23 December 2007
21 December 2007
time and crows
Flyby: Well, now that Guatemala seems like a misty, distant land/sensory experience, it feels very irrelevant to go into many details.
Guatemala to me, is cohetes and loud, snapping firecrackers at our feet, Jesus savior in all forms, slow choking almost-fall-off-the-cliff (despacio!!) smashed into all people around sleeping on an old woman's shoulder diesel fumes exploding colors and names dusty creeping soaring chicken buses, black beans in a can and dismal vegetables, antigua night dancing and after after after after parties, losing track losing things, armando's stories of war and plane crashes and su abuela and guatemalan food, new words food habits friends discoveries, chocobananas, moving through all altitudes, strain and comfort, matching history and text with now and flesh, endless mountains fallen trees rocky cliffs rivers puentes curvas bluest skies volcanes, tostadas, burning the devil, baked goods, goodbye guitar, roadside watermelons standing up, black and yellow corn drying on aluminum roofs, pigs roosters crazy cats.
Vuelo: Back in Mexico, I felt more at home than ever. We walked across the border, borders are such interesting, dynamic, mixing sharing evolving, loud places. In a few hours we were back in San Cristobal, blessed as we are, with a candle-lit home-cooked meal waiting for us. That night Raul and I went to an invitation-only Oaxacan party. I had no idea what to expect other than after a day of traveling and 2 weeks of wearing the same clothes, I wasn't really up for a fancy dinner party. And wow, we showed up to a hall of around 500 people, most of the women dressed in traditional Oaxacan dress, at least 5 bottles of liquor on each table, food, music, dancing, a celebration of the coming together of Oaxaquenos and Chiapenecos. We left at 11 and the party was only barely getting started.
Landing: Cancun is only a 3 hour flight away from Detroit, how how how. How can space and distance and surroundings be so easily erased, replaced. Well, either way, here I am in snowy Michigan, reminding myself that it's ok to throw toilet paper in the toilet and that people have to drive to stores to buy food. Oh dear.
Guatemala to me, is cohetes and loud, snapping firecrackers at our feet, Jesus savior in all forms, slow choking almost-fall-off-the-cliff (despacio!!) smashed into all people around sleeping on an old woman's shoulder diesel fumes exploding colors and names dusty creeping soaring chicken buses, black beans in a can and dismal vegetables, antigua night dancing and after after after after parties, losing track losing things, armando's stories of war and plane crashes and su abuela and guatemalan food, new words food habits friends discoveries, chocobananas, moving through all altitudes, strain and comfort, matching history and text with now and flesh, endless mountains fallen trees rocky cliffs rivers puentes curvas bluest skies volcanes, tostadas, burning the devil, baked goods, goodbye guitar, roadside watermelons standing up, black and yellow corn drying on aluminum roofs, pigs roosters crazy cats.
Vuelo: Back in Mexico, I felt more at home than ever. We walked across the border, borders are such interesting, dynamic, mixing sharing evolving, loud places. In a few hours we were back in San Cristobal, blessed as we are, with a candle-lit home-cooked meal waiting for us. That night Raul and I went to an invitation-only Oaxacan party. I had no idea what to expect other than after a day of traveling and 2 weeks of wearing the same clothes, I wasn't really up for a fancy dinner party. And wow, we showed up to a hall of around 500 people, most of the women dressed in traditional Oaxacan dress, at least 5 bottles of liquor on each table, food, music, dancing, a celebration of the coming together of Oaxaquenos and Chiapenecos. We left at 11 and the party was only barely getting started.
Landing: Cancun is only a 3 hour flight away from Detroit, how how how. How can space and distance and surroundings be so easily erased, replaced. Well, either way, here I am in snowy Michigan, reminding myself that it's ok to throw toilet paper in the toilet and that people have to drive to stores to buy food. Oh dear.
11 December 2007
Guatemala in small blocks
Flores: Our first stop, Flores is a small town on a small island inside a small lake. The streets are lined with tourist-catering businesses and restaurants, walls are plastered with advertisements for tours to Tikal, shuttle buses to anywhere in Guatemala, and cheap phone calls to the US and Europe. There is nowhere to buy vegetables except for a tiny, dusty store that has some sorry-looking tomatoes and a few bananas in wooden crates. For accomodations, because both cost 25 quetzales, we decide to go for the cheap hotel with a balcony over either of the backpacker hostals, though we do end up swinging by one of those for their 5 quetzal snack happy hour. Tiny 3-wheeled taxis zoom up and down the small main street, a bridge leads to Santa Elena but we never walk across it, our hotel attendant speaks in loud, high-pitched, slow Spanish and asks if we are from Spain or France. Only the ruins of Tikal keep us in this town for 2 nights.
Livingston: Second stop. This town is only reachable by boat, either a half hour by motor boat or and hour and a half by ferry. We take the ferry, grab some yucca as we wait for the boat to load and lurch across the water, and ride down the Rio Dulce just as sun sets. It's beautiful and to be near water again is as sweet as the cool breeze coming off of it. Livingston is a small fishing town composed of 4 different cultures, a tiny museum, a strip of touristy restaurants and hotels, and acres of jungle and communities that lead to the Caribbean Sea. We spent our time avoiding the "backpacker hostal" atmosphere of where we were staying (we just couldn't beat the 15 quetzal hammocks), eating fish and chocobananas, and staying out of the rain on those days when it just wouldn't stop coming down. Everyone is in the streets at night in Livingston, minus the tourists who are in bars or restaurants for most of the dark hours, and in some parts of the town where there isn't electricity, you can actually see the stars. The town is laidback, nothing really in the way of entertainment except for heaping bowls of tapado (fish, shrimp, coconut, banana soup) and the "cultural center," located behind the basketball court, that consists of a couple of crocodiles, a couple alligators and a few turtles in cement enclosures. Though one night we did get to see some Garifuna drumming and dancing while sipping on some Gallos. We spent an extra night here, hoping for the sun to show itself again. It did and we spent the day hiking for a few hours through much of Livingston, across a river, down the beach next to the Caribbean Sea, and through the forest until we reached Los 7 Altares, a series of waterfalls and pools. We climbed over stones and through thick, black mud until we got to a deeper pool where we jumped off the waterfall into green, deep, calm water.
We left Livingston on a hellish boat ride, which was supposed to be a pleasant trip down the Rio Dulce with some stops for walking or swimming. Instead, we had an hour's worth of cold rain whipping us in the face and running down our plastic protection onto our necks and legs.
Livingston: Second stop. This town is only reachable by boat, either a half hour by motor boat or and hour and a half by ferry. We take the ferry, grab some yucca as we wait for the boat to load and lurch across the water, and ride down the Rio Dulce just as sun sets. It's beautiful and to be near water again is as sweet as the cool breeze coming off of it. Livingston is a small fishing town composed of 4 different cultures, a tiny museum, a strip of touristy restaurants and hotels, and acres of jungle and communities that lead to the Caribbean Sea. We spent our time avoiding the "backpacker hostal" atmosphere of where we were staying (we just couldn't beat the 15 quetzal hammocks), eating fish and chocobananas, and staying out of the rain on those days when it just wouldn't stop coming down. Everyone is in the streets at night in Livingston, minus the tourists who are in bars or restaurants for most of the dark hours, and in some parts of the town where there isn't electricity, you can actually see the stars. The town is laidback, nothing really in the way of entertainment except for heaping bowls of tapado (fish, shrimp, coconut, banana soup) and the "cultural center," located behind the basketball court, that consists of a couple of crocodiles, a couple alligators and a few turtles in cement enclosures. Though one night we did get to see some Garifuna drumming and dancing while sipping on some Gallos. We spent an extra night here, hoping for the sun to show itself again. It did and we spent the day hiking for a few hours through much of Livingston, across a river, down the beach next to the Caribbean Sea, and through the forest until we reached Los 7 Altares, a series of waterfalls and pools. We climbed over stones and through thick, black mud until we got to a deeper pool where we jumped off the waterfall into green, deep, calm water.
We left Livingston on a hellish boat ride, which was supposed to be a pleasant trip down the Rio Dulce with some stops for walking or swimming. Instead, we had an hour's worth of cold rain whipping us in the face and running down our plastic protection onto our necks and legs.
01 December 2007
30 November 2007
So, are we going to the jungle or what?
Are you happy now?: After many visits to archaelogical sites in Mexico, I had pretty much decided that I'd seen enough ruins and pyramids to last my lifetime. So when we arrived to Tikal, in the middle of the Peten jungle of northern Guatemala, and discovered that the price had risen from $6.50 USD to $20, I really wasn't too upset that I didn't have enough money to get in. Instead, I sat down with my book to wait for Abby and Johanna for the day and tried not to think in the wasted money spent on transport. But, as luck (as usual) would have it, after about 20 minutes a young European approached me, offering to sell his already purchased ticket as he was leaving the park. "Well, I'm sure I can get more for it, but it's no problem," he said and walked me to the entrance so that I was certain that the ticket was valid.
After paying him the only 50 quetzales I had to my name, I was confronted with a choice of 3 paths that led into the jungle, with no clear indicators of where I should head. Without thinking much, I took the one to the left and found myself walking for 40 minutes or more though pure, thick jungle without seeing another human being the entire time. All around me the jungle exploded with noises, tree branches falling, screaming monkeys, crying birds, and a constant chirrr, whirrr of insects above and below. The air was dark and damp, the path muddy and slippery and I stepped along contentedly, feeling quite safe despite being in such a wild place.
Eventually I came upon a partially restored, partially crumbling pyramid rising out of a moss-covered hill. I was completely alone, I felt, and in awe of these ancient stones. I know little about the actual history, so I let my imagination roam wild a bit and then continued on. Another 20 minutes of walking in solitude before I took a few turns and came across the main plaza, where the most prominent pyramids are. All of a sudden, people were on all sides of me, climbing up and down pyramids and stone structures, taking pictures wildly, laughing and shouting in a variety of languages, children skipped around and older folks rested on wooden benches- it appeared to me as a playground, a big, archaelogical playground, although they probably don't sell beer at many playgrounds, and at this one they do. It was a little disorienting after being by myself most of the morning, so I found myself trying to step politely away when an entire family ascended the structure I was one, and rather than ask anyone to take my picture, I instead got very aquainted with my camera timer (I'm quite good at it now).
By the time I found Johanna and Abby sitting on the top of one of the temples, though, I was ready for company. We did some exploring in the Mundo Perdido, found the Bat Palace and were looking around in the main plaza again before the entire sky tore itself open and a torrential rain forced us to go running through the jungle. For 15 minutes, we ran as the paths quickly converted into muddy, rushing streams of waters and as great puddles welled up in front of us. The trees did little to protect us and the mud made going too fast a precarious situation. Just as we arrived to the van, the jungle rain dissipated and the sun returned. Typical- we all knew that tropical rains are intense and brief, but perhaps subconsciously we all needed a run through warm rain.
After returning to Flores, a dark, creamy, delicious Moza beer was perfect. The darkest beer we've had in awhile, and worth every quetzal.
After paying him the only 50 quetzales I had to my name, I was confronted with a choice of 3 paths that led into the jungle, with no clear indicators of where I should head. Without thinking much, I took the one to the left and found myself walking for 40 minutes or more though pure, thick jungle without seeing another human being the entire time. All around me the jungle exploded with noises, tree branches falling, screaming monkeys, crying birds, and a constant chirrr, whirrr of insects above and below. The air was dark and damp, the path muddy and slippery and I stepped along contentedly, feeling quite safe despite being in such a wild place.
Eventually I came upon a partially restored, partially crumbling pyramid rising out of a moss-covered hill. I was completely alone, I felt, and in awe of these ancient stones. I know little about the actual history, so I let my imagination roam wild a bit and then continued on. Another 20 minutes of walking in solitude before I took a few turns and came across the main plaza, where the most prominent pyramids are. All of a sudden, people were on all sides of me, climbing up and down pyramids and stone structures, taking pictures wildly, laughing and shouting in a variety of languages, children skipped around and older folks rested on wooden benches- it appeared to me as a playground, a big, archaelogical playground, although they probably don't sell beer at many playgrounds, and at this one they do. It was a little disorienting after being by myself most of the morning, so I found myself trying to step politely away when an entire family ascended the structure I was one, and rather than ask anyone to take my picture, I instead got very aquainted with my camera timer (I'm quite good at it now).
By the time I found Johanna and Abby sitting on the top of one of the temples, though, I was ready for company. We did some exploring in the Mundo Perdido, found the Bat Palace and were looking around in the main plaza again before the entire sky tore itself open and a torrential rain forced us to go running through the jungle. For 15 minutes, we ran as the paths quickly converted into muddy, rushing streams of waters and as great puddles welled up in front of us. The trees did little to protect us and the mud made going too fast a precarious situation. Just as we arrived to the van, the jungle rain dissipated and the sun returned. Typical- we all knew that tropical rains are intense and brief, but perhaps subconsciously we all needed a run through warm rain.
After returning to Flores, a dark, creamy, delicious Moza beer was perfect. The darkest beer we've had in awhile, and worth every quetzal.
28 November 2007
Haze and water
Squint: Finally we made it to Guatemala, one long, dark night of driving and flat tire later. As hard as I tried I couldn't fulfill my duties as the driverside passenger, though I did try feebly to make small talk with Vladimir for a short while before the mountain curves and the darkness lulled me to sleep like a baby. We slept on the border and in the morning boarded a small, wooden boat across the Usumacinta River. At the top of the muddy stone stairs awaiting us on the other side, we jumped right on a bus, made a quick and painless stop at immigration, and we were off on a long, bumpy, dirt road for many hours before reaching the island of Flores. Along the way the streets are filled with chickens and pigs and children who rush to the ends of paths to watch the bus go past. The land is green but the signs of destructive deforestation are all around us- mainly in freshly burnt palm remnants, rows of freshly planted corn, and acres upon acres of cattle farms. Guatemala is also filled with fog, rising up from lakes and valleys, covering the road at times and at others, the sky. Figuring out how much Quetzales are actually worth is making our brains ache and the amount of English on walls and stores is confusing. Maybe for the first time in a few months I feel that I am somewhere very unfamiliar.
24 November 2007
Kitchens
Dull knives: My favorite theme of San Cristobal so far has been dinners. It started with having our very own kitchen to play in, proceeded with the opportunity to cook in Raul's kitchen, and has continued with invitations. In Raul's kitchen, we met some writers from Seattle who invited us to their kitchen for an anti-imperialist Thanksgiving dinner. We showed up with wine and sweet bread and were amazed at the beauty and extravagance of their home, sitting on a hill like a little castle, complete with amazing views of the city and stars. The night wound on with warm wine, a feast of Mexican, cuban and manynation-inspired foods, english and spanish balancing each conversation. In that kitchen Raul ran into an old friend, hence our next invitation. But, with a free night between dinner party invites, what else to do but to cook an amazing dinner in a comfortable kitchen. We now rely on Raul to make the guacamole.
Universal: Maybe a milestone in my Spanish, translating Patsy Cline songs for Raul so he could understand Abby and I's distraught faces and us clutching at our hearts, and somehow I could communicate at least a bit of the sorrow and sentiment.
Universal: Maybe a milestone in my Spanish, translating Patsy Cline songs for Raul so he could understand Abby and I's distraught faces and us clutching at our hearts, and somehow I could communicate at least a bit of the sorrow and sentiment.
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