of steak and designer perfumes. I wanted to write about Dougie and Cat in Glasgow, who took me in and are the best tour guides and friends anyone could ask for, Felix in Edinburgh for showing me the beautiful city, and all the amazing people I met.
Then I wanted to write about the petrifying fear I felt before leaving London, even though I tried to hide it. About my lip trembling on the plane, knowing that I am not brave, only curious and a bit distracted from reality. About how I know virtually nothing about where I was headed and definitely didn't speak the language. About feeling my heart sink to my stomach at the thought of all the wonderful people I left behind in London for yet another trip.
It was exactly this last thought as I waited in Qatar for my next flight to Thailand that I was informed about the riots. Political unrest blocking my way to the sunshine. How selfish of them! Those of you who know that Qatar is a predominately Muslim country also know they don't serve beer anywhere near the airport, so those were a few s l o w hours, but I managed to pass the time by befriending a fellow traveler, Jean Michel, who has become my new travel buddy and French tutor. We are finally allowed to head to Bangkok and an hour before we land are informed that they have re-closed the airport and that we're headed to Kuala Lumpor, Malaysia.
Perfect timing, Rachel. Way to go.
As usual, the Universe in its infinite wisdom has decided to mess up my plans. After countless hours waiting in airports we find out that Bangkok is closed and that we're headed to a hotel. The Crown Plaza, to be exact! Never would I abandon my traveler ways, but I was a bit overwhelmed by all the shiny expensive things and might have gotten a bit carried away. As I sit soaking in my giant bathtub with my fancy bubbles and oils I reflect on the events of the last few days, and can't help but feel a little guilty for staying in a five-star hotel while the people in Thailand hope a grenade doesn't go off near their house.
The last few days I've been reading a lot of news, and it's not just Thailand, but all over the world. One hundred and thirty dead in Mumbai in a dozen bombed buildings. Hostages still being kept hostage. Indian-Pakistani tensions. It's frustrating to sit here, to try to write down my thoughts and fears for this planet. There are so many ugly things in this world, all the killings, bombings, bloodshed, and for what? Politics. Religion. Hatred. Wealth. Poverty. Resentment. Fear. To never be able to turn on a TV or read a newspaper without hearing about destruction and despair.
The worst of it is how easy it has become to turn away. To tune out the bad news. To ignore what is going on in our world, the world we are supposed to share. What can I do? I don't have the answers I'm looking for, but I truly believe that each person makes their own mark in this world. Each person tries to make a change, a difference, even if it's in the simplicity of a smile or picking up a piece of trash on the street. What I think I'm trying to find here is a little inner-peace, to know I am doing something worthwhile and helping where I can. We can't all go join the United Nations and fight injustice with our bare hands, but I know, without a doubt, that we do what we can in our own special way.
Because what would this world be like if we didn't help each other out every once in a while?
Back to the Farm
Written 18-11-08
Within the last week I've developed a strange habit of yelling "SHEEP!" quite loudly and randomly. It could be that I've somehow managed to contract Tourettes Syndrome through my love for Tim Howard (Everton joke), or it may be because I'm in Wales and there are sheep everywhere!
I don't just mean you see them occasionally. I mean they are literally EVERYWHERE, and give me so much inner-happiness with their fluffy nature that I am quite comically ecstatic all the time. Now, I have never been a fan of livestock, but people seem to think that because I'm from Texas I know a thing or two about farming. I'd like to set the record straight and state, quite forcefully, that I have never felt the urge to milk a cow, get anywhere near a pig, and have never ridden a horse to school...I had a Honda Civic. But these Welsh sheep are hilarious! You can even give directions by them, such as "Go down the unmarked one way highway, turn left at the orange-spotted sheep to the farm with no address, but only the name Bodragolwyn." Ahh Wales, you have my heart, even if I have to put on eight layers of clothing to go near a window.
It has been so nice to get out of the Big City to the small island of Anglesey in the Northwest corner of Wales. My cough has gone away, I can breathe through my nose again, and everything here is ludicrously green. That is probably due to the fact that it rains 326 days a year, but man is it breath-taking. I was going to try not to use words like picturesque, quaint, and hobbit-like yet I have to because they just describe perfectly the lush, rolling hills, the 400 year old cottages people still live in, the mountains in the distance, and of course the sheep.
Not far away from the farm I'm staying on (Bodragolwyn) is the town Bodorgan, which boasts seven houses and a shop. Near there is a town famed for its name of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.
That's right. Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. The longest name of a place in the world.
If I remember my Welsh correctly it translates as "The church of St. Mary in the hollow of white hazel trees near the rapid whirlpool by St Tysilio's of the red cave," which makes sense, obviously. And people say the Welsh are crazy? I find them quite divine, even if I can't understand them.
I'm going on and on about the countryside, but the town of Bangor, about 20 minutes from where I'm staying, is actually quite a cool, modern place. My first night, to my amazement, I was taken salsa dancing and then to a "Wild West" night, which is always an amusing stereotype of how the rest of the world perceives the south. Bangor is also host to a large university with one of the best marine biology schools, which is what my friend Adrian is studying.
Adrian. We met in a hostel in Antigua, Guatemala and bonded over our mutual love for the song "This is how we do it" by Montel Jordan and our ability to make complete fools of ourselves in public. He invited me to come out and stay for a bit, and I've been having fun all week trying to revert back to a state of health long lost in the Maddness, also known as London.
The peace of the morning here is intense, curled up with a cup of tea and a book, I can watch the cows graze outside the window, watch the sun and rain come and go. Nice long walks with Adie's decrepidly-old dog Buno are great because we walk at the same pace, me having to waddle because I'm quite literally wearing three pairs of socks, tights, leggings, trousers, four shirts, a jumper, a waterproof jacket, boots, mittens, a scarf, a wooly hat, and looking oddly like the Stay Puft Marshmellow Man. Along with Adrian being an amazing tour guide, dance partner and chef, I have been completely spoiled with our common obsession for cheesy action films, which is a great excuse for watching all four Lethal Weapon movies in one day.
Screw productivity.
Within the last week I've developed a strange habit of yelling "SHEEP!" quite loudly and randomly. It could be that I've somehow managed to contract Tourettes Syndrome through my love for Tim Howard (Everton joke), or it may be because I'm in Wales and there are sheep everywhere!
I don't just mean you see them occasionally. I mean they are literally EVERYWHERE, and give me so much inner-happiness with their fluffy nature that I am quite comically ecstatic all the time. Now, I have never been a fan of livestock, but people seem to think that because I'm from Texas I know a thing or two about farming. I'd like to set the record straight and state, quite forcefully, that I have never felt the urge to milk a cow, get anywhere near a pig, and have never ridden a horse to school...I had a Honda Civic. But these Welsh sheep are hilarious! You can even give directions by them, such as "Go down the unmarked one way highway, turn left at the orange-spotted sheep to the farm with no address, but only the name Bodragolwyn." Ahh Wales, you have my heart, even if I have to put on eight layers of clothing to go near a window.
It has been so nice to get out of the Big City to the small island of Anglesey in the Northwest corner of Wales. My cough has gone away, I can breathe through my nose again, and everything here is ludicrously green. That is probably due to the fact that it rains 326 days a year, but man is it breath-taking. I was going to try not to use words like picturesque, quaint, and hobbit-like yet I have to because they just describe perfectly the lush, rolling hills, the 400 year old cottages people still live in, the mountains in the distance, and of course the sheep.
Not far away from the farm I'm staying on (Bodragolwyn) is the town Bodorgan, which boasts seven houses and a shop. Near there is a town famed for its name of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.
That's right. Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. The longest name of a place in the world.
If I remember my Welsh correctly it translates as "The church of St. Mary in the hollow of white hazel trees near the rapid whirlpool by St Tysilio's of the red cave," which makes sense, obviously. And people say the Welsh are crazy? I find them quite divine, even if I can't understand them.
I'm going on and on about the countryside, but the town of Bangor, about 20 minutes from where I'm staying, is actually quite a cool, modern place. My first night, to my amazement, I was taken salsa dancing and then to a "Wild West" night, which is always an amusing stereotype of how the rest of the world perceives the south. Bangor is also host to a large university with one of the best marine biology schools, which is what my friend Adrian is studying.
Adrian. We met in a hostel in Antigua, Guatemala and bonded over our mutual love for the song "This is how we do it" by Montel Jordan and our ability to make complete fools of ourselves in public. He invited me to come out and stay for a bit, and I've been having fun all week trying to revert back to a state of health long lost in the Maddness, also known as London.
The peace of the morning here is intense, curled up with a cup of tea and a book, I can watch the cows graze outside the window, watch the sun and rain come and go. Nice long walks with Adie's decrepidly-old dog Buno are great because we walk at the same pace, me having to waddle because I'm quite literally wearing three pairs of socks, tights, leggings, trousers, four shirts, a jumper, a waterproof jacket, boots, mittens, a scarf, a wooly hat, and looking oddly like the Stay Puft Marshmellow Man. Along with Adrian being an amazing tour guide, dance partner and chef, I have been completely spoiled with our common obsession for cheesy action films, which is a great excuse for watching all four Lethal Weapon movies in one day.
Screw productivity.
Toy Story
Written 4-11-08
I have found the most magical place in all of London.
I stumbled upon it while walking down Regent Street, a quite busy, posh street in Central London. One might wonder why this magical haven of mine is located next to all the pomp and snobbery London has to offer, and yet, there it is. I speak of course of the Hamleys Toy Store, a six level maze of pure joy in shiny packaging. I ventured in slowly, afraid that a man in an Official Uniform would stop me, look down condescendingly and say I was too old to be there. After a few seconds of holding my breath, I realized that there were no flashing red lights or intruder alarms and that I was in a safe place.
Remember when you were a kid and your Mom told you everything was going to be ok? In your heart you knew that to be true, simply because she had said so and you trusted her with the blind love and innosence of childhood. These days, with all of our "grown-up" education and knowledge, our realities and skepticisms, we find ourselves constantly looking over our shoulder. So when, in the huge city of London I find myself feeling that warm security of my childhood while standing in a toy store, a smile lights up my face and I feel the sudden urge to call my Mother.
A few days later, on my day off, I took my friend Shaun to see the toy store. I needed someone to share the memory with, someone to play with who would understand how alive I felt. We dragged each other around all 6 floors, me squealing wildly at the princess dresses on the third floor, he telling me about the model planes he used to build as a kid while wearing a Storm Trooper helmet on his head. I sat on the floor and played with a train set next to a three year old. We put on Hulk hands and had a boxing match. I could go on and on about the mischief we had but what I really want to get across is the sheer beauty and simplicity of the experience. Of playing in a toy store with no reguards to maturity or caring what people thought. Of letting loose my inner child and letting her soar.
After three hours of excitement and joy, we made a small purchase of a Firetruck Lego set and walked over to a pub to put it together. It was busy, so we sat on the floor near the fireplace and dug in. Yes, there were some who did not understand my incessant giggling or Shauns intense concentration on the wheels, but a lot of people walked over to talk to us about our Lego set, offer advice, or help us out. The person who sticks out most vividly in my mind was an elderly man sitting close to us, watching our progress. After a while he came and knelt down beside us to talk. He showed me a picture on his phone of a movie star's face, completely made our of Legos. He has taken his granddaughter to see it, and in talking about it, his eyes were lit up. He grinned a sly, mischevious grin, and in it I could see the youth he had held onto all his life.
The youth of the world are changing. A twelve year old ordered a latte in front of me yesterday in a coffee shop. I wanted to give him a hug and then take him to the zoo but instead I sat and thought about how fast kids these days want to grow up. How my young, beautiful cousins all wear make-up and want to be like Hannah Montana, who is in my opinion the spawn of evil. And how many thirteen year old girls wanted to buy the Playboy Bunny costume for Halloween? All of this frightens me, especially when I sat for three hours and made a samurai sword for Halloween out of a cardboard box, a roll of duct tape and some glitter.
The wisdom I have learned and want to impart is this:
1: If you can't laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?
2. Hold on to your youth for as long as humanly possible. Because once it's gone its hard to get back. We all need a little silliness to warm up this "Real World" we live in. So I ask you to ask yourself...
When was the last time you flew a kite?
I have found the most magical place in all of London.
I stumbled upon it while walking down Regent Street, a quite busy, posh street in Central London. One might wonder why this magical haven of mine is located next to all the pomp and snobbery London has to offer, and yet, there it is. I speak of course of the Hamleys Toy Store, a six level maze of pure joy in shiny packaging. I ventured in slowly, afraid that a man in an Official Uniform would stop me, look down condescendingly and say I was too old to be there. After a few seconds of holding my breath, I realized that there were no flashing red lights or intruder alarms and that I was in a safe place.
Remember when you were a kid and your Mom told you everything was going to be ok? In your heart you knew that to be true, simply because she had said so and you trusted her with the blind love and innosence of childhood. These days, with all of our "grown-up" education and knowledge, our realities and skepticisms, we find ourselves constantly looking over our shoulder. So when, in the huge city of London I find myself feeling that warm security of my childhood while standing in a toy store, a smile lights up my face and I feel the sudden urge to call my Mother.
A few days later, on my day off, I took my friend Shaun to see the toy store. I needed someone to share the memory with, someone to play with who would understand how alive I felt. We dragged each other around all 6 floors, me squealing wildly at the princess dresses on the third floor, he telling me about the model planes he used to build as a kid while wearing a Storm Trooper helmet on his head. I sat on the floor and played with a train set next to a three year old. We put on Hulk hands and had a boxing match. I could go on and on about the mischief we had but what I really want to get across is the sheer beauty and simplicity of the experience. Of playing in a toy store with no reguards to maturity or caring what people thought. Of letting loose my inner child and letting her soar.
After three hours of excitement and joy, we made a small purchase of a Firetruck Lego set and walked over to a pub to put it together. It was busy, so we sat on the floor near the fireplace and dug in. Yes, there were some who did not understand my incessant giggling or Shauns intense concentration on the wheels, but a lot of people walked over to talk to us about our Lego set, offer advice, or help us out. The person who sticks out most vividly in my mind was an elderly man sitting close to us, watching our progress. After a while he came and knelt down beside us to talk. He showed me a picture on his phone of a movie star's face, completely made our of Legos. He has taken his granddaughter to see it, and in talking about it, his eyes were lit up. He grinned a sly, mischevious grin, and in it I could see the youth he had held onto all his life.
The youth of the world are changing. A twelve year old ordered a latte in front of me yesterday in a coffee shop. I wanted to give him a hug and then take him to the zoo but instead I sat and thought about how fast kids these days want to grow up. How my young, beautiful cousins all wear make-up and want to be like Hannah Montana, who is in my opinion the spawn of evil. And how many thirteen year old girls wanted to buy the Playboy Bunny costume for Halloween? All of this frightens me, especially when I sat for three hours and made a samurai sword for Halloween out of a cardboard box, a roll of duct tape and some glitter.
The wisdom I have learned and want to impart is this:
1: If you can't laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?
2. Hold on to your youth for as long as humanly possible. Because once it's gone its hard to get back. We all need a little silliness to warm up this "Real World" we live in. So I ask you to ask yourself...
When was the last time you flew a kite?
The Peace Within the Glare
Written 21-10-08
I'm developing a glare.
The "Londoners Glare" I call it. The "Hey I'm walking here Taxi Man, and if you run me over you'll have to pay for my funeral" glare. It comes quickly, unexpectedly, when you're already in the middle of the road. Oh yes, I know he sees me. I don't quicken my pace. Head held high, I take my time to cross the street and at the last second, BAM! I flick my chin towards him, my eyes narrow and I speak calmly through them. I'm not afraid of you, Taxi Man. I dare you to try it.
Brakes screech.
I saunter on, confidently smiling. In this supposed pedestrian-friendly city it's almost impossible to cross a street without someone blaring their horn and politely asking you to step aside for them to pass, even when you have the right of way. People are in such a hurry to get where they're going that they don't take time to look around them.
Londoners hate me. On the sidewalk, or "footpath" as they say here, nothing drives a Londoner crazy like some carefree-looking individual walking at half-pace watching the clouds or noticing the architecture of the buildings without any real direction or time constraint. I very frequently get trampled by people wearing very expensive suits. These people who don't take time to look around often miss out on the wonders London has to offer, so I try to do them a favor and slow them down when I can, which I'm sure they appreciate.
When you slow down, crazy things can happen. Take for example, yesterday. It's my day off and Natalie and I have decided to go out for a stroll. We stop at a crossroad and are waiting for the little green man to tell us it's almost safe to cross the road when I look up and there's a man pointing at me. A bus blows by and my line of sight is broken for a second. I look again. The man in a suit and green tie points and screams, "Austin!"
Now, again and again, the Universe has communicated to me that the World is actually quite a small place. I am not one to question the power of nature, nor my place or my destiny. But when, in a city of 18 million people, my friend Andy Jones screams at me at a random street corner in central London, I listen. I have not seen Andy, a friend and regular at Fado Irish Pub in Austin, Texas, in months. Nor did I know he was in London. So either by a freakish coincidence or my personal belief that everything happens for a reason that here I meet up again with my friend.
After exchanging phone numbers and making plans to meet up, I walk away in stunned silence. Thinking back to the earlier morning, my mind wanders. What if I had stayed in that coffee shop, instead of getting my soy latte to-go? Would we still have met up, if it was destined to be so? Or would have life moved on, and our paths would never have crossed. So many things happen in life that I cannot explain, nor would want to if I could. These words like coincidence, fate, destiny, chance; they are only used in effort to describe the indescribable. And so I find myself at a loss, once again awed by the power that surrounds us, yet cannot touch or taste, smell or hear. We can only feel it down to our very core. There, in the center of our being, is where we find our peace.
Today was a beautiful day. The last of the sun has been shining and I feel light and free. From now on I will let the Universe guide me. I will remain open to the signs sent to me. In following my path, I hope I will cross yours soon. And I hope you will follow your heart, let it be your guide, so we can meet again. At peace
I'm developing a glare.
The "Londoners Glare" I call it. The "Hey I'm walking here Taxi Man, and if you run me over you'll have to pay for my funeral" glare. It comes quickly, unexpectedly, when you're already in the middle of the road. Oh yes, I know he sees me. I don't quicken my pace. Head held high, I take my time to cross the street and at the last second, BAM! I flick my chin towards him, my eyes narrow and I speak calmly through them. I'm not afraid of you, Taxi Man. I dare you to try it.
Brakes screech.
I saunter on, confidently smiling. In this supposed pedestrian-friendly city it's almost impossible to cross a street without someone blaring their horn and politely asking you to step aside for them to pass, even when you have the right of way. People are in such a hurry to get where they're going that they don't take time to look around them.
Londoners hate me. On the sidewalk, or "footpath" as they say here, nothing drives a Londoner crazy like some carefree-looking individual walking at half-pace watching the clouds or noticing the architecture of the buildings without any real direction or time constraint. I very frequently get trampled by people wearing very expensive suits. These people who don't take time to look around often miss out on the wonders London has to offer, so I try to do them a favor and slow them down when I can, which I'm sure they appreciate.
When you slow down, crazy things can happen. Take for example, yesterday. It's my day off and Natalie and I have decided to go out for a stroll. We stop at a crossroad and are waiting for the little green man to tell us it's almost safe to cross the road when I look up and there's a man pointing at me. A bus blows by and my line of sight is broken for a second. I look again. The man in a suit and green tie points and screams, "Austin!"
Now, again and again, the Universe has communicated to me that the World is actually quite a small place. I am not one to question the power of nature, nor my place or my destiny. But when, in a city of 18 million people, my friend Andy Jones screams at me at a random street corner in central London, I listen. I have not seen Andy, a friend and regular at Fado Irish Pub in Austin, Texas, in months. Nor did I know he was in London. So either by a freakish coincidence or my personal belief that everything happens for a reason that here I meet up again with my friend.
After exchanging phone numbers and making plans to meet up, I walk away in stunned silence. Thinking back to the earlier morning, my mind wanders. What if I had stayed in that coffee shop, instead of getting my soy latte to-go? Would we still have met up, if it was destined to be so? Or would have life moved on, and our paths would never have crossed. So many things happen in life that I cannot explain, nor would want to if I could. These words like coincidence, fate, destiny, chance; they are only used in effort to describe the indescribable. And so I find myself at a loss, once again awed by the power that surrounds us, yet cannot touch or taste, smell or hear. We can only feel it down to our very core. There, in the center of our being, is where we find our peace.
Today was a beautiful day. The last of the sun has been shining and I feel light and free. From now on I will let the Universe guide me. I will remain open to the signs sent to me. In following my path, I hope I will cross yours soon. And I hope you will follow your heart, let it be your guide, so we can meet again. At peace
Come On You Blues!
Written 1-10-08
Last week a meeting of epic proportions occured in the Skies.
The Gods converged.
Conversed.
Blessed.
A single Diety stepped forth.
Pointed his mighty finger towards the Earth.
With a booming voice, he said, "She will go to Goodison Park."
And she that was blessed was me.
The message from the Heavens came to me not in the form of a burning bush or angelic light, but a text message from my friend Alex. It read, "You are the luckiest girl alive. We have tickets to the Merseyside Derby in Liverpool next Saturday!"
The Merseyside Derby, a football game played every year between Everton FC and Liverpool FC, is one of the most important games of the year for fans who hail from Liverpool, or support one of the teams in the city. This being my first Premiere League game, and also being against our biggest rivals, my trip to Goodison Park, Everton's field, is comparable to a trip to Mecca.
So my friends and I drove up from London last Friday and spent the weekend in the glorious city of Liverpool. We got in late and were up early for the match, my body buzzing with enegry and delight. Getting down to the field early, I set off with Alex, Rob and Mitch to grab a pre-game Guinness, partly for tradition, partly to calm all our nerves. I was amazed to be surrounded by so many Everton shirts, as I've never experienced that before. Usually I get a lot of inquisitive or amused looks when I wear my blue and white jersey about and spend a lot of time staunchly defending Everton honor. That Saturday afternoon I smiled like it was going out of fashion.
Into the stadium and the game began. I was sitting in the same building with David Moyes, Tim Howard, Mikel Arteta, Tim Cahill, Joleon Lescott, Phil Jagielka and countless others I have watched and supported religiously for three years. It was Heaven. And Hell. An hour and a half of stressed out excitement of what will happen next. I have small bruises circling my knees because I was gripping them too hard with my fingers. I screamed words I did not know existed in my vocabulary. I befriended a six year old sitting next to me who was yelling cuss words I didn't know existed. I comforted Alex, who was sitting on my other side and went back and forth between moods of depression and rage. And in the end, we lost.
Losing is something Everton fans are used to. People often ask me why I support them, why I don't pick a better team. But what these people don't understand is that it wasn't my choice, I was born an Everton fan, just like they were born to support their team. There's a mile of difference between the football I know in England and the sports I know in America. Here football isn't a game, it's a way of life. You live and die by your team, no matter how many times they might falter. Once your team has picked you, you cannot change. I am an Everton fan because when we actually win something, it's the most beautiful feeling in the world. Because it calms me down when David Moyes, the coach and the scariest guy in the world, looks like he might die of a stress-induced stroke and the vein in his forehead pops out because he's yelling so much for my team. Because I sat there in Goodison park with thousands of other Everton fans, and even after we lost to out biggest rival, there wasn't a single person who took off their jersey or denounced the team for losing. Their loyalty was unwaivering and always will be, and I find that admirable. That is why I am an Everton fan.
Thank you Alex Lowe for teaching me about football and introducing me to Everton.
I hope you are proud of me.
Nil Satis Nisi Optimum
Last week a meeting of epic proportions occured in the Skies.
The Gods converged.
Conversed.
Blessed.
A single Diety stepped forth.
Pointed his mighty finger towards the Earth.
With a booming voice, he said, "She will go to Goodison Park."
And she that was blessed was me.
The message from the Heavens came to me not in the form of a burning bush or angelic light, but a text message from my friend Alex. It read, "You are the luckiest girl alive. We have tickets to the Merseyside Derby in Liverpool next Saturday!"
The Merseyside Derby, a football game played every year between Everton FC and Liverpool FC, is one of the most important games of the year for fans who hail from Liverpool, or support one of the teams in the city. This being my first Premiere League game, and also being against our biggest rivals, my trip to Goodison Park, Everton's field, is comparable to a trip to Mecca.
So my friends and I drove up from London last Friday and spent the weekend in the glorious city of Liverpool. We got in late and were up early for the match, my body buzzing with enegry and delight. Getting down to the field early, I set off with Alex, Rob and Mitch to grab a pre-game Guinness, partly for tradition, partly to calm all our nerves. I was amazed to be surrounded by so many Everton shirts, as I've never experienced that before. Usually I get a lot of inquisitive or amused looks when I wear my blue and white jersey about and spend a lot of time staunchly defending Everton honor. That Saturday afternoon I smiled like it was going out of fashion.
Into the stadium and the game began. I was sitting in the same building with David Moyes, Tim Howard, Mikel Arteta, Tim Cahill, Joleon Lescott, Phil Jagielka and countless others I have watched and supported religiously for three years. It was Heaven. And Hell. An hour and a half of stressed out excitement of what will happen next. I have small bruises circling my knees because I was gripping them too hard with my fingers. I screamed words I did not know existed in my vocabulary. I befriended a six year old sitting next to me who was yelling cuss words I didn't know existed. I comforted Alex, who was sitting on my other side and went back and forth between moods of depression and rage. And in the end, we lost.
Losing is something Everton fans are used to. People often ask me why I support them, why I don't pick a better team. But what these people don't understand is that it wasn't my choice, I was born an Everton fan, just like they were born to support their team. There's a mile of difference between the football I know in England and the sports I know in America. Here football isn't a game, it's a way of life. You live and die by your team, no matter how many times they might falter. Once your team has picked you, you cannot change. I am an Everton fan because when we actually win something, it's the most beautiful feeling in the world. Because it calms me down when David Moyes, the coach and the scariest guy in the world, looks like he might die of a stress-induced stroke and the vein in his forehead pops out because he's yelling so much for my team. Because I sat there in Goodison park with thousands of other Everton fans, and even after we lost to out biggest rival, there wasn't a single person who took off their jersey or denounced the team for losing. Their loyalty was unwaivering and always will be, and I find that admirable. That is why I am an Everton fan.
Thank you Alex Lowe for teaching me about football and introducing me to Everton.
I hope you are proud of me.
Nil Satis Nisi Optimum
Enter the Texan
Written 9-9-08
I wanted to email everyone before the world ended.
I don't know if anyone's been reading the news, but apparently the Swiss have built this 17 mile-long underground machine that will simulate the Big Bang. And they want to turn it on tomorrow. England, being the tabloid capitol of the world, is filled with doomsday prophecies of it creating a black hole and sucking up the world slowly from the Swiss-France border. That means I'm screwed and the Kiwis will be the last to survive.
Personally I agree with the Mayans that the world will end December 23rd, 2012, and on that day I'll be in Guatemala with them. Until then, I won't hold my breath to much. This insane tabloid media is one of the many things I love in England, among other quirks.
For example, the tube, the Underground. I was on it the other day, and it was packed so full you could barely breathe, and this guy decided that he can make it on, even though there's another right behind this one. Inevitably half of his body gets smashed in the closing doors. The conductor, on seeing this through all the cameras littered around London, opens the doors and yells at him over the intercom, then closes the doors again and smashes him again! So 1. this man was in such a hurry that he couldn't wait 30 seconds, thus preventing the accident. 2. the conductor smashed the guy twice on purpose probably just because he was having a bad day. 3. no one did anything. i was frozen in fear in my seat, but people were ignoring the incident, as usual. No one looks at each other in the tube. No one touches each other in the tube. I had a dance party with my friend Adrian in the tube once, simply to make an idiot of myself in public and thrown them off, but no, I was surprised. No one flinched or gave away any indication that something was off in their stuffy, uncomfortable world. I was amazed.
So unable to spread cheer in the tube, I have turned to my pub. Oh yes, I got a job in a pub in Camden called the Oxford Arms, and yes, I live upstairs. North London is a fun place, and Camden is very much like Austin. There's a giant market, lots of crazy clothing shops and tattoo parlors...you see where I'm going with this. I really like my pub but it's a little strange being back. I'm trying to re-learn the English-Irish-Scottish venacular which is always challenging, while I have been forced to say "y'all" at least 20 times. I was also asked yesterday if my father is Clint Eastwood.
The only response I could muster was "No, but that's my horse's name."
I wanted to email everyone before the world ended.
I don't know if anyone's been reading the news, but apparently the Swiss have built this 17 mile-long underground machine that will simulate the Big Bang. And they want to turn it on tomorrow. England, being the tabloid capitol of the world, is filled with doomsday prophecies of it creating a black hole and sucking up the world slowly from the Swiss-France border. That means I'm screwed and the Kiwis will be the last to survive.
Personally I agree with the Mayans that the world will end December 23rd, 2012, and on that day I'll be in Guatemala with them. Until then, I won't hold my breath to much. This insane tabloid media is one of the many things I love in England, among other quirks.
For example, the tube, the Underground. I was on it the other day, and it was packed so full you could barely breathe, and this guy decided that he can make it on, even though there's another right behind this one. Inevitably half of his body gets smashed in the closing doors. The conductor, on seeing this through all the cameras littered around London, opens the doors and yells at him over the intercom, then closes the doors again and smashes him again! So 1. this man was in such a hurry that he couldn't wait 30 seconds, thus preventing the accident. 2. the conductor smashed the guy twice on purpose probably just because he was having a bad day. 3. no one did anything. i was frozen in fear in my seat, but people were ignoring the incident, as usual. No one looks at each other in the tube. No one touches each other in the tube. I had a dance party with my friend Adrian in the tube once, simply to make an idiot of myself in public and thrown them off, but no, I was surprised. No one flinched or gave away any indication that something was off in their stuffy, uncomfortable world. I was amazed.
So unable to spread cheer in the tube, I have turned to my pub. Oh yes, I got a job in a pub in Camden called the Oxford Arms, and yes, I live upstairs. North London is a fun place, and Camden is very much like Austin. There's a giant market, lots of crazy clothing shops and tattoo parlors...you see where I'm going with this. I really like my pub but it's a little strange being back. I'm trying to re-learn the English-Irish-Scottish venacular which is always challenging, while I have been forced to say "y'all" at least 20 times. I was also asked yesterday if my father is Clint Eastwood.
The only response I could muster was "No, but that's my horse's name."
Buddha Bless
Written 10-8-08
I don't know what the problem is, but for the last three days people have been nagging me about Jesus. Literally once a day for the past three days someone has tried to convert me to Christianity. Apparently I have a big sticker on my forehead that says SAVE ME JESUS! It's beginning to piss me off.
Maybe it's the dreadlocks. Maybe it's the little Buddha hanging from my neck, or the Tao Te Ching I just started reading. Or maybe, just maybe, I was simply being happy as myself and someone wanted to ruin my day. Now I have lots of friends who are Christians, and hey, I think Jesus was a pretty cool dude...he walked through the desert in flip flops spreading peace, the ultimate hippie. But you don't see Muslims or Buddhists or Jews wielding pictures of dead babies in front of abortion clinics or thumping their religious texts at people in the street, so I'm going to pick on the Christians.
Now I have my respect for religion. I'm happy that people can find something to believe in, something to push them forward and keep them motivated. The problem is, and we've all experienced this, is when they try to push that religion on me, because I don't want to hear it. Now when some old lady I don't know from Odessa, Texas tells me, and this is a direct quote, that I'm too pretty to go to Hell, and if I accept Jesus into my heart, we can see each other in Heaven...well, that is the absolute last place I want to be.
So here I am, trying to be respectful not only because she is a human being, but also because I'm at work and will get fired if I explode on her Jesus-Freak ass. Instead I smile calmly, mumble something about how Heaven is what you make it, and wander off to the back where I can vent my frustrations to the poor and unsuspecting kitchen staff. Lets take a look at what this small, insignificant conversation has accomplished:
1. I hate this woman, and I don't even know her.
2. She has upset and offended me, which is pretty difficult to manage
3. I now love Jesus even less than I did two minutes ago
4. She is setting a bad example and giving a bad name to good Christians
I ask the universe for an answer to my question: What made this woman believe, to the absolute core of her soul, that I am wrong and she is right? That there was only her religion, yet she was not educated enough to know about the other religions very prevalent in this world? That she was above rude comments towards strangers whilst breaking the rules of the organized religion she beholds so righteously? How dare she...how dare anyone?
An excerpt from Letters From The Earth, by Mark Twain:
"For there is nothing about a man that is not strange to an immortal. For instance, take this sample: he has imagined a heaven like himself: strange, interesting, astonishing, grotesque. I give you my word, there is not a single feature in it he actually values. It consists- utterly and entirely- of diversions which he cares next to nothing about, here in this earth, yet is quite sure he will like in heaven. Isn't it curious? You must not think I am exaggerating, for it is not so. I will give you details.
Most men do not sing, most men cannot sing, most men will not stay where others are singing if it be continued more than two hours, yet they will all be singing in their heaven.
Only about two men out of a hundred can play a musical instrument, and not four in a hundred have any wish to learn how, yet they all play harps in their heaven.
Most men pray, not many of them like to do it. A few pray long, the others make a short cut. All nations look down upon all other nations. All nations dislike all other nations. I ask you to note all these particulars."
I write this Sunday night. Monday, August 11th is my 23rd birthday. All I want for my birthday is a little peace. Peace of mind to know that my beliefs are for me, that your beliefs are for you, and that someday we all might be able to coexist together in this beautiful world without all the violence and hatred. To have peace of mind knowing that I lead a good life, that I am a good person and that I will be just fine living well with my own morals and values.
"When I do good, I feel good.
When I do bad, I feel bad.
And that is my religion."
-Abraham Lincoln
Peace.
I don't know what the problem is, but for the last three days people have been nagging me about Jesus. Literally once a day for the past three days someone has tried to convert me to Christianity. Apparently I have a big sticker on my forehead that says SAVE ME JESUS! It's beginning to piss me off.
Maybe it's the dreadlocks. Maybe it's the little Buddha hanging from my neck, or the Tao Te Ching I just started reading. Or maybe, just maybe, I was simply being happy as myself and someone wanted to ruin my day. Now I have lots of friends who are Christians, and hey, I think Jesus was a pretty cool dude...he walked through the desert in flip flops spreading peace, the ultimate hippie. But you don't see Muslims or Buddhists or Jews wielding pictures of dead babies in front of abortion clinics or thumping their religious texts at people in the street, so I'm going to pick on the Christians.
Now I have my respect for religion. I'm happy that people can find something to believe in, something to push them forward and keep them motivated. The problem is, and we've all experienced this, is when they try to push that religion on me, because I don't want to hear it. Now when some old lady I don't know from Odessa, Texas tells me, and this is a direct quote, that I'm too pretty to go to Hell, and if I accept Jesus into my heart, we can see each other in Heaven...well, that is the absolute last place I want to be.
So here I am, trying to be respectful not only because she is a human being, but also because I'm at work and will get fired if I explode on her Jesus-Freak ass. Instead I smile calmly, mumble something about how Heaven is what you make it, and wander off to the back where I can vent my frustrations to the poor and unsuspecting kitchen staff. Lets take a look at what this small, insignificant conversation has accomplished:
1. I hate this woman, and I don't even know her.
2. She has upset and offended me, which is pretty difficult to manage
3. I now love Jesus even less than I did two minutes ago
4. She is setting a bad example and giving a bad name to good Christians
I ask the universe for an answer to my question: What made this woman believe, to the absolute core of her soul, that I am wrong and she is right? That there was only her religion, yet she was not educated enough to know about the other religions very prevalent in this world? That she was above rude comments towards strangers whilst breaking the rules of the organized religion she beholds so righteously? How dare she...how dare anyone?
An excerpt from Letters From The Earth, by Mark Twain:
"For there is nothing about a man that is not strange to an immortal. For instance, take this sample: he has imagined a heaven like himself: strange, interesting, astonishing, grotesque. I give you my word, there is not a single feature in it he actually values. It consists- utterly and entirely- of diversions which he cares next to nothing about, here in this earth, yet is quite sure he will like in heaven. Isn't it curious? You must not think I am exaggerating, for it is not so. I will give you details.
Most men do not sing, most men cannot sing, most men will not stay where others are singing if it be continued more than two hours, yet they will all be singing in their heaven.
Only about two men out of a hundred can play a musical instrument, and not four in a hundred have any wish to learn how, yet they all play harps in their heaven.
Most men pray, not many of them like to do it. A few pray long, the others make a short cut. All nations look down upon all other nations. All nations dislike all other nations. I ask you to note all these particulars."
I write this Sunday night. Monday, August 11th is my 23rd birthday. All I want for my birthday is a little peace. Peace of mind to know that my beliefs are for me, that your beliefs are for you, and that someday we all might be able to coexist together in this beautiful world without all the violence and hatred. To have peace of mind knowing that I lead a good life, that I am a good person and that I will be just fine living well with my own morals and values.
"When I do good, I feel good.
When I do bad, I feel bad.
And that is my religion."
-Abraham Lincoln
Peace.
Keep Austin Weird
Written 18-7-08
This letter is dedicated to the Celtic Cowboys, a Gaelic football team in Austin, Texas, who have provided me with countless hours of entertainment and unwavering friendship. Thank you.
I love Austin.
I adore Austin.
As I was sitting under my favorite tree, drinking coffee at my favorite coffee shop, I realized that my love for this beautiful city could be expressed in one solitary word, one sweeping exclamation of what I felt in the recesses of my heart: Leslie.
Leslie. Every Austinite knows about Leslie, or has met Leslie, or has some amazing funny story about him. Leslie is Austin's own famous crazed homeless transvestite. He strolls the streets in pink leather thongs, fishnet tights, high heels and a long white beard, greeting tourists, posing for pictures and generally causing shock and laughter with every step he takes. Today he was wearing a University of Texas burnt orange longhorns top tied under his voluptuous fake breasts and the shortest miniskirt I have ever seen.
He walked over to me today whilst I was reading under my tree to talk about Mark Twain (I'm reading Letters from the Earth-it's fantastic). I was at that moment struggling with a word, nepotism, which usually happens when I read Twain. Together we ventured forth to find a dictionary and he only broke the conversation once to answer his Bluetooth. Although I have talked to Leslie many times, this morning was the catalyst I needed to be able to explain Austin at it's finest.
In 2000 Leslie ran for mayor and actually managed to get 15% of the votes for the election. Considering he's a homeless cross-dresser who showed up at the debates in a leopard print thong, that's pretty damn good. In his actions we can see the beauty of Austin, in the open minds of the community, in the official city slogan "Keep Austin Weird."
Austin is a safe haven for all the beautiful individuals this world holds. And it keeps us here with unheard-of festivities...
Austin is home to the month-long South by Southwest International Music, Art, and Film Fest, the Austin City Limits Music Festival, the Bob Marley Reggae Festival where you can sit next to your bong in a public park and no one bothers you. Let's not forget Eeyore's Birthday, a celebration of that lovable, pessimistic character from Winnie the Pooh, through a massive drum circle, costume contests, and beer from all the local breweries. Pecan Street Festival...Blues on the Green...First Thursday...Barton Springs...the list goes on...
But what about a simple Saturday afternoon when you can walk to a park and see a mix of Irish, American, and Dutch friends play Gaelic Rules football against an Aussie Rules football team, sweating under the Texas sunshine to practice for tournaments in Chicago and Colorado...where else but Austin, Texas could you find such madness?
Let's not forget the University of Texas, one of the biggest universities in the world, with over 80,000 students enrolled last year. Along with UT, we also have St. Edwards University, Concordia, Huston-Tillotson, Austin Community College, and Texas State University just down the road. Imagine the night-life!
For me, Austin has all the diversity and strength of a big city while maintaining a small community feel and atmosphere. The only problem is that it resides in the dead center middle of Texas, one of the most closed-minded, polluted hell holes I have ever been to. Yet in our sanctuary, our oasis, we work hard everyday to Keep Austin Weird.
I am so blessed to be from such an amazing place. I hope that every one of you will be able to experience something like it in your lifetime.
This letter is dedicated to the Celtic Cowboys, a Gaelic football team in Austin, Texas, who have provided me with countless hours of entertainment and unwavering friendship. Thank you.
I love Austin.
I adore Austin.
As I was sitting under my favorite tree, drinking coffee at my favorite coffee shop, I realized that my love for this beautiful city could be expressed in one solitary word, one sweeping exclamation of what I felt in the recesses of my heart: Leslie.
Leslie. Every Austinite knows about Leslie, or has met Leslie, or has some amazing funny story about him. Leslie is Austin's own famous crazed homeless transvestite. He strolls the streets in pink leather thongs, fishnet tights, high heels and a long white beard, greeting tourists, posing for pictures and generally causing shock and laughter with every step he takes. Today he was wearing a University of Texas burnt orange longhorns top tied under his voluptuous fake breasts and the shortest miniskirt I have ever seen.
He walked over to me today whilst I was reading under my tree to talk about Mark Twain (I'm reading Letters from the Earth-it's fantastic). I was at that moment struggling with a word, nepotism, which usually happens when I read Twain. Together we ventured forth to find a dictionary and he only broke the conversation once to answer his Bluetooth. Although I have talked to Leslie many times, this morning was the catalyst I needed to be able to explain Austin at it's finest.
In 2000 Leslie ran for mayor and actually managed to get 15% of the votes for the election. Considering he's a homeless cross-dresser who showed up at the debates in a leopard print thong, that's pretty damn good. In his actions we can see the beauty of Austin, in the open minds of the community, in the official city slogan "Keep Austin Weird."
Austin is a safe haven for all the beautiful individuals this world holds. And it keeps us here with unheard-of festivities...
Austin is home to the month-long South by Southwest International Music, Art, and Film Fest, the Austin City Limits Music Festival, the Bob Marley Reggae Festival where you can sit next to your bong in a public park and no one bothers you. Let's not forget Eeyore's Birthday, a celebration of that lovable, pessimistic character from Winnie the Pooh, through a massive drum circle, costume contests, and beer from all the local breweries. Pecan Street Festival...Blues on the Green...First Thursday...Barton Springs...the list goes on...
But what about a simple Saturday afternoon when you can walk to a park and see a mix of Irish, American, and Dutch friends play Gaelic Rules football against an Aussie Rules football team, sweating under the Texas sunshine to practice for tournaments in Chicago and Colorado...where else but Austin, Texas could you find such madness?
Let's not forget the University of Texas, one of the biggest universities in the world, with over 80,000 students enrolled last year. Along with UT, we also have St. Edwards University, Concordia, Huston-Tillotson, Austin Community College, and Texas State University just down the road. Imagine the night-life!
For me, Austin has all the diversity and strength of a big city while maintaining a small community feel and atmosphere. The only problem is that it resides in the dead center middle of Texas, one of the most closed-minded, polluted hell holes I have ever been to. Yet in our sanctuary, our oasis, we work hard everyday to Keep Austin Weird.
I am so blessed to be from such an amazing place. I hope that every one of you will be able to experience something like it in your lifetime.
The Truth Shall Set Us Free
Written 21-5-08
There is something terribly wrong with the world.
It revealed itself to me, not in a dream or vision, but wrapped in silver. If you must know, technically it came from a silver colored package labeled "American Airlines Premium Snack Mix."
I thought I was safe. It's professional packaging, the American Airlines Corporation logo ensuring the snack to be of "Premium" quality. Through the comfort of conformity I felt the peace of knowing what was to come. At first I struggled to open it, as if it didn't want me to discover the truth behind the shiny plastic exterior. After great effort, tugging and swearing, it yielded to the power of my stubbornness, not to mention hunger. Little did I know what lay ahead.
The package boasted "a blend of pretzels, honey roasted sesame sticks and cheddar corn bites." On examining the contents I found fourteen pretzels, three honey roasted sesame sticks, and zero cheddar corn bites. What false advertising! What abomination of truth! With only these three options listed and only two available, I turned to the ingredients list for a clue. To my astonishment I was to find fifty-seven different listed ingredients and no answers, so my gaze shifted back to the contents of my tray-table. Something I hadn't noticed before catches my eye. My jaw drops.
How extraordinary. The perfect exercise of social hierarchy. Using salt, the arch-nemesis of all sweet-flavored treats, the pretzels had taken over. Their hard, stale exterior, their burnt demeanor could not hide the caste system which they abandonned their morals to. Were they jealous of the sesame sticks' sweet nature? Or skin color? Or difference in appearance? Or were they simply made to believe that they, the Mighty Pretzels, were born above the rest, ordained by a higher power, or in this case the King Nut Companies and Kanan Enterprises?
I speak of the injustice and demolition of culture of the honey roasted tribe, but where are the cheddar corn bites? Were they natural with a cheesy zest, as the name suggests? We will never know as it seems every crumb of their existence has been wiped off the side of the bag, now only an echo of the past. Perhaps Kanan Enterprises can team up with Hallmark and have a holiday dedicated to the mixing of pretzel and corn bite traditions, before mass-murdering them and taking their bag space!
Faced with injustice, what would you do? The American Airlines Corporation Superpower chooses to ignore it in the greedy pursuit of saving money. We are taught to not forget the past, or we will be doomed to repeat it. I call out to all of you: Women, Men, Pretzels, and Kings, and ask you to stand for what you know in your heart is right. To not take for granted the difference in tastes and cultures we have been blessed with in this Life. I beg you, put down the guns and the rock salt, the invisible social constraints, and embrace the differences that make the world unique.
I could have been hallucinating. At the time I was on my fourth airplane of the day. And yet, the prophet Chex Mix once said, "Love thy Neighbor." My eyes are open, I see the light, the truth, and it has set me free. How pure and simple it all is.
There is something terribly wrong with the world.
It revealed itself to me, not in a dream or vision, but wrapped in silver. If you must know, technically it came from a silver colored package labeled "American Airlines Premium Snack Mix."
I thought I was safe. It's professional packaging, the American Airlines Corporation logo ensuring the snack to be of "Premium" quality. Through the comfort of conformity I felt the peace of knowing what was to come. At first I struggled to open it, as if it didn't want me to discover the truth behind the shiny plastic exterior. After great effort, tugging and swearing, it yielded to the power of my stubbornness, not to mention hunger. Little did I know what lay ahead.
The package boasted "a blend of pretzels, honey roasted sesame sticks and cheddar corn bites." On examining the contents I found fourteen pretzels, three honey roasted sesame sticks, and zero cheddar corn bites. What false advertising! What abomination of truth! With only these three options listed and only two available, I turned to the ingredients list for a clue. To my astonishment I was to find fifty-seven different listed ingredients and no answers, so my gaze shifted back to the contents of my tray-table. Something I hadn't noticed before catches my eye. My jaw drops.
How extraordinary. The perfect exercise of social hierarchy. Using salt, the arch-nemesis of all sweet-flavored treats, the pretzels had taken over. Their hard, stale exterior, their burnt demeanor could not hide the caste system which they abandonned their morals to. Were they jealous of the sesame sticks' sweet nature? Or skin color? Or difference in appearance? Or were they simply made to believe that they, the Mighty Pretzels, were born above the rest, ordained by a higher power, or in this case the King Nut Companies and Kanan Enterprises?
I speak of the injustice and demolition of culture of the honey roasted tribe, but where are the cheddar corn bites? Were they natural with a cheesy zest, as the name suggests? We will never know as it seems every crumb of their existence has been wiped off the side of the bag, now only an echo of the past. Perhaps Kanan Enterprises can team up with Hallmark and have a holiday dedicated to the mixing of pretzel and corn bite traditions, before mass-murdering them and taking their bag space!
Faced with injustice, what would you do? The American Airlines Corporation Superpower chooses to ignore it in the greedy pursuit of saving money. We are taught to not forget the past, or we will be doomed to repeat it. I call out to all of you: Women, Men, Pretzels, and Kings, and ask you to stand for what you know in your heart is right. To not take for granted the difference in tastes and cultures we have been blessed with in this Life. I beg you, put down the guns and the rock salt, the invisible social constraints, and embrace the differences that make the world unique.
I could have been hallucinating. At the time I was on my fourth airplane of the day. And yet, the prophet Chex Mix once said, "Love thy Neighbor." My eyes are open, I see the light, the truth, and it has set me free. How pure and simple it all is.
A Pirates Life for Me!
Written 14-5-08
Today I got promoted to First Deckhand Helper Monkey, which is a big promotion on the boat, so life is good, except for the mound of dishes I need to do.
Boat life has been really interesting. Small periods of hard work while sailing coupled with hours of free time, in which I’m usually reading or exploring. Fresh water and electricity are coveted, and in order to get to something, you have to move eight other things. It’s also a weird feeling that since I’m staying with my dad and stepmom I have three meals a day cooked for me, which is very new because I usually don’t eat that much, and when I do it’s been beans and rice for the last six months. This also explains the dish duty, since I can’t cook.
So let me tell you a little bit about the islands, which are surprisingly very different. We left St. Lucia last week with the moon smiling down on us, as only half-moons can. St. Lucia is definitely touristy and the locals have learned to cater to the “yachties”, people who live on boats. Once a guy paddled up to our boat standing on a surfboard selling coconuts and mangos he had just picked from the jungle, while listening to his iPod. The people there love anything having to do with New York on their clothing, but when asked, actually don’t like New York at all. As per usual, my dreadlocks seem to attract to the local crowd of Rastas, but again, on asking questions about the Rastafarian religion, they only seem to be aware of the part they can smoke. One old Rasta man stopped me in the street for some light conversation, and on discussing my dreads he turned to my father to ask his thoughts on his daughter’s hairstyle. My father’s reply was simply to shrug his shoulders and calmly say, “It’s only hair.” The old man, stunned into silence by the sacrilegious words of my father, completely forgot to peddle what he was peddling in the first place and walked off in a daze.
On top of all this fun, I also get to spend time with my good friend Richie, whom I met over two years ago while working at the Selkirk Pub in South London. Richie is as crazy as they come, an excellent friend, and a good pub crawl guide to St. Lucia. He has also turned me on to my next career opportunity…
The Tobago Goat Racing Championship!
The Wisdom that is Richie speaks: “The trick is that you have to run alongside your goat, so you either need to be able to keep up with your goat, or be strong enough to pull it along after you.” I, being an expert on goats after sitting near one on a bus in Guatemala, have decided to pursue this new career headfirst and see where it takes me. I have no doubts that I will be towards the back, with my goat dragging me.
On my way to the races, we stopped next in Martinique, which is in the complete opposite direction of Tobago. The sail north took about five hours, with not so friendly winds coming out of the east. It was, however, quite an experience that cannot go without mention. An hour into the sail, a dolphin jumps out of the water next to us. I mean fully out of the water. Then another. And another. Perhaps there were twenty dolphins, perhaps more. They came past us in waves, of all sizes and lengths, playing tag with our boat. I was mesmerized and afraid to blink. A brief thought about going down to get my camera flickered through my mind, but I wouldn’t have traded one minute of watching the dolphins for anything this world has to offer, so there are only pictures imprinted in my memory. They were a dove gray with white speckles on their sides, and a surprisingly pink underbelly. The power in which they moved so effortlessly through the vast ocean, and their choosing us to play with, was truly a miracle. Barely paying attention to the threat of falling off the boat in attempting to watch them, I was straddled around a wench and holding onto the starboard jib line (to use some nautical terminology), in complete awe. They skipped and jumped in unison, jumped clear out of the water at the bow of the boat, inches before it went over them, and followed us for a good twenty minutes. As they bade their final farewells, we all sat, glassy-eyed and dumbstruck, thinking about what we had been privileged to witness, and I will remember my dolphin friends until the end of my days.
We arrive in Fort du France, to check in and look around. Martinique is a French state, and as I speak zero French, I picked up a phrasebook and learned a few things. By far, my favorite phrase is “Je suis le gran fromage,” which, gloriously, means “I am the big cheese.” The phrase I ended up using the most was…
“Je parle seulement un peu francais. Parlez-vous anglais?
No?
Hablas espanol?
No?
Uhhh…Parla italiano?
No?
Well shit…”
I ended up loving Martinique, despite the frustrating language barrier. It was a lot like France with a Caribbean twang. All the little towns were architecturally beautiful, painted in all the bright colors of the islands. The boulangerie was packed every morning with people enjoying the smell of fresh baguettes, croissants and pastries that fill your senses. On the third day we reach Saint Pierre, where they happened to be hosting a Marche Rasta, with a craft market that made my mouth water and live music that kept me dancing all night. The one bad thing was that there were some French white girls that put my dreadlocks to shame, and as I’ve never felt that my dreads were inadequate before, I have started thinking long thoughts, willing them to grow.
Yesterday we landed in Domenica. The sail was uneventful, seeing as how the only thing to top the dolphin experience would be a whale or something. Domenica is really a beautiful place, considered by the boaters to be somewhat “off the beaten track.” It is definitely less developed, into eco-tourism, and English speaking country (Thank God) and was also where the second Pirates of the Caribbean was filmed. If I run into Johnny Depp anywhere, I’ll be sure to let you know.
Today I got promoted to First Deckhand Helper Monkey, which is a big promotion on the boat, so life is good, except for the mound of dishes I need to do.
Boat life has been really interesting. Small periods of hard work while sailing coupled with hours of free time, in which I’m usually reading or exploring. Fresh water and electricity are coveted, and in order to get to something, you have to move eight other things. It’s also a weird feeling that since I’m staying with my dad and stepmom I have three meals a day cooked for me, which is very new because I usually don’t eat that much, and when I do it’s been beans and rice for the last six months. This also explains the dish duty, since I can’t cook.
So let me tell you a little bit about the islands, which are surprisingly very different. We left St. Lucia last week with the moon smiling down on us, as only half-moons can. St. Lucia is definitely touristy and the locals have learned to cater to the “yachties”, people who live on boats. Once a guy paddled up to our boat standing on a surfboard selling coconuts and mangos he had just picked from the jungle, while listening to his iPod. The people there love anything having to do with New York on their clothing, but when asked, actually don’t like New York at all. As per usual, my dreadlocks seem to attract to the local crowd of Rastas, but again, on asking questions about the Rastafarian religion, they only seem to be aware of the part they can smoke. One old Rasta man stopped me in the street for some light conversation, and on discussing my dreads he turned to my father to ask his thoughts on his daughter’s hairstyle. My father’s reply was simply to shrug his shoulders and calmly say, “It’s only hair.” The old man, stunned into silence by the sacrilegious words of my father, completely forgot to peddle what he was peddling in the first place and walked off in a daze.
On top of all this fun, I also get to spend time with my good friend Richie, whom I met over two years ago while working at the Selkirk Pub in South London. Richie is as crazy as they come, an excellent friend, and a good pub crawl guide to St. Lucia. He has also turned me on to my next career opportunity…
The Tobago Goat Racing Championship!
The Wisdom that is Richie speaks: “The trick is that you have to run alongside your goat, so you either need to be able to keep up with your goat, or be strong enough to pull it along after you.” I, being an expert on goats after sitting near one on a bus in Guatemala, have decided to pursue this new career headfirst and see where it takes me. I have no doubts that I will be towards the back, with my goat dragging me.
On my way to the races, we stopped next in Martinique, which is in the complete opposite direction of Tobago. The sail north took about five hours, with not so friendly winds coming out of the east. It was, however, quite an experience that cannot go without mention. An hour into the sail, a dolphin jumps out of the water next to us. I mean fully out of the water. Then another. And another. Perhaps there were twenty dolphins, perhaps more. They came past us in waves, of all sizes and lengths, playing tag with our boat. I was mesmerized and afraid to blink. A brief thought about going down to get my camera flickered through my mind, but I wouldn’t have traded one minute of watching the dolphins for anything this world has to offer, so there are only pictures imprinted in my memory. They were a dove gray with white speckles on their sides, and a surprisingly pink underbelly. The power in which they moved so effortlessly through the vast ocean, and their choosing us to play with, was truly a miracle. Barely paying attention to the threat of falling off the boat in attempting to watch them, I was straddled around a wench and holding onto the starboard jib line (to use some nautical terminology), in complete awe. They skipped and jumped in unison, jumped clear out of the water at the bow of the boat, inches before it went over them, and followed us for a good twenty minutes. As they bade their final farewells, we all sat, glassy-eyed and dumbstruck, thinking about what we had been privileged to witness, and I will remember my dolphin friends until the end of my days.
We arrive in Fort du France, to check in and look around. Martinique is a French state, and as I speak zero French, I picked up a phrasebook and learned a few things. By far, my favorite phrase is “Je suis le gran fromage,” which, gloriously, means “I am the big cheese.” The phrase I ended up using the most was…
“Je parle seulement un peu francais. Parlez-vous anglais?
No?
Hablas espanol?
No?
Uhhh…Parla italiano?
No?
Well shit…”
I ended up loving Martinique, despite the frustrating language barrier. It was a lot like France with a Caribbean twang. All the little towns were architecturally beautiful, painted in all the bright colors of the islands. The boulangerie was packed every morning with people enjoying the smell of fresh baguettes, croissants and pastries that fill your senses. On the third day we reach Saint Pierre, where they happened to be hosting a Marche Rasta, with a craft market that made my mouth water and live music that kept me dancing all night. The one bad thing was that there were some French white girls that put my dreadlocks to shame, and as I’ve never felt that my dreads were inadequate before, I have started thinking long thoughts, willing them to grow.
Yesterday we landed in Domenica. The sail was uneventful, seeing as how the only thing to top the dolphin experience would be a whale or something. Domenica is really a beautiful place, considered by the boaters to be somewhat “off the beaten track.” It is definitely less developed, into eco-tourism, and English speaking country (Thank God) and was also where the second Pirates of the Caribbean was filmed. If I run into Johnny Depp anywhere, I’ll be sure to let you know.
The Times They are A-Changin'
Written 29-4-08
Fun Fact: Until 1996, the main form of currency for the Kuna tribe of the San Blas Islands was the coconut.
The San Blas Islands are a group of some 400 islands off the Caribbean coast of Panama, about half of them inhabited by the Kuna tribe, the other half not inhabited at all. On most islands there is no electricity or plumbing, as I'm assuming it's difficult to get the wiring and pipes working when your house is made out of bamboo. So basically paradise. The women are adorned, bejeweled to the max, their whole forearms and legs covered with strings of beads, their bodies in batik sarongs, and red head scarves. It's easier if you just look at the pictures I have attached, because it would be otherwise impossible to describe their beauty enough to give them credit.
I, being the only white and non-Kuna person on the island, was kind of initiated into their tribe, and now have beads wrapped down my arm and no idea how to take them off, since it was sewn on. I wasn't planning to anyway.
However, that was last week's news. The most recent would be to tell you that I'm no longer backpacking. I set out to see Central America, and I have seen all seven countries, plus Mexico. A few days ago I took a flight from Panama City to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and I have to tell you, it was HORRIBLE. People were walking way too fast, talking way too loud, and being way too rude to their fellow traveler at his crazy airport. This was the first time I've been back in America in almost five months, and all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and die after talking to these crazy old ladies with thick New York accents and freakish tans. After waiting hours in the airport where time aparently stands still, I boarded another flight for Puerto Rico. The plane was running an hour late, and due to mean-spirited....no, evil people working behind the desk in the San Juan airport, I missed my third flight of the day. I spent, quite literally, a small fortune on a hotel room at the airport because I wasn't allowed to sleep on the floor, and the next day I finally caught a flight to my final destination, St Lucia.
For those who may not know, my transient, hippie father and stepmother live on a sailboat in the Caribbean, so I'm here to hang out and help crew the boat through the islands for a while. It's interesting to actually have a place to put my stuff, and I've spent the last couple days moving in and getting used to boat life.
St. Lucia is an interesting island. Yesterday, "Hey Rasta gal!" was yelled at me from across streets and waterways nineteen times. You have to have a license to have a pet boa constrictor. Nobody and nothing works on Sundays, including the stoplights. Everyone drives on the left side of the street, the Happy Hour drinks are really strong, the mango supply is endless, and the sun is shining. I wasn't expecting it to be so expensive here, but then I don't have that many expenses, which is quite nice.
The plan: Who knows. But you'll know when I figure it out.
"I guess my feet know where they want me to go,
Walkin' on a country road."
-James Taylor
Fun Fact: Until 1996, the main form of currency for the Kuna tribe of the San Blas Islands was the coconut.
The San Blas Islands are a group of some 400 islands off the Caribbean coast of Panama, about half of them inhabited by the Kuna tribe, the other half not inhabited at all. On most islands there is no electricity or plumbing, as I'm assuming it's difficult to get the wiring and pipes working when your house is made out of bamboo. So basically paradise. The women are adorned, bejeweled to the max, their whole forearms and legs covered with strings of beads, their bodies in batik sarongs, and red head scarves. It's easier if you just look at the pictures I have attached, because it would be otherwise impossible to describe their beauty enough to give them credit.
I, being the only white and non-Kuna person on the island, was kind of initiated into their tribe, and now have beads wrapped down my arm and no idea how to take them off, since it was sewn on. I wasn't planning to anyway.
However, that was last week's news. The most recent would be to tell you that I'm no longer backpacking. I set out to see Central America, and I have seen all seven countries, plus Mexico. A few days ago I took a flight from Panama City to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and I have to tell you, it was HORRIBLE. People were walking way too fast, talking way too loud, and being way too rude to their fellow traveler at his crazy airport. This was the first time I've been back in America in almost five months, and all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and die after talking to these crazy old ladies with thick New York accents and freakish tans. After waiting hours in the airport where time aparently stands still, I boarded another flight for Puerto Rico. The plane was running an hour late, and due to mean-spirited....no, evil people working behind the desk in the San Juan airport, I missed my third flight of the day. I spent, quite literally, a small fortune on a hotel room at the airport because I wasn't allowed to sleep on the floor, and the next day I finally caught a flight to my final destination, St Lucia.
For those who may not know, my transient, hippie father and stepmother live on a sailboat in the Caribbean, so I'm here to hang out and help crew the boat through the islands for a while. It's interesting to actually have a place to put my stuff, and I've spent the last couple days moving in and getting used to boat life.
St. Lucia is an interesting island. Yesterday, "Hey Rasta gal!" was yelled at me from across streets and waterways nineteen times. You have to have a license to have a pet boa constrictor. Nobody and nothing works on Sundays, including the stoplights. Everyone drives on the left side of the street, the Happy Hour drinks are really strong, the mango supply is endless, and the sun is shining. I wasn't expecting it to be so expensive here, but then I don't have that many expenses, which is quite nice.
The plan: Who knows. But you'll know when I figure it out.
"I guess my feet know where they want me to go,
Walkin' on a country road."
-James Taylor
A Little History for the Masses
Written 20-4-08
Good Morning class.
(Good Morning Miss Rachel.)
Today's history lesson is about the Panama Canal. Yes, I am now in Panama City, staying with friends of mine I used to work with at Fado: Kyle, Langdon, and little Maddox. I actually learned quite a lot yesterday about Panama, Colombia, and the United States' involvement in the building and keeping of the Canal. Well, I didn't know this until yesterday, but Panama used to be a part of Colombia. The Colombian government gave a contract to the French to build the Canal, but they were unsuccessful due to 22,000 workers dying of malaria. The architect worked out a deal to see the commission to the States, but the Colombian government refused. There would be a lot of financial loss for both the French and America, so they promised to back Panama if they decided to gain their indepence. When a revolution claimed Panama, Colombia sent troops to quell the rebellion, but didn't even reach land because there were American battleships blocking the way. A treaty was made to give America rights to the Canal, with pocket money given to a few Panamanian elite. It took 10 years to construct, with 75,000 workers finishing in 1914, and is one of the top engineering feats of the 20th century. America held the Canal until 1977, when Jimmy Carter gave it back to Panama. Most were skeptical that Panama would be able to keep it running, but Panama apparently has some outstanding safety records, and actually increased the flow of boats.
Today's Panama Canal is really interesting. It runs between the Pacific Ocean and the Caribbean Sea, with 3 different locks, each lock also having 3 locks. Some interesting information for you: It's not that easy to get through the Canal. It takes 24 hours to be cleared, and comes with conditions. The captain must yield the boat over to a trained Canal driver, and if anyone was interested in this career oppurtunity, know that it takes 10 years to train the drivers that get the boats through the Canal. (The boat I saw yesterday cleared the Canal with only 2 feet of space on either side. It was HUGE.) Once the boat is in the lock, the water is drained into these giant underground tanks, stopping when the boat is level with water in the next lock. Basically it's a giant staircase for 200,000 ton boats. Another fun part about crossing the Canal is how much it's going to cost, and don't think you can pay with a credit card. The Panamanian government only accepts cash, or a transfer from your bank account straight into another one off-shore. Yesterday's boat cost 170,000 dollars to get through. (Kyle says they do this because it's harder to track exactly how much the Panama govt. is raking in per year.) Last year 14,721 boats went through, accumulating over 165 million dollars that they admit to...and did I mention that the national currency of Panama is the American dollar?
I also learned an impressive amount of information on that crazy bastard Noreiga, American politics, and the war in Iraq, as Kyle's father is a Colonel in the army, and raised his family not far from where I'm staying now with them. But that's for another day...
Well I must say I've been having a blast here. Kyle and Langdon have a 2 year old little ball of energy named Maddox. She is absolutely beautiful, and I've figured out that my personality suits 2 year olds. The first day I was here we watched Aladdin twice, with a stack of Disney movies waiting in the background...so basically I'm in Heaven. We speak in english and she's learning spanish, paint our nails, dance to Bob Marley, and color all day! I'm telling you, the 2 year old lifestyle is the good life. Plus I think that the world would be at peace if everybody had enforced nap time.
I hope you enjoyed my little history lesson. There is so much information and so much history out there to be learned that we are just not taught. If you want some more information, don't wait around...go look it up!
"Those who do not understand history are doomed to repeat it." Or something like that...
Good Morning class.
(Good Morning Miss Rachel.)
Today's history lesson is about the Panama Canal. Yes, I am now in Panama City, staying with friends of mine I used to work with at Fado: Kyle, Langdon, and little Maddox. I actually learned quite a lot yesterday about Panama, Colombia, and the United States' involvement in the building and keeping of the Canal. Well, I didn't know this until yesterday, but Panama used to be a part of Colombia. The Colombian government gave a contract to the French to build the Canal, but they were unsuccessful due to 22,000 workers dying of malaria. The architect worked out a deal to see the commission to the States, but the Colombian government refused. There would be a lot of financial loss for both the French and America, so they promised to back Panama if they decided to gain their indepence. When a revolution claimed Panama, Colombia sent troops to quell the rebellion, but didn't even reach land because there were American battleships blocking the way. A treaty was made to give America rights to the Canal, with pocket money given to a few Panamanian elite. It took 10 years to construct, with 75,000 workers finishing in 1914, and is one of the top engineering feats of the 20th century. America held the Canal until 1977, when Jimmy Carter gave it back to Panama. Most were skeptical that Panama would be able to keep it running, but Panama apparently has some outstanding safety records, and actually increased the flow of boats.
Today's Panama Canal is really interesting. It runs between the Pacific Ocean and the Caribbean Sea, with 3 different locks, each lock also having 3 locks. Some interesting information for you: It's not that easy to get through the Canal. It takes 24 hours to be cleared, and comes with conditions. The captain must yield the boat over to a trained Canal driver, and if anyone was interested in this career oppurtunity, know that it takes 10 years to train the drivers that get the boats through the Canal. (The boat I saw yesterday cleared the Canal with only 2 feet of space on either side. It was HUGE.) Once the boat is in the lock, the water is drained into these giant underground tanks, stopping when the boat is level with water in the next lock. Basically it's a giant staircase for 200,000 ton boats. Another fun part about crossing the Canal is how much it's going to cost, and don't think you can pay with a credit card. The Panamanian government only accepts cash, or a transfer from your bank account straight into another one off-shore. Yesterday's boat cost 170,000 dollars to get through. (Kyle says they do this because it's harder to track exactly how much the Panama govt. is raking in per year.) Last year 14,721 boats went through, accumulating over 165 million dollars that they admit to...and did I mention that the national currency of Panama is the American dollar?
I also learned an impressive amount of information on that crazy bastard Noreiga, American politics, and the war in Iraq, as Kyle's father is a Colonel in the army, and raised his family not far from where I'm staying now with them. But that's for another day...
Well I must say I've been having a blast here. Kyle and Langdon have a 2 year old little ball of energy named Maddox. She is absolutely beautiful, and I've figured out that my personality suits 2 year olds. The first day I was here we watched Aladdin twice, with a stack of Disney movies waiting in the background...so basically I'm in Heaven. We speak in english and she's learning spanish, paint our nails, dance to Bob Marley, and color all day! I'm telling you, the 2 year old lifestyle is the good life. Plus I think that the world would be at peace if everybody had enforced nap time.
I hope you enjoyed my little history lesson. There is so much information and so much history out there to be learned that we are just not taught. If you want some more information, don't wait around...go look it up!
"Those who do not understand history are doomed to repeat it." Or something like that...
Pura Vida
Written 13-4-08
Today was one of those days where I have to bow to stereotypes and say, with my best hippie voice, "How amazing is Mother Nature?" because it's only way it can be described.
I find myself in the midst of tranquility. Archipelago Bocas del Toro, Isla Colon, Panama to be more exact. This morning, accompanied by a few new friends from the hostel, I hopped on a water taxi for a short ride to another island, bound for the beach. After swimming in the ever-clear waters and tanning in the ever-present sun of the Caribbean, I took a little walk away, exploring further.
The landscape of the islands is pretty incredible. From the ocean you have about 10-12 feet of beach, then instantly dense jungle. It's quite breath-taking. All alone, as I step over tree roots, sea shells, and budding palm trees just sprouting from the coconut, my mind wanders...
"If I was to be hit in the head with a coconut, what a way to go. I guess it just means that it is definitely your time. Unstoppable. At least I would have died knowing I had great life, I was barefoot, and walking around on a tropical island..."
Well, I just googled "death by coconut" and turned up some interesting information. Apparently about 150 people per year die due to coconut related incidences. Also, for further knowledge of completely useless information, that is 15 times the amount of people eaten by sharks per year. Ahh, the internet...technology always amazes me.
Back to the story. So the walk was amazing. Just me out there, with only the sounds of the wind, sea, and a strange clicking noise from small crabs to keep me company. I walked as slowly as possible so as not to miss anything, my toes skimming the top of the warm water as i stepped lightly over delicate seashells. I don´t know if you´ve ever taken a good look, but seashells are very intricate in design, and always astound me and make me appreciate the detail that goes into the tiniest of things. Heading towards a hill that looks out on the ocean and other islands, I climb over roots surfacing from the forest and try not to step on the thousands of holes made by the crabs, who seem to have it made with their beachfront property. I make it to the top, sit town, and try to take it all in. I am so fortunate for my life, for the experiences I have, for the people I am blessed to know, for my barefoot lifestyle.
The Costa Ricans have an excellent saying...Pura Vida. Pure Life.
I think they, along with the lovely people of Panama, have figured something out. I sat there, thinking of all the people that I wished were sitting next to me, experiencing it with me. My family, my friends, my loved ones. But then I realized that they are with me, in my heart. You were there today, sitting on that little grassy hill with me, staring out at the ever-moving, ever-changing Caribbean ocean, watching the world go by.
All you have to do is close your eyes.
Today was one of those days where I have to bow to stereotypes and say, with my best hippie voice, "How amazing is Mother Nature?" because it's only way it can be described.
I find myself in the midst of tranquility. Archipelago Bocas del Toro, Isla Colon, Panama to be more exact. This morning, accompanied by a few new friends from the hostel, I hopped on a water taxi for a short ride to another island, bound for the beach. After swimming in the ever-clear waters and tanning in the ever-present sun of the Caribbean, I took a little walk away, exploring further.
The landscape of the islands is pretty incredible. From the ocean you have about 10-12 feet of beach, then instantly dense jungle. It's quite breath-taking. All alone, as I step over tree roots, sea shells, and budding palm trees just sprouting from the coconut, my mind wanders...
"If I was to be hit in the head with a coconut, what a way to go. I guess it just means that it is definitely your time. Unstoppable. At least I would have died knowing I had great life, I was barefoot, and walking around on a tropical island..."
Well, I just googled "death by coconut" and turned up some interesting information. Apparently about 150 people per year die due to coconut related incidences. Also, for further knowledge of completely useless information, that is 15 times the amount of people eaten by sharks per year. Ahh, the internet...technology always amazes me.
Back to the story. So the walk was amazing. Just me out there, with only the sounds of the wind, sea, and a strange clicking noise from small crabs to keep me company. I walked as slowly as possible so as not to miss anything, my toes skimming the top of the warm water as i stepped lightly over delicate seashells. I don´t know if you´ve ever taken a good look, but seashells are very intricate in design, and always astound me and make me appreciate the detail that goes into the tiniest of things. Heading towards a hill that looks out on the ocean and other islands, I climb over roots surfacing from the forest and try not to step on the thousands of holes made by the crabs, who seem to have it made with their beachfront property. I make it to the top, sit town, and try to take it all in. I am so fortunate for my life, for the experiences I have, for the people I am blessed to know, for my barefoot lifestyle.
The Costa Ricans have an excellent saying...Pura Vida. Pure Life.
I think they, along with the lovely people of Panama, have figured something out. I sat there, thinking of all the people that I wished were sitting next to me, experiencing it with me. My family, my friends, my loved ones. But then I realized that they are with me, in my heart. You were there today, sitting on that little grassy hill with me, staring out at the ever-moving, ever-changing Caribbean ocean, watching the world go by.
All you have to do is close your eyes.
Into the Wild
Written 9-4-08
I don´t know if you´ve ever heard the howl of a wild Howler monkey,
but it scares the shit out of me.
It starts out low, like someone gurgling water at the back of their throat. It rises slowly, as if someone has just slammed on their brakes on the road, it rises higher and higher, louder and louder, until you are damn sure that Godzilla has just killed 100 goats and is now sharing them with Chewbaca. The weird thing is that they´re only about a foot tall, but the noise they make shakes the trees all the way down to the roots. This all happens to be taking place in a tree about 50 yards away from me as I sit on my balcony in Manzanillo, Costa Rica.
The beach and the caribean waters that I have missed so much are a 3 minute walk away. When the water comes up to your shoulders, you can still see your toes. The beaches are completely empty, except a handfull of people that are half a mile away from where you happen to be sunning. It´s is absolutely beautiful. And let´s not forget the jungle. I tried to take some pictures, but they simply do not do it justice. Costa Rica wins the vote for greenest country. The single, small road that goes to Manzanillo, which I believe means Chamomile, is lined with the greenest of green, the palms, the banana trees, the explosion of color with every flower on every tree just takes my breath away.
I don´t know if you´ve ever heard the howl of a wild Howler monkey,
but it scares the shit out of me.
It starts out low, like someone gurgling water at the back of their throat. It rises slowly, as if someone has just slammed on their brakes on the road, it rises higher and higher, louder and louder, until you are damn sure that Godzilla has just killed 100 goats and is now sharing them with Chewbaca. The weird thing is that they´re only about a foot tall, but the noise they make shakes the trees all the way down to the roots. This all happens to be taking place in a tree about 50 yards away from me as I sit on my balcony in Manzanillo, Costa Rica.
The beach and the caribean waters that I have missed so much are a 3 minute walk away. When the water comes up to your shoulders, you can still see your toes. The beaches are completely empty, except a handfull of people that are half a mile away from where you happen to be sunning. It´s is absolutely beautiful. And let´s not forget the jungle. I tried to take some pictures, but they simply do not do it justice. Costa Rica wins the vote for greenest country. The single, small road that goes to Manzanillo, which I believe means Chamomile, is lined with the greenest of green, the palms, the banana trees, the explosion of color with every flower on every tree just takes my breath away.
Club Med
Written 1-4-08
This last week I find myself in a strange place.
I call it Club Med.
My friend Mash calls it his apartment.
My lovely friend Mash, whom I met 2 years ago when working in the Selkirk Pub in south London, has taken Andy and I in and spoiled us rotten. He lives in a small, surburb-like town called Santa Ana, outside of San Jose, the capital city of Costa Rica. He also has a sweet-ass job of being an online marketing guy for an illegal online gambling company...which I think sounds like a lot of fun. By "illegal" I mean that there are a lot of gray areas. Anyway...usually it's best to just skip the big cities when traveling, as it's hard to get around and there's usually a good chance of getting your stuff stolen. So here I am, chillin in Suburbia.
The other day I even went to the mall, which was horrible beyond words...but that's a story in itself. Costa Rica is a very interesting and perplexing country. Apparently they don't have addresses here, or street names...or street signs, really. Mash's address reads:
Rachel's friend Mash
200 meters east of the Red Cross Sign
Santa Anna
Costa Rica...or something to that effect. On the completely opposite side, there has been this crazy modernization. There's a whole lot of fake breasts, shiny cars, and small trendy shopping centers. Costa Rica has been hit by a technology boom, and has become hard for travelers, because it's just as expensive as the States. I do have to admit, though, that I like going to the cash machines here. There's nothing like taking out 50,000 colones ($100) that just makes you feel kinda good, like you're sitting on a gold mine.
It's a good thing Mash took us in, because I'm just now getting well again. I contracted some crazy Nicaraguan stomach virus and needed some serious R&R. We were staying on an organic farm in the middle of an island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua. It was brought on either by the straight-from-the-utter-still-warm-milk or the tap water labeled "filtered." May I also add that not even the Nicaraguans drink their tap water.
Here at Club Med we have use of a swimming pool, washing machine, internet, a kitchen, HOT SHOWERS, and a private room where people don't steal your stuff.
I am in Backpacker's Paradise.
Oh, and last night Mash, his girlfriend Natale, and her brothers took us out for a nice dinner, and I tried blood sausage, which is apparently a very traditional Costa Rican dish. To be polite, I only gulped down one glass of water instead of four after trying the sausage.
Here's to vegetables!
This last week I find myself in a strange place.
I call it Club Med.
My friend Mash calls it his apartment.
My lovely friend Mash, whom I met 2 years ago when working in the Selkirk Pub in south London, has taken Andy and I in and spoiled us rotten. He lives in a small, surburb-like town called Santa Ana, outside of San Jose, the capital city of Costa Rica. He also has a sweet-ass job of being an online marketing guy for an illegal online gambling company...which I think sounds like a lot of fun. By "illegal" I mean that there are a lot of gray areas. Anyway...usually it's best to just skip the big cities when traveling, as it's hard to get around and there's usually a good chance of getting your stuff stolen. So here I am, chillin in Suburbia.
The other day I even went to the mall, which was horrible beyond words...but that's a story in itself. Costa Rica is a very interesting and perplexing country. Apparently they don't have addresses here, or street names...or street signs, really. Mash's address reads:
Rachel's friend Mash
200 meters east of the Red Cross Sign
Santa Anna
Costa Rica...or something to that effect. On the completely opposite side, there has been this crazy modernization. There's a whole lot of fake breasts, shiny cars, and small trendy shopping centers. Costa Rica has been hit by a technology boom, and has become hard for travelers, because it's just as expensive as the States. I do have to admit, though, that I like going to the cash machines here. There's nothing like taking out 50,000 colones ($100) that just makes you feel kinda good, like you're sitting on a gold mine.
It's a good thing Mash took us in, because I'm just now getting well again. I contracted some crazy Nicaraguan stomach virus and needed some serious R&R. We were staying on an organic farm in the middle of an island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua. It was brought on either by the straight-from-the-utter-still-warm-milk or the tap water labeled "filtered." May I also add that not even the Nicaraguans drink their tap water.
Here at Club Med we have use of a swimming pool, washing machine, internet, a kitchen, HOT SHOWERS, and a private room where people don't steal your stuff.
I am in Backpacker's Paradise.
Oh, and last night Mash, his girlfriend Natale, and her brothers took us out for a nice dinner, and I tried blood sausage, which is apparently a very traditional Costa Rican dish. To be polite, I only gulped down one glass of water instead of four after trying the sausage.
Here's to vegetables!
Feel No Pain
Written 21-3-08
Yesterday my iPod was stolen.
At first I completely freaked out, not just that someone had stolen it, but also invaded my space in a hostel dorm room. For a traveler, we have an almost non-existent personal space bubble...only our backpacks and our beds for the night, and they are sacred. Not only had my space been raided, but my music. To take someone´s music is to take away their soul. Someone has some serious Karma to work off.
We realized that someone had been through our stuff because Andy´s bag had also been looked through, and immediately started tearing our stuff apart looking for anything else not in its place. My stuff was all on the floor because my backpack is still drying, but that´s a story for later. I have been all over in Europe, Mexico and Central America, and this is the first time I have ever been robbed.
My iPod is missing.
FREAK OUT.
Breathe.
My camera is still here.
I have all my credit cards.
There was no cash for them to take.
My passport is in the safe.
They didn´t touch the rum.
Ok...I think I´ll survive. I thought I´d be a lot more upset, but when you have virtually nothing, then you have nothing to worry about. Now if they had taken my camera or passport, I would have gone on a war path and heads would fly. In retrospect, though, they probably have a nicer camera than mine. No one in their right mind would take much from my backpack, because they would be sorely dissapointed.
Checklist:
6 shirts
3 skirts
1 pair of ridiculously colorful Mayan trousers
1 pair of flip flops (same pair I climbed the volcano with!)
1 pair of $200 professional salsa dancing shoes
1 sleeping bag
1 bubblegum pink hammock
2,000 books
3 journals
1 travel-sized Buddha
1 travel-sized can of mace
3 wraps/sarongs used interchangably as towels, shirts, skirts, head wraps, shawls, picnic blankets, and yoga mats.
1 bottle of shampoo
1 kid size penguin-shaped toothbrush
Only a small percentage of the population would find the contents of my bag appealing...dirty hippie backpackers, or perhaps someone starving to death. We are living in a material world, and I am a non-material girl. I thought for a moment that the had also taken my sunglasses, but who takes a pair of Rey Bens???
Action:
Go downstairs and tell the travelers to lock up their stuff.
Talk to the security guard.
Put my camera in our lockbox.
Rum.
By this point I´m ok...just really pissed off. We were watching a movie downstairs with a couple other people and my purse was laying on my bed. They just nicked the iPod and nothing else. Gracias Dios. The night guard came up, asked a couple of questions. When I had first told him, he got very defensive, as if I was blaming him for this. After asking me a few questions, he casually mentioned that there were "Nicas" in the next room. I assumed he was refering to Nicaraguan people, and gave him a confused look. All he replied with was "They aren´t the same."
This gets me on a new topic: locals vs. travelers.
After talking some more with the backpackers, we realized how much a hostel seperates us. In some places, people from that country aren´t even allowed to stay in them. I have always felt the Traveler Code: travelers don´t steal from other travelers, mostly because we have nothing to steal. Most of the time it´s true. That puts us against the local population, which feels that we are billionaire white people with too much time on our hands and not enough common sense to go back to our own country and live like kings. On the other hand, I´ve made local friends who meet me at a hostel, and ask me why I´m staying in a dump. On hearing it´s only three dollars a night, and that I have a fifteen to twenty dollar-a-day budget, they get a little shocked.
This week is a special week, as you all know. I´m in a beach town in southern Nicaragua called San Juan del Sur. It´s a cozy little town, but apparently the hottest spot for Semana Santa weekend. All the Nicaraguans from Managua and the interior come to the beach towns (if they can afford to) and the general chaos of having thousands of people in a tiny town insues. There are rules we as travelers must set for ourselves. Do not walk alone, especially at night, but in the daylight there is risk as well. Do not go to the bank alone. Leave everything of value locked in a safe or lockbox. Carry only small amounts of money, etc. I knew these precautions before we got here, and yet I still wanted to come.
The last song I listened to was "Unforgettable" by Natalie Cole. At least now someone has some good music to listen to. The last time I lost an iPod in England, I found new music, not replacing the old, but adding to the collection. I´ll probably try to buy another one is San Jose, Costa Rica. A lot of travelers have laptops, so I can get new music from them, expanding my horizons, so to speak.
"One good thing about music is
When it hits you
You feel no pain."
-Bob Marley
How true.
*In case you´re wondering why my backpack was drying, it´s because on the bus from Leon to San Juan, my backpack was stored beneath the bus, which is very common. On getting it out, I realize that it was bleeding. No, I wasn´t bleeding, my backpack was bleeding. I´m guessing someone stored some meat or something down there and it leaked out, but it was gross and i had to scrub it out.
Welcome to my life.
Welcome to Nicaragua.
Yesterday my iPod was stolen.
At first I completely freaked out, not just that someone had stolen it, but also invaded my space in a hostel dorm room. For a traveler, we have an almost non-existent personal space bubble...only our backpacks and our beds for the night, and they are sacred. Not only had my space been raided, but my music. To take someone´s music is to take away their soul. Someone has some serious Karma to work off.
We realized that someone had been through our stuff because Andy´s bag had also been looked through, and immediately started tearing our stuff apart looking for anything else not in its place. My stuff was all on the floor because my backpack is still drying, but that´s a story for later. I have been all over in Europe, Mexico and Central America, and this is the first time I have ever been robbed.
My iPod is missing.
FREAK OUT.
Breathe.
My camera is still here.
I have all my credit cards.
There was no cash for them to take.
My passport is in the safe.
They didn´t touch the rum.
Ok...I think I´ll survive. I thought I´d be a lot more upset, but when you have virtually nothing, then you have nothing to worry about. Now if they had taken my camera or passport, I would have gone on a war path and heads would fly. In retrospect, though, they probably have a nicer camera than mine. No one in their right mind would take much from my backpack, because they would be sorely dissapointed.
Checklist:
6 shirts
3 skirts
1 pair of ridiculously colorful Mayan trousers
1 pair of flip flops (same pair I climbed the volcano with!)
1 pair of $200 professional salsa dancing shoes
1 sleeping bag
1 bubblegum pink hammock
2,000 books
3 journals
1 travel-sized Buddha
1 travel-sized can of mace
3 wraps/sarongs used interchangably as towels, shirts, skirts, head wraps, shawls, picnic blankets, and yoga mats.
1 bottle of shampoo
1 kid size penguin-shaped toothbrush
Only a small percentage of the population would find the contents of my bag appealing...dirty hippie backpackers, or perhaps someone starving to death. We are living in a material world, and I am a non-material girl. I thought for a moment that the had also taken my sunglasses, but who takes a pair of Rey Bens???
Action:
Go downstairs and tell the travelers to lock up their stuff.
Talk to the security guard.
Put my camera in our lockbox.
Rum.
By this point I´m ok...just really pissed off. We were watching a movie downstairs with a couple other people and my purse was laying on my bed. They just nicked the iPod and nothing else. Gracias Dios. The night guard came up, asked a couple of questions. When I had first told him, he got very defensive, as if I was blaming him for this. After asking me a few questions, he casually mentioned that there were "Nicas" in the next room. I assumed he was refering to Nicaraguan people, and gave him a confused look. All he replied with was "They aren´t the same."
This gets me on a new topic: locals vs. travelers.
After talking some more with the backpackers, we realized how much a hostel seperates us. In some places, people from that country aren´t even allowed to stay in them. I have always felt the Traveler Code: travelers don´t steal from other travelers, mostly because we have nothing to steal. Most of the time it´s true. That puts us against the local population, which feels that we are billionaire white people with too much time on our hands and not enough common sense to go back to our own country and live like kings. On the other hand, I´ve made local friends who meet me at a hostel, and ask me why I´m staying in a dump. On hearing it´s only three dollars a night, and that I have a fifteen to twenty dollar-a-day budget, they get a little shocked.
This week is a special week, as you all know. I´m in a beach town in southern Nicaragua called San Juan del Sur. It´s a cozy little town, but apparently the hottest spot for Semana Santa weekend. All the Nicaraguans from Managua and the interior come to the beach towns (if they can afford to) and the general chaos of having thousands of people in a tiny town insues. There are rules we as travelers must set for ourselves. Do not walk alone, especially at night, but in the daylight there is risk as well. Do not go to the bank alone. Leave everything of value locked in a safe or lockbox. Carry only small amounts of money, etc. I knew these precautions before we got here, and yet I still wanted to come.
The last song I listened to was "Unforgettable" by Natalie Cole. At least now someone has some good music to listen to. The last time I lost an iPod in England, I found new music, not replacing the old, but adding to the collection. I´ll probably try to buy another one is San Jose, Costa Rica. A lot of travelers have laptops, so I can get new music from them, expanding my horizons, so to speak.
"One good thing about music is
When it hits you
You feel no pain."
-Bob Marley
How true.
*In case you´re wondering why my backpack was drying, it´s because on the bus from Leon to San Juan, my backpack was stored beneath the bus, which is very common. On getting it out, I realize that it was bleeding. No, I wasn´t bleeding, my backpack was bleeding. I´m guessing someone stored some meat or something down there and it leaked out, but it was gross and i had to scrub it out.
Welcome to my life.
Welcome to Nicaragua.
Sacreligion at its Best
Written 16-3-08
I just got back from church.
Today is Palm Sunday. I woke up to church bells ringing in my mind. My most appropriate outfitt is a long, white skirt, a long tank top, and a scarf around my shoulders. I set out, following the bells, as if they were calling out to me. I was led to the main plaza in Leon, and up the steps to Catedral de Asuncion. It was packed, and everyone was there: the bored teenagers, the wrinkly old women crying, the small children running through a sea of legs, and they all held palm leaves delicately in their hands. The whole place smelled of cobal, and it was vibrant.
As I made my way towards the front, the bishop came into view. He seemed as if he would be tall, his red smock flowing, his pointy white hat starched with such rigidity that I felt as wrinkly as the old lady standing beside me. On his neck hung a golden cross that would have made 50 cent wince with jealousy, and he looked bored. In all the time I stood there, he barely moved. Someone else was speaking from the pulpit, a choir singing, a guitar playing, and his staunch, slightly tilted head never moved from it´s Holy Spot. He seemed so seperated from the event, I wonder why he was there at all.
For those who know me well, I am not religious. Spiritual, yes. I go to churches to see the architecture, the art, the statues and carvings. I go to churches to find peace of mind, to sit quietly in reflection, to think. All the religions, to me, seem the same. Everyone is looking for an explanation that they cannot see, or feel, smell, or touch. They look for a higher power they can relate to, even if they do not know what It is. To the Christians, It is called God. In Islam, It is called Allah. To the Buddhists, It is called Karma.
I was feeling out of place and mind in the big cathedral, so I decided to move on. I was graced with the tinkling sound of little bells ringing, the ice cream vendors outside waiting for business to pick up once the mass ended. I found my way onto another street where a smaller, older church came into view. Iglesia Virgen de la Merced. I walked inside and sat down, feeling the cool breeze wash through the old building. Birds sat on old ironwork chandeliers, chirping. A tiny lady sat next to me, looked up at me, smiled, patted my leg, and called me "Chelita," which is an affectionate name to call someone with light skin.
I sat there, staring up at a powerful figure. She looked serene, staring down at me: The Mother, The Protector, The Giver. Some call her Mary, others The Mother Goddess or Mother Nature. In latin countries she is Maria, Virgen de la Guadelupe. She stood in front of a simple, silver alter, with candles burning and palm leaves strewn before her feet. I sat and spoke to her in my mind, reveling in her smile. As I was in a church, I decided to cover all my bases and call upon St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, to ask for protection. For safe passage for my fellow travelers, and for my loved ones at home and all over the world, having their own daily adventures.
St. Chris and I talk a lot, as he is quite prominent in my life right now, so I figured I should give him a shout-out. As I get up to leave, the people stare, as usual. This is nothing new, as I´m a tall white girl with dreadlocks in Nicaragua. I put on my serene face, a half smile, head held high as I stroll into the sunshine, feeling better.
I wonder if anyone noticed that the shawl around my shoulders was Hindu.
This week is Semana Santa, Holy Week. May you be blessed with the deity of your choosing, from any established religion to a yoga mantra to a really good cup of coffee that helped to ease your mind.
I just got back from church.
Today is Palm Sunday. I woke up to church bells ringing in my mind. My most appropriate outfitt is a long, white skirt, a long tank top, and a scarf around my shoulders. I set out, following the bells, as if they were calling out to me. I was led to the main plaza in Leon, and up the steps to Catedral de Asuncion. It was packed, and everyone was there: the bored teenagers, the wrinkly old women crying, the small children running through a sea of legs, and they all held palm leaves delicately in their hands. The whole place smelled of cobal, and it was vibrant.
As I made my way towards the front, the bishop came into view. He seemed as if he would be tall, his red smock flowing, his pointy white hat starched with such rigidity that I felt as wrinkly as the old lady standing beside me. On his neck hung a golden cross that would have made 50 cent wince with jealousy, and he looked bored. In all the time I stood there, he barely moved. Someone else was speaking from the pulpit, a choir singing, a guitar playing, and his staunch, slightly tilted head never moved from it´s Holy Spot. He seemed so seperated from the event, I wonder why he was there at all.
For those who know me well, I am not religious. Spiritual, yes. I go to churches to see the architecture, the art, the statues and carvings. I go to churches to find peace of mind, to sit quietly in reflection, to think. All the religions, to me, seem the same. Everyone is looking for an explanation that they cannot see, or feel, smell, or touch. They look for a higher power they can relate to, even if they do not know what It is. To the Christians, It is called God. In Islam, It is called Allah. To the Buddhists, It is called Karma.
I was feeling out of place and mind in the big cathedral, so I decided to move on. I was graced with the tinkling sound of little bells ringing, the ice cream vendors outside waiting for business to pick up once the mass ended. I found my way onto another street where a smaller, older church came into view. Iglesia Virgen de la Merced. I walked inside and sat down, feeling the cool breeze wash through the old building. Birds sat on old ironwork chandeliers, chirping. A tiny lady sat next to me, looked up at me, smiled, patted my leg, and called me "Chelita," which is an affectionate name to call someone with light skin.
I sat there, staring up at a powerful figure. She looked serene, staring down at me: The Mother, The Protector, The Giver. Some call her Mary, others The Mother Goddess or Mother Nature. In latin countries she is Maria, Virgen de la Guadelupe. She stood in front of a simple, silver alter, with candles burning and palm leaves strewn before her feet. I sat and spoke to her in my mind, reveling in her smile. As I was in a church, I decided to cover all my bases and call upon St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, to ask for protection. For safe passage for my fellow travelers, and for my loved ones at home and all over the world, having their own daily adventures.
St. Chris and I talk a lot, as he is quite prominent in my life right now, so I figured I should give him a shout-out. As I get up to leave, the people stare, as usual. This is nothing new, as I´m a tall white girl with dreadlocks in Nicaragua. I put on my serene face, a half smile, head held high as I stroll into the sunshine, feeling better.
I wonder if anyone noticed that the shawl around my shoulders was Hindu.
This week is Semana Santa, Holy Week. May you be blessed with the deity of your choosing, from any established religion to a yoga mantra to a really good cup of coffee that helped to ease your mind.
San Isidro Five-Star Resort
Written 13-3-08
Yesterday was a long day.
To start, Andy and I dragged our lazy asses out of bed at 4:00 am.
We stayed at this dodgy hotel connected to the bus station in San Salvador, and were warned the night before by the armed guard at the front door not to go out. I have also been warned by many travelers that it's just not a real safe-haven, just as bad as all the other capitals, once the sun goes down.
So on the bus we go, and it was nice. I didn't want to chicken bus it through two different border crossings in one day, because you never know when one is going to stop and when another one is coming. Even though we were on a nice bus, it was a ten hour ride. Anything turns sour after ten hours, so it wasn't the most eventful morning. It should have been longer to Managua, the capital, but our destination was Leon, so we were dropped off in a town called San Isidro to get another bus west towards the coast.
San Isidro turned out to be an intersection. I'll give it a little more credit: San Isidro is an intersection in the middle of nowhere in Nicaragua with three tiendas for food. So glad we stopped to take pictures. A few seconds later a chicken bus roars up, and we run for the entrance. A rule about chicken buses is that it's not their fault if you can only get yourself half on, or only your bag and not yourself, so you have to fight for your space, and if you're lucky, a seat. Most people let us pass because we're the gringos checking out the tourist trap that is San Isidro.
On to the bus we go: Andy, myself, and a Canadian guy named Mark we met on the bus headed for Leon himself. I liked traveling with Mark, because not only is he nice and funny, he is fucking huge. Enormous. It's nice sometimes...
So the bus costs 34.50 Cordobas, the national currency here. I don't miss the dollar at all...the currency here is so much prettier. Anyway, the bus ride was about $1.75, which was nice in comparison to the $25 bus we just got off. Looking at the map, I figured it would take about an hour to get to Leon. Looking at the road I realized it would take a lot longer. It took three and a half hours.
The bus was fun. Sweaty, dusty, bumpy, and people staring at you. I made friends with one of the bus workers who gave me some great information on Semana Santa, Holy Week, which is next week. (Apparently everyone in the entire country stops work next Wednesday until Easter Sunday...so I need to actually do some planning and try to get reservations before the buses stop running.) There was a drunk guy in the seat in front of me who kept bobbing and weaving...I'm amazed he didn't throw up. There were two kids sitting two seats ahead of me...
I smiled and they stared.
I waved and they stared.
I said "Hola" and they stared.
Friendly people.
I have to say, it is nice to see thin people again. I mentioned the modernization of El Salvador before, and with it comes all the McDonalds, Burger Kings, and Pizza Huts filled with overweight Salvadorians enjoying a new way of life, the Dollar Menu. This was mostly in the big city, but I haven't seen so many obese people since Texas.
As the red sun sets, we watch from our windows of our school bus as the sky changes from orange to pink to purple to a gray-blue that covers the hills and trees like a blanket. The rush of being in a new country has hit me, and I feel alive, even after a thirteen and a half hour bus trip. We arrive in Leon and find ourselves in a great hostel, where I run into Jesse, and old friend from Tulum. We go out for live reggae music and Flor de Caña rum, Nicaragua's finest, and voted best rum in the world.
...and today is a new day...
Yesterday was a long day.
To start, Andy and I dragged our lazy asses out of bed at 4:00 am.
We stayed at this dodgy hotel connected to the bus station in San Salvador, and were warned the night before by the armed guard at the front door not to go out. I have also been warned by many travelers that it's just not a real safe-haven, just as bad as all the other capitals, once the sun goes down.
So on the bus we go, and it was nice. I didn't want to chicken bus it through two different border crossings in one day, because you never know when one is going to stop and when another one is coming. Even though we were on a nice bus, it was a ten hour ride. Anything turns sour after ten hours, so it wasn't the most eventful morning. It should have been longer to Managua, the capital, but our destination was Leon, so we were dropped off in a town called San Isidro to get another bus west towards the coast.
San Isidro turned out to be an intersection. I'll give it a little more credit: San Isidro is an intersection in the middle of nowhere in Nicaragua with three tiendas for food. So glad we stopped to take pictures. A few seconds later a chicken bus roars up, and we run for the entrance. A rule about chicken buses is that it's not their fault if you can only get yourself half on, or only your bag and not yourself, so you have to fight for your space, and if you're lucky, a seat. Most people let us pass because we're the gringos checking out the tourist trap that is San Isidro.
On to the bus we go: Andy, myself, and a Canadian guy named Mark we met on the bus headed for Leon himself. I liked traveling with Mark, because not only is he nice and funny, he is fucking huge. Enormous. It's nice sometimes...
So the bus costs 34.50 Cordobas, the national currency here. I don't miss the dollar at all...the currency here is so much prettier. Anyway, the bus ride was about $1.75, which was nice in comparison to the $25 bus we just got off. Looking at the map, I figured it would take about an hour to get to Leon. Looking at the road I realized it would take a lot longer. It took three and a half hours.
The bus was fun. Sweaty, dusty, bumpy, and people staring at you. I made friends with one of the bus workers who gave me some great information on Semana Santa, Holy Week, which is next week. (Apparently everyone in the entire country stops work next Wednesday until Easter Sunday...so I need to actually do some planning and try to get reservations before the buses stop running.) There was a drunk guy in the seat in front of me who kept bobbing and weaving...I'm amazed he didn't throw up. There were two kids sitting two seats ahead of me...
I smiled and they stared.
I waved and they stared.
I said "Hola" and they stared.
Friendly people.
I have to say, it is nice to see thin people again. I mentioned the modernization of El Salvador before, and with it comes all the McDonalds, Burger Kings, and Pizza Huts filled with overweight Salvadorians enjoying a new way of life, the Dollar Menu. This was mostly in the big city, but I haven't seen so many obese people since Texas.
As the red sun sets, we watch from our windows of our school bus as the sky changes from orange to pink to purple to a gray-blue that covers the hills and trees like a blanket. The rush of being in a new country has hit me, and I feel alive, even after a thirteen and a half hour bus trip. We arrive in Leon and find ourselves in a great hostel, where I run into Jesse, and old friend from Tulum. We go out for live reggae music and Flor de Caña rum, Nicaragua's finest, and voted best rum in the world.
...and today is a new day...
Losing My Shoes and My Mind
Written 9-3-08
i am in a place where the only people who wear shoes are the construction workers in their flip flops.
i am in a place where i speak spanish and pay in american dollars.
i am in a place where street signs and 9 year olds are sponsored by Sprite.
i am in a place where the closest internet cafe is a 15 minute drive.
i am in a surfer's paradise, and the sun is shining.
As you may, or may not have guessed, I find myself in El Salvador.
Playa El Tunco, El Salvador, to be exact.
El Salvador is an interesting country. There are no Mayan women walking around with ornately colorful outfits, but a more modern style. actually, it looks as if everyone is stuck in the early 90's. the national currency is the american dollar, which i was completely unaware of, and a little disgruntled by. apparently El Salvador has quite an economy, and a growing sector of upper class wealth. oh don't worry, the chicken buses are still glorious, the women still carry baskets on their heads, and the street food is heavenly. maybe modern times have hit El Salvador, but we are still in central america.
it's funny how in different countries you get different looks from the local population. in Belize a greeting and a smile, and most times a guide to where ever you might be headed. in Guatemala a polite nod or greeting, knowing that you are yet another tourist taking pictures and spending money. in El Salvador you get a funny look. they are almost amused and slightly confused as to why you are there. they are just now getting used to seeing travelers, and if you don't speak spanish, you're basically screwed.
the big towns disagree with me, but the beaches are fantastic. El Tunco is a popular destination for beginner surfers, so with it comes a plethora of professional surfers waiting to give them a lesson. there is one road, two restaurants, and a handful of surf shops. we are staying at an amazing hotel called Hotel Mopelia, run by an eccentric guy from Belgium named Gil. breakfast costs $1.50 and the hammocks are plentiful. the beaches, strangely, are black. they are also covered with smooth, round rocks that come in and out with the waves. you know when the tide is changing because there is a loud clacking sound of the rocks being moved into different formations. with that in mind, it's not the ideal place to lay about, the risk being pelted by massive waves and stones upsetting the peace of sunning and all.
well i'm off to find my shoes, the same shoes i climbed the volcano with. they are still alive.
Me and my Mexican flip flops, seeing the world.
i am in a place where the only people who wear shoes are the construction workers in their flip flops.
i am in a place where i speak spanish and pay in american dollars.
i am in a place where street signs and 9 year olds are sponsored by Sprite.
i am in a place where the closest internet cafe is a 15 minute drive.
i am in a surfer's paradise, and the sun is shining.
As you may, or may not have guessed, I find myself in El Salvador.
Playa El Tunco, El Salvador, to be exact.
El Salvador is an interesting country. There are no Mayan women walking around with ornately colorful outfits, but a more modern style. actually, it looks as if everyone is stuck in the early 90's. the national currency is the american dollar, which i was completely unaware of, and a little disgruntled by. apparently El Salvador has quite an economy, and a growing sector of upper class wealth. oh don't worry, the chicken buses are still glorious, the women still carry baskets on their heads, and the street food is heavenly. maybe modern times have hit El Salvador, but we are still in central america.
it's funny how in different countries you get different looks from the local population. in Belize a greeting and a smile, and most times a guide to where ever you might be headed. in Guatemala a polite nod or greeting, knowing that you are yet another tourist taking pictures and spending money. in El Salvador you get a funny look. they are almost amused and slightly confused as to why you are there. they are just now getting used to seeing travelers, and if you don't speak spanish, you're basically screwed.
the big towns disagree with me, but the beaches are fantastic. El Tunco is a popular destination for beginner surfers, so with it comes a plethora of professional surfers waiting to give them a lesson. there is one road, two restaurants, and a handful of surf shops. we are staying at an amazing hotel called Hotel Mopelia, run by an eccentric guy from Belgium named Gil. breakfast costs $1.50 and the hammocks are plentiful. the beaches, strangely, are black. they are also covered with smooth, round rocks that come in and out with the waves. you know when the tide is changing because there is a loud clacking sound of the rocks being moved into different formations. with that in mind, it's not the ideal place to lay about, the risk being pelted by massive waves and stones upsetting the peace of sunning and all.
well i'm off to find my shoes, the same shoes i climbed the volcano with. they are still alive.
Me and my Mexican flip flops, seeing the world.
Elocution Lessons
Written 27-2-08
last week i went to school.
my friend James, who deserves mention, is this giant, lunatic Kiwi with a tendency to drink a bottle of tequila, then take off his shirt and give people rides on his back across the bar while drinking his second bottle. he is also a great friend and we get along well. anyway, his girlfriend was volunteering at the public school here in San Pedro teaching english, which is the poorer school. over beers, he told me about how they have fun, teach the kids how to say "Nice to meet you" and draw animals and stuff. it sounded fun after a couple of beers, and i suddenly blurt out "I wanna come help!"
this is absolute absurdity, as i don't even like kids. my left eye starts twitching when i'm around small people for too long. it could be a viable medical condition...i'm looking into it. before i know it, i've volunteered myself to be up at 7:00 am. i have no idea what came over me, but i actually dragged my lazy ass out of bed, put on something "conservative" and met James for breakfast before the maddness. we show up at the school to meet Lara from New York, the teacher we were helping.
the first class was ok. we introduced ourselves, and answered questions about what part of the world we were from. or Lara and I did, James speaks about 3 words of spanish. he acts more as bouncer, sitting next to the troublesome kids, trying to keep them in check. now when i say "troublesome," that's the understatement of the year. the kids were dirty, underprivledged brats who would do anything to take advantage of you, especially once the their teacher left for however long they wanted. James was quite literally pinning a few of them down and threatening to shake them. some of them sat there like little mobsters threatening other children, kicking them, punching them. some of the boys called me over to ask who my favorite "Luchador de California" was. Stone Cold Steve Austin was the only one I could think of off the top of my head. they grinned maliciously, and comenced to talk about a fight they had heard of where he almost ripped off the other wrestler's arms. special kids...at least Lara was awesome at commanding attention, and some of the kids actually wanted to learn english. there were these little girls...the kind who melt your heart (even mine) when they smile, who after every english exercise would walk up for you to check that they had written the sentence properly.
at one point, on a verb exercise, there were 25 little Guatemalan children chanting
"Lara is funny!"
"Raquel is brave!"
"Jose is strong!"
I also want to point out that James' name in spanish would be Jaime, but he thought it was Jose. since the first day they have known him as Jose, so he can't change it now, or else cause some serious confusion. i have special friends. after we taught the first class, we were so drained of energy that during our break we had to grab a beer. at 10:00 in the morning. it was James' idea, i swear. we went back for a second class, and i can honestly say that the first class was a bunch of angels going to communion in comparison to this group. the good thing though, is when your patience runs thin, they don't understand when you call them a group of "hellish little bastards." if they had understood, the gang-banging 5th grader in the back row might have shot me.
we made it out alive after the second class, and i had to go lie down, my left eye practically swollen. and yet, i felt a proud. thanks to me, about 40 Guatemalan kids know how to say "Hello, nice to meet you. My name is Santiago. You are pretty." as if there weren't enough of that going around in central america.
i should have just taught them to whistle and cat-call while following me down the street.
last week i went to school.
my friend James, who deserves mention, is this giant, lunatic Kiwi with a tendency to drink a bottle of tequila, then take off his shirt and give people rides on his back across the bar while drinking his second bottle. he is also a great friend and we get along well. anyway, his girlfriend was volunteering at the public school here in San Pedro teaching english, which is the poorer school. over beers, he told me about how they have fun, teach the kids how to say "Nice to meet you" and draw animals and stuff. it sounded fun after a couple of beers, and i suddenly blurt out "I wanna come help!"
this is absolute absurdity, as i don't even like kids. my left eye starts twitching when i'm around small people for too long. it could be a viable medical condition...i'm looking into it. before i know it, i've volunteered myself to be up at 7:00 am. i have no idea what came over me, but i actually dragged my lazy ass out of bed, put on something "conservative" and met James for breakfast before the maddness. we show up at the school to meet Lara from New York, the teacher we were helping.
the first class was ok. we introduced ourselves, and answered questions about what part of the world we were from. or Lara and I did, James speaks about 3 words of spanish. he acts more as bouncer, sitting next to the troublesome kids, trying to keep them in check. now when i say "troublesome," that's the understatement of the year. the kids were dirty, underprivledged brats who would do anything to take advantage of you, especially once the their teacher left for however long they wanted. James was quite literally pinning a few of them down and threatening to shake them. some of them sat there like little mobsters threatening other children, kicking them, punching them. some of the boys called me over to ask who my favorite "Luchador de California" was. Stone Cold Steve Austin was the only one I could think of off the top of my head. they grinned maliciously, and comenced to talk about a fight they had heard of where he almost ripped off the other wrestler's arms. special kids...at least Lara was awesome at commanding attention, and some of the kids actually wanted to learn english. there were these little girls...the kind who melt your heart (even mine) when they smile, who after every english exercise would walk up for you to check that they had written the sentence properly.
at one point, on a verb exercise, there were 25 little Guatemalan children chanting
"Lara is funny!"
"Raquel is brave!"
"Jose is strong!"
I also want to point out that James' name in spanish would be Jaime, but he thought it was Jose. since the first day they have known him as Jose, so he can't change it now, or else cause some serious confusion. i have special friends. after we taught the first class, we were so drained of energy that during our break we had to grab a beer. at 10:00 in the morning. it was James' idea, i swear. we went back for a second class, and i can honestly say that the first class was a bunch of angels going to communion in comparison to this group. the good thing though, is when your patience runs thin, they don't understand when you call them a group of "hellish little bastards." if they had understood, the gang-banging 5th grader in the back row might have shot me.
we made it out alive after the second class, and i had to go lie down, my left eye practically swollen. and yet, i felt a proud. thanks to me, about 40 Guatemalan kids know how to say "Hello, nice to meet you. My name is Santiago. You are pretty." as if there weren't enough of that going around in central america.
i should have just taught them to whistle and cat-call while following me down the street.
The Absurdity of it All
Written 14-12-08
two days ago i climbed a volcano in my flip flops.
and the lava didn´t even melt them!
this is dedicated to all the people who said i´d be crazy to try it. you were right.
Location: Antigua, Guatemala
Name: Volcan Pacaya
Status: Active
Terrain: Sharp
The Story:
i´ve been wanting to climb this volcano in flip flops for quite some time now. i´d heard about it in Belize, and since the only pair of shoes i have are my flip flops, it seemed like the natural, logical choice. i started out from the hostel with a good group of friends. my friend Victoria who i met in Tulum, three Aussies: Ross, Nick and Tim, Andrea from Sweden, Lauren and Sterling from California, and Paul from Holland.
it took an hour to drive from Antigua to Pacaya. we talked and laughed the whole way, swapping travel stories, completely forgetting we had to actually climb a mountain once we got there. or i did, at least. as i´m sure all of you know, i´m not really a hiker. more of a stroller, so Andrea, Victoria and I decided to take it slow. that´s the only way they got me to go, actually. volcano strolling.
we arrive at the bottom in a tiny village called San Francisco. as the vans pull up, we are immediately accosted by tiny children wielding walking sticks and trying to get us to buy them. it was the best three quetzales i have ever spent. i would also like to take a moment to recognize Ross, one of the Aussies, who is my flip flop partner in crime. Tim also started in flip flops, but bailed on our sacred mission ten minutes into the climb, and went back to the sanity that is running shoes.
so the group takes off up a steep incline. the terrain was rocky, and what i thought was dirt turned out to be very fine ash. we´re surrounded by trees, a quiet, calm air fills my lungs as i stumble around, panting and swearing. we hike in the woods for about half an hour, and finally make it to the top. but that was only half the battle...actually, that was the easy part. by this time i must also mention that my feet were black, the ashy dust mixing with sweat.
as we stand on the hill, catching our breath, we look out over a desolate wasteland of sharp, jagged black rocks as far as the eye can see. in between are small patches of glowing orange, tempting us to go further. we climb down a steep incline into the volcano, me slip-sliding the whole way. i make it to the rocks, which are painful to walk on for the people in running shoes. everyone kept looking back, giving me encouraging words of support, as they shake their heads and laugh at the obsurdity of it all. the guide was a little shocked...
"Chica...donde esta tus zapatas??!?"
"No te preocupes...mis pies estan muy fuerte."
he did not look pleased.
so after a long, difficult journey towards the lava, i finally arrive and meet up with the rest of the group. Andrea and I planned ahead and had brought marshmellows for the group. this got me back in the good graces of the guide, who immediately popped five or six onto a stick and hopped over to the lava for some roasting while he talked on his cell phone. we hung out there, took loads of pictures, and gradually people for the nerve to venture towards the heat.
and for all of you who don´t know, lava is HOT.
the heat waves burn your body, even if you´re standing a couple meters away.
i eventually hobbled over to roast a marshmellow, but i believe the shining moment for our group was when Lauren, in true genius form, tied a joint to her walking stick and walked over to light it. we sat around, basking in rays of glory, as we puff away in a crater of a volcano. definitely the best i´ve ever smoked, seeing how it was lit by lava.
that´s just really hard to beat.
as the sun threatens to set, we make our way back, me in the rear, taking my time. there were a couple accidents of people falling, and i was amazed that i came out unscratched, unscathed. i should have been bleeding from my feet by now. up the steep hill, we take one last glance of what we had accomplished, and we all exhale a big sigh of relief. as we head down the trail of ash we laugh and trip over rocks in the fading light. our heads are clear and our hearts are light. we just roasted marshmellows in the lava of an active volcano in the middle of Guatemala. and then the lesson we have learned hits us:
we can do ANYTHING. probably not the safest lesson to learn, but coming down, i felt so exhilarated, so invincible. i learned to sew, and i went into a volcano in my flip flops.
i can do ANYTHING. imagine the possibilities.
we hit the bottom of the trail and are accosted once again by children, this time trying to get their sticks back. my stick saved my life countless times...there is no way i am parting with it. i had to hold it over my head and run to the van so as not to get assaulted by the puppy eyes of the dirty Guatemalan children trying to get their sticks back.
back at the hostel i arrive to high fives and people staring at my dirty feet in an amazed disbelief. the party continues on from there...
tomorrow i´m headed to Lake Atitlan, probably San Pedro. if anyone is there, or knows of a good place to stay, let me know.
i´ll be wearing my flip flops.
two days ago i climbed a volcano in my flip flops.
and the lava didn´t even melt them!
this is dedicated to all the people who said i´d be crazy to try it. you were right.
Location: Antigua, Guatemala
Name: Volcan Pacaya
Status: Active
Terrain: Sharp
The Story:
i´ve been wanting to climb this volcano in flip flops for quite some time now. i´d heard about it in Belize, and since the only pair of shoes i have are my flip flops, it seemed like the natural, logical choice. i started out from the hostel with a good group of friends. my friend Victoria who i met in Tulum, three Aussies: Ross, Nick and Tim, Andrea from Sweden, Lauren and Sterling from California, and Paul from Holland.
it took an hour to drive from Antigua to Pacaya. we talked and laughed the whole way, swapping travel stories, completely forgetting we had to actually climb a mountain once we got there. or i did, at least. as i´m sure all of you know, i´m not really a hiker. more of a stroller, so Andrea, Victoria and I decided to take it slow. that´s the only way they got me to go, actually. volcano strolling.
we arrive at the bottom in a tiny village called San Francisco. as the vans pull up, we are immediately accosted by tiny children wielding walking sticks and trying to get us to buy them. it was the best three quetzales i have ever spent. i would also like to take a moment to recognize Ross, one of the Aussies, who is my flip flop partner in crime. Tim also started in flip flops, but bailed on our sacred mission ten minutes into the climb, and went back to the sanity that is running shoes.
so the group takes off up a steep incline. the terrain was rocky, and what i thought was dirt turned out to be very fine ash. we´re surrounded by trees, a quiet, calm air fills my lungs as i stumble around, panting and swearing. we hike in the woods for about half an hour, and finally make it to the top. but that was only half the battle...actually, that was the easy part. by this time i must also mention that my feet were black, the ashy dust mixing with sweat.
as we stand on the hill, catching our breath, we look out over a desolate wasteland of sharp, jagged black rocks as far as the eye can see. in between are small patches of glowing orange, tempting us to go further. we climb down a steep incline into the volcano, me slip-sliding the whole way. i make it to the rocks, which are painful to walk on for the people in running shoes. everyone kept looking back, giving me encouraging words of support, as they shake their heads and laugh at the obsurdity of it all. the guide was a little shocked...
"Chica...donde esta tus zapatas??!?"
"No te preocupes...mis pies estan muy fuerte."
he did not look pleased.
so after a long, difficult journey towards the lava, i finally arrive and meet up with the rest of the group. Andrea and I planned ahead and had brought marshmellows for the group. this got me back in the good graces of the guide, who immediately popped five or six onto a stick and hopped over to the lava for some roasting while he talked on his cell phone. we hung out there, took loads of pictures, and gradually people for the nerve to venture towards the heat.
and for all of you who don´t know, lava is HOT.
the heat waves burn your body, even if you´re standing a couple meters away.
i eventually hobbled over to roast a marshmellow, but i believe the shining moment for our group was when Lauren, in true genius form, tied a joint to her walking stick and walked over to light it. we sat around, basking in rays of glory, as we puff away in a crater of a volcano. definitely the best i´ve ever smoked, seeing how it was lit by lava.
that´s just really hard to beat.
as the sun threatens to set, we make our way back, me in the rear, taking my time. there were a couple accidents of people falling, and i was amazed that i came out unscratched, unscathed. i should have been bleeding from my feet by now. up the steep hill, we take one last glance of what we had accomplished, and we all exhale a big sigh of relief. as we head down the trail of ash we laugh and trip over rocks in the fading light. our heads are clear and our hearts are light. we just roasted marshmellows in the lava of an active volcano in the middle of Guatemala. and then the lesson we have learned hits us:
we can do ANYTHING. probably not the safest lesson to learn, but coming down, i felt so exhilarated, so invincible. i learned to sew, and i went into a volcano in my flip flops.
i can do ANYTHING. imagine the possibilities.
we hit the bottom of the trail and are accosted once again by children, this time trying to get their sticks back. my stick saved my life countless times...there is no way i am parting with it. i had to hold it over my head and run to the van so as not to get assaulted by the puppy eyes of the dirty Guatemalan children trying to get their sticks back.
back at the hostel i arrive to high fives and people staring at my dirty feet in an amazed disbelief. the party continues on from there...
tomorrow i´m headed to Lake Atitlan, probably San Pedro. if anyone is there, or knows of a good place to stay, let me know.
i´ll be wearing my flip flops.
Mayan Wannabe
Written 12-2-08
yesterday was market day in Antigua. the crowds started arriving at eight. by nine, the energy was high and the crowds were flowing. i had just arrived via night bus from Flores with two guys: Paul from the Netherlands and Fabio The Italian.
Paul is a goofy looking guy, well traveled, and a fan of pushing my sensitive american politics button. Fabio is so ridiculously Italian that even now, i smile at how funny he is. Fabio sees the world through his fingertips. the tomato he buys must be the best, the reddest, the ripest. when he smells spices, he stops, savoring the moment, eyes closed, hands outstretched while he slowly draws each individual smell through his Italian nose, as if the sweet aromas were gracing him with their presence. he wears a tight designer shirt, tight designer shorts, and a fanny pack/bum bag hanging loosely and classically from his Italian hips. he motions with his ever-lit cigarette, to the seeds, fruits, vegetables, colors, people, and breathes in the air of someone who enjoys life to the fullest extent, seeing the beauty in the crowded, sweaty market and the toothless old mayan women.
and he is absolutely right. it is beautiful.
i think my favorite thing about the market, besides the colors, is that this isn´t a tourist attraction. everywhere you look there are guatemalan people laughing, hugging, haggling over a one quetzal price difference, buying, selling, and generally feeling the energy that pulses through antigua every monday, thursday, and saturday.
"tomatelechugacebollazanahoriaypapas!"
"piñacocomanzanauvamelonyfresas!"
"camisascinturoneszapatasytiempoaireportelefonos!"
sometimes i wish i was born mayan. overlooking the fact that their people have been persecuted and mass-murdered for hundreds of years, i have a purely selfish reason for wanting to be mayan. i want to be able to wear so much color it hurts the eyes, actually pull it off, and not be the strange white girl trying to dress like a mayan. their clothing is so....cool! pretty printed tops, handmade with love, care, and tradition, long printed skirts wrapped around their hips, sashes around the middle, and ribbons twisted in their hair. i watch with envy the little girls running shouting laughing through the vendors, upsetting old women, chickens, and yes, goats. there was actually a guy walking through the crowds with two goats yelling "leche! leche!"
it was kinda gross.
i made it out alive with no money and a couple of bags. i have a small excuse because it´s cold here and i have zero winter clothes. i needed to make a couple of purchases. along with colorful fabrics and such, you´ll all be shocked to hear i purchased sewing equipment. i guess this is a good time to let you all know i´ve taken on a new task:
I´m going to learn how to do fire spinning.
it´s a good thing my hair is really flammable.
my lovely friend Juan Carlos is an amazing fire-spinner and taught me a few basics. my friend Brad gave me two practice spin ball things called poi, and then my friend Flo just randomly had some extra chain. this was meant to be. so i bought some cloth, thread, and needles and tried to sew some little finger grips. and i actually did it! it took some time, a lot of fuckups and a lot of beer, but i did it! now i can practice and make stuff up, and don´t worry, i won´t be lighting anything on fire soon.
there´s a possibility i might try to climb a volcano in my flip flops today.
if i can sew, i can do this too.
yesterday was market day in Antigua. the crowds started arriving at eight. by nine, the energy was high and the crowds were flowing. i had just arrived via night bus from Flores with two guys: Paul from the Netherlands and Fabio The Italian.
Paul is a goofy looking guy, well traveled, and a fan of pushing my sensitive american politics button. Fabio is so ridiculously Italian that even now, i smile at how funny he is. Fabio sees the world through his fingertips. the tomato he buys must be the best, the reddest, the ripest. when he smells spices, he stops, savoring the moment, eyes closed, hands outstretched while he slowly draws each individual smell through his Italian nose, as if the sweet aromas were gracing him with their presence. he wears a tight designer shirt, tight designer shorts, and a fanny pack/bum bag hanging loosely and classically from his Italian hips. he motions with his ever-lit cigarette, to the seeds, fruits, vegetables, colors, people, and breathes in the air of someone who enjoys life to the fullest extent, seeing the beauty in the crowded, sweaty market and the toothless old mayan women.
and he is absolutely right. it is beautiful.
i think my favorite thing about the market, besides the colors, is that this isn´t a tourist attraction. everywhere you look there are guatemalan people laughing, hugging, haggling over a one quetzal price difference, buying, selling, and generally feeling the energy that pulses through antigua every monday, thursday, and saturday.
"tomatelechugacebollazanahoriaypapas!"
"piñacocomanzanauvamelonyfresas!"
"camisascinturoneszapatasytiempoaireportelefonos!"
sometimes i wish i was born mayan. overlooking the fact that their people have been persecuted and mass-murdered for hundreds of years, i have a purely selfish reason for wanting to be mayan. i want to be able to wear so much color it hurts the eyes, actually pull it off, and not be the strange white girl trying to dress like a mayan. their clothing is so....cool! pretty printed tops, handmade with love, care, and tradition, long printed skirts wrapped around their hips, sashes around the middle, and ribbons twisted in their hair. i watch with envy the little girls running shouting laughing through the vendors, upsetting old women, chickens, and yes, goats. there was actually a guy walking through the crowds with two goats yelling "leche! leche!"
it was kinda gross.
i made it out alive with no money and a couple of bags. i have a small excuse because it´s cold here and i have zero winter clothes. i needed to make a couple of purchases. along with colorful fabrics and such, you´ll all be shocked to hear i purchased sewing equipment. i guess this is a good time to let you all know i´ve taken on a new task:
I´m going to learn how to do fire spinning.
it´s a good thing my hair is really flammable.
my lovely friend Juan Carlos is an amazing fire-spinner and taught me a few basics. my friend Brad gave me two practice spin ball things called poi, and then my friend Flo just randomly had some extra chain. this was meant to be. so i bought some cloth, thread, and needles and tried to sew some little finger grips. and i actually did it! it took some time, a lot of fuckups and a lot of beer, but i did it! now i can practice and make stuff up, and don´t worry, i won´t be lighting anything on fire soon.
there´s a possibility i might try to climb a volcano in my flip flops today.
if i can sew, i can do this too.
Not Exactly Greyhound
Written 7-2-08
i´d like to dedicate this email to all the bus drivers in the central America region.
thank you for not killing me yet.
yesterday i finally left Rio Dulce, where I spent an amazing 3 days. but that´s for later, because i want to talk about my bus trip to Finca Ixobel, where i am now. the bus looked like an old school bus, painted white, with the words Fuente del Norte painted on the side. as usual, i pay and step onto an overcrowded bus and have to stand. on the rear view mirror were a couple of stickers: the middle one said "Jesus Live," with a Yosemite Sam sticker to the left and a Storm X-Men sticker to the right. hanging from the mirror were no less than 4 crosses, rosaries and all, swaying with that sway only a crucifix can...creepily. on the side window is a final sticker of tweety bird dressed like a little yellow thug, a little gold chain around his feathery neck, his blue attire shows an obvious supporter of the Crips.
the driver gets in and crosses himself three times. this little old man beside me with crinkly eyes and a red leather machete holder does the same, and i can only go with the flow, praying to whoever might be listening that i would really appreciate making it to my destination. alive.
i´d like to share some wisdom in Guatemalan bus etiquette. first of all, men do not offer seats to women. or at least white women. as soon as i stepped my white ass into this 3rd class Guatemalan tank, the entire bus was instantly confused and disoriented.
"Why is she here?"
"She white! that means she´s rich...what is she doing on a 3rd class bus?"
"What will she do next?"
I get watched a lot on buses. mostly curiosity, i think. one of the first things i do upon getting on a bus where i´m the only white person is find a child and make him/her smile. then i step on someone´s foot and apologize profusely in spanish, letting them know i understand their language.
the bus is going full swing now, and seriously, NASCAR should really look into hiring Guatemalan bus drivers for their races. they go pretty slow on the straight parts, but they hit a curve, they downshift, downshift, open up the monster engine, then let it fly. it´s like a rollercoaster without seat belts, and if anyone didn´t know, i HATE rollercoasters. proper positioning for standing should be to spread your legs, bend and wedge your knees in between two seats, and hold onto the handlebars on the ceiling. basically your biceps will be flexed the entire ride, as there are always sharp turns, ups, downs, and an occasional slamming of the brakes. at this time, your adrenaline is pumping and it´s a good time for some bus music.
Rachel´s Favorite Guatemalan Bus Music Pick: Rage Against The Machine.
you have to turn it all the way up though, so everyone around you can hear it. the guy in front of you will step forward, the guy behind you that keeps stepping on you will move backward, and you won´t be bothered. (yesterday, near the song Wake Up, i looked around to find a 14 year old boy looking at me with a slight smirk on his face. his head bobs to my music. i wink at him and smile. we understand each other.)
Know Your Enemy comes on next. some lyrics:
the D
the E
the F
the I
the A
the N
the C
the E.
Mind of a Revolutionary.
Defiance. i figured out why i am standing on a 3rd class bus in Guatemala. i can travel with almost no money all the way across central america. i defy a cushy life for something completely unknown. i defy the necessity to go to college, get a degree, pay off loans, get a house, get a career, get a kid, then die knowing i spent too much time at the office in a cubicle, wishing i could have done something else instead. i defy the "american dream." i defy all the people on the bus, who thought i would give up or complain. i defy the people who judge others by their appearance or lifestyle. i defy people who blame me for the world´s problems because i was born in texas.
i am here to spread the word.
back to the bus. after an hour of standing, some people get out and i grab a seat. literally 10 minutes into enjoying the bloodflow coming back into my arms and hands, this tiny old lady hobbles on. her face is surprisingly smooth, except for the corners of her eyes, which are wrinkled and hold a slight twinkle. she wears a red knit dress, handmade and beautiful. there are no seats and no one offers theirs. i sigh, get up, and offer her my seat, which causes a small murmer throughout the bus.
i defy people who think i have no manners. My Momma raised me right.
the bus starts again, and i´m preparing my stance when i feel a tap on my shoulder. the old man with crinkly eyes and the machete is there behind me, offering me his seat. our eyes meet, and we thank each other with our eyes first, then I thank him verbally. he stands tall, taller than i thought he was, as the bus zigzags up and down the hillcountry of Guatemala. i sit there for half an hour until the bus stops in Poptun. as i get out, i thank the old man once again, smile at the old woman, and look over to the kid who likes Rage Against The Machine...he smiles back.
i´d like to dedicate this email to all the bus drivers in the central America region.
thank you for not killing me yet.
yesterday i finally left Rio Dulce, where I spent an amazing 3 days. but that´s for later, because i want to talk about my bus trip to Finca Ixobel, where i am now. the bus looked like an old school bus, painted white, with the words Fuente del Norte painted on the side. as usual, i pay and step onto an overcrowded bus and have to stand. on the rear view mirror were a couple of stickers: the middle one said "Jesus Live," with a Yosemite Sam sticker to the left and a Storm X-Men sticker to the right. hanging from the mirror were no less than 4 crosses, rosaries and all, swaying with that sway only a crucifix can...creepily. on the side window is a final sticker of tweety bird dressed like a little yellow thug, a little gold chain around his feathery neck, his blue attire shows an obvious supporter of the Crips.
the driver gets in and crosses himself three times. this little old man beside me with crinkly eyes and a red leather machete holder does the same, and i can only go with the flow, praying to whoever might be listening that i would really appreciate making it to my destination. alive.
i´d like to share some wisdom in Guatemalan bus etiquette. first of all, men do not offer seats to women. or at least white women. as soon as i stepped my white ass into this 3rd class Guatemalan tank, the entire bus was instantly confused and disoriented.
"Why is she here?"
"She white! that means she´s rich...what is she doing on a 3rd class bus?"
"What will she do next?"
I get watched a lot on buses. mostly curiosity, i think. one of the first things i do upon getting on a bus where i´m the only white person is find a child and make him/her smile. then i step on someone´s foot and apologize profusely in spanish, letting them know i understand their language.
the bus is going full swing now, and seriously, NASCAR should really look into hiring Guatemalan bus drivers for their races. they go pretty slow on the straight parts, but they hit a curve, they downshift, downshift, open up the monster engine, then let it fly. it´s like a rollercoaster without seat belts, and if anyone didn´t know, i HATE rollercoasters. proper positioning for standing should be to spread your legs, bend and wedge your knees in between two seats, and hold onto the handlebars on the ceiling. basically your biceps will be flexed the entire ride, as there are always sharp turns, ups, downs, and an occasional slamming of the brakes. at this time, your adrenaline is pumping and it´s a good time for some bus music.
Rachel´s Favorite Guatemalan Bus Music Pick: Rage Against The Machine.
you have to turn it all the way up though, so everyone around you can hear it. the guy in front of you will step forward, the guy behind you that keeps stepping on you will move backward, and you won´t be bothered. (yesterday, near the song Wake Up, i looked around to find a 14 year old boy looking at me with a slight smirk on his face. his head bobs to my music. i wink at him and smile. we understand each other.)
Know Your Enemy comes on next. some lyrics:
the D
the E
the F
the I
the A
the N
the C
the E.
Mind of a Revolutionary.
Defiance. i figured out why i am standing on a 3rd class bus in Guatemala. i can travel with almost no money all the way across central america. i defy a cushy life for something completely unknown. i defy the necessity to go to college, get a degree, pay off loans, get a house, get a career, get a kid, then die knowing i spent too much time at the office in a cubicle, wishing i could have done something else instead. i defy the "american dream." i defy all the people on the bus, who thought i would give up or complain. i defy the people who judge others by their appearance or lifestyle. i defy people who blame me for the world´s problems because i was born in texas.
i am here to spread the word.
back to the bus. after an hour of standing, some people get out and i grab a seat. literally 10 minutes into enjoying the bloodflow coming back into my arms and hands, this tiny old lady hobbles on. her face is surprisingly smooth, except for the corners of her eyes, which are wrinkled and hold a slight twinkle. she wears a red knit dress, handmade and beautiful. there are no seats and no one offers theirs. i sigh, get up, and offer her my seat, which causes a small murmer throughout the bus.
i defy people who think i have no manners. My Momma raised me right.
the bus starts again, and i´m preparing my stance when i feel a tap on my shoulder. the old man with crinkly eyes and the machete is there behind me, offering me his seat. our eyes meet, and we thank each other with our eyes first, then I thank him verbally. he stands tall, taller than i thought he was, as the bus zigzags up and down the hillcountry of Guatemala. i sit there for half an hour until the bus stops in Poptun. as i get out, i thank the old man once again, smile at the old woman, and look over to the kid who likes Rage Against The Machine...he smiles back.
Empanadas and Machetes
Written 3-2-08
Copan is a mayan ruins site close to the Guatemala border, and along with it is a small town with the same name. although i thought i would only stay a day, i took 3 to kick back, relax, and enjoy. first day i hit up the ruins, which of course, were amazing. i met two ladies in the gift shop, and we decided to split the price of a guide book. the guides were expensive, but we didn't want to wander around like total idiots, staring with our mouths open and not know what for.
Tina, Linda and I set off! Tina and i ended up off on our own, hiking up the big steps, around hills, and generally pretending to be "outdoor-sy." after the main ruins, Linda went back to town and Tina and I walked further up to a second set of ruins and hiked around trails for another hour or so. on our way back, we stopped at a gas station for the premise of getting a soda, and each eventually chose beer instead.
***note about Tina.
Tina is 68 years old. she has a granddaughter my age. she is a kick-ass traveling granny and we had a blast together. i would honestly love to travel with this woman and get into mischief, which would inevitably come our way. the only problem with this friendship is that either 1) Tina is fit and awesome for keeping up with me hiking all day, or 2) i'm at the exercise level of a 68 year old. the problem here is that i know option number two is probably true. kind of a buzz kill, you know?
***note about Honduras.
I have never seen so many guns in my life, and i'm from TEXAS. Honduras is an amazing country with amazing, kind people, rolling lush green mountains in every direction, and great street food. but the gun thing is a little weird. the reason i bring this up is because Tina and i made friends with the gas station attendant, who was missing his 4 front teeth and was toting a pump action 12 guage shotgun. the type of guy you want as a friend...he even let us take a picture with him. we were laughing so hard i could barely stand.
so, back to Copan. the streets are cobblestone, and the local fashion trend is a cowboy hat and a machete. seriously, along with the guns, everyone and their mother has a machete. some have little belt holsters, some wrapped in fabric and carried, most just randomly swinging. i looked into buying one, but it was too expensive and i don't think i would have been able to talk my way into taking it to another country. oh well...
the next day i hitchhiked with a couple of botanists living in alabama to a hot spring, which was pretty cool. my father is going to kill me for saying this, but it must be said. hitchhiking is fun. i have never done it alone, and i'm always following safe good vibes with it. that said, hitchhiking is a way of life here. most people don't have cars, and it's very common. and fun.
i finally left Copan, and took a shuttle to the border. there was this english kid in the van with me, 18 years of age i believe, without a single word of spanish. he also had stayed in Honduras about 4 months over his visa time. the guys at the border didn't know what to do. finally, after lengthy discussions translating, i get fed up and ask this scared kid how much money he has. i throw down the equivalent of $25 and explain that he'd like to pay a tax for the problem. the look at each other, pocket the money, and take us into a back room with no windows so he can get a special stamp...it said Welcome to Guatemala. Get the Hell out of our Country.
so yesterday i bribed a border cop. again. this is becoming quite a habit. after i make sure everything is ok for the kid, i go get my legitimate stamps, and we head out. it took 3 buses, but i made it to Rio Dulce. on the way, literally hundreds of motorcycles are passing on the other side of the street-highway thing. upon asking the driver, we find out that every year around this time there is a motorcycle rally at the border town of Esquipulas, and every motorcycle enthusiast in Guatemala is headed there. on a funny side note, if i translated it correctly, the name the riders call themselves is the Fighters of Zorro.
i rock up in Rio Dulce last night and am invited by some english guys to this dance bar, where i salsa dance til the sun rises. this morning i woke up and hopped on a boat to Livingston, where i am now. it's a tiny Garifuna village, not all that impressive. what was impressive was the boat ride. jungle lining both sides of the waterway, little hotels only accessible by boat dotting the shore. i tried to take pictures but i gave up because it was just too beautiful and the pictures weren't doing it justice. Guatemala has been, so far, great. the landscape is rich and beautiful beyond belief, the people are friendly and happy you're in their country, and i've made some great friends.
and i haven't even seen any guns yet.
sweet.
Copan is a mayan ruins site close to the Guatemala border, and along with it is a small town with the same name. although i thought i would only stay a day, i took 3 to kick back, relax, and enjoy. first day i hit up the ruins, which of course, were amazing. i met two ladies in the gift shop, and we decided to split the price of a guide book. the guides were expensive, but we didn't want to wander around like total idiots, staring with our mouths open and not know what for.
Tina, Linda and I set off! Tina and i ended up off on our own, hiking up the big steps, around hills, and generally pretending to be "outdoor-sy." after the main ruins, Linda went back to town and Tina and I walked further up to a second set of ruins and hiked around trails for another hour or so. on our way back, we stopped at a gas station for the premise of getting a soda, and each eventually chose beer instead.
***note about Tina.
Tina is 68 years old. she has a granddaughter my age. she is a kick-ass traveling granny and we had a blast together. i would honestly love to travel with this woman and get into mischief, which would inevitably come our way. the only problem with this friendship is that either 1) Tina is fit and awesome for keeping up with me hiking all day, or 2) i'm at the exercise level of a 68 year old. the problem here is that i know option number two is probably true. kind of a buzz kill, you know?
***note about Honduras.
I have never seen so many guns in my life, and i'm from TEXAS. Honduras is an amazing country with amazing, kind people, rolling lush green mountains in every direction, and great street food. but the gun thing is a little weird. the reason i bring this up is because Tina and i made friends with the gas station attendant, who was missing his 4 front teeth and was toting a pump action 12 guage shotgun. the type of guy you want as a friend...he even let us take a picture with him. we were laughing so hard i could barely stand.
so, back to Copan. the streets are cobblestone, and the local fashion trend is a cowboy hat and a machete. seriously, along with the guns, everyone and their mother has a machete. some have little belt holsters, some wrapped in fabric and carried, most just randomly swinging. i looked into buying one, but it was too expensive and i don't think i would have been able to talk my way into taking it to another country. oh well...
the next day i hitchhiked with a couple of botanists living in alabama to a hot spring, which was pretty cool. my father is going to kill me for saying this, but it must be said. hitchhiking is fun. i have never done it alone, and i'm always following safe good vibes with it. that said, hitchhiking is a way of life here. most people don't have cars, and it's very common. and fun.
i finally left Copan, and took a shuttle to the border. there was this english kid in the van with me, 18 years of age i believe, without a single word of spanish. he also had stayed in Honduras about 4 months over his visa time. the guys at the border didn't know what to do. finally, after lengthy discussions translating, i get fed up and ask this scared kid how much money he has. i throw down the equivalent of $25 and explain that he'd like to pay a tax for the problem. the look at each other, pocket the money, and take us into a back room with no windows so he can get a special stamp...it said Welcome to Guatemala. Get the Hell out of our Country.
so yesterday i bribed a border cop. again. this is becoming quite a habit. after i make sure everything is ok for the kid, i go get my legitimate stamps, and we head out. it took 3 buses, but i made it to Rio Dulce. on the way, literally hundreds of motorcycles are passing on the other side of the street-highway thing. upon asking the driver, we find out that every year around this time there is a motorcycle rally at the border town of Esquipulas, and every motorcycle enthusiast in Guatemala is headed there. on a funny side note, if i translated it correctly, the name the riders call themselves is the Fighters of Zorro.
i rock up in Rio Dulce last night and am invited by some english guys to this dance bar, where i salsa dance til the sun rises. this morning i woke up and hopped on a boat to Livingston, where i am now. it's a tiny Garifuna village, not all that impressive. what was impressive was the boat ride. jungle lining both sides of the waterway, little hotels only accessible by boat dotting the shore. i tried to take pictures but i gave up because it was just too beautiful and the pictures weren't doing it justice. Guatemala has been, so far, great. the landscape is rich and beautiful beyond belief, the people are friendly and happy you're in their country, and i've made some great friends.
and i haven't even seen any guns yet.
sweet.
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