Category Archives: central america

Foiled Fake Frenchie

Posted on by
Reply

I speak photo-French, which means I can give a variety of commands directing a person into any number of positions and poses — and then ask them, “how would you like to pay for that.” French that is not likely to be of use to me anywhere outside of Club Med or the Paris red light district.

And while I UNDERSTAND much of what people are asking and saying to me, I simply haven’t the vocabulary to respond. 50% of the time my response to French questions is “oui” (pronounced “we”) — which means “yes.” And the other 50% of the time my response is “ouais” (pronounced “whey”) — which means “yeah.” And for some reason, 90% of the time, the questioning Frenchie smiles, nods and walks away *seemingly* content. I, confident that my ruse has not been revealed, am similarly content.

But alas, sometimes the fake frenchie is foiled.

Yesterday, as often happens, a mini-frenchie of about seven years of age came up to me and tugged on my pant leg and rattled off a series of “coma la ley loo, la ley lou voo” questions to which I patted her on the head, gave her a confident smile and continuously answered each question with “ouais” or “oui.”

“Oh la la!” she pronounced and bounced off about her business, as I did mine.

Ten minutes later, the little French fry returned followed by a small crowd of French parental figures and a long line of questions, of which, even I, in my limited knowledge of the language, recognized as anything but “photo” related.

I tried out “oui ” a couple of times.

And then I tried out “ouais” a few times.

And exhausting my options, I finally sighed, and asked the group if anyone spoke English.

“Uh zittle bit, yes. My daughter…zee zays that you zold her that you are zee famous actress. That you have been in many movie. Iz diez true? Zhe zays zou told her all zhis.”

My explanation of myself was so disgraceful, I need not even describe it here, except to maybe note that more than one French nose was turned up at me.

Aw well. I guess it’s a good thing I’m out of here next week and on to countries where I won’t be so easily recognized as the famous French actress that I am. :)

And speaking of my Spanish Expedition…it has evolved!

After arrival and exploration of Madrid, I will be re-locating to Sevilla — where the sun is shining strongest on Spain at this time of year. And in May, I have decided to take the one month pilgrimage walking across Northern Spain known as “El Camino de Santiago.” More details coming, as they are discovered….

Share

quote this

Posted on by
Reply

Where to even start?!

How about with the stat that after 24 hour of flying around the world, I did finally arrive in Punta Cana of the Dominican Republic. As of my arrival on Sunday, I began my 24/7 crash course in the logistics of Cameras & Club Med. The course covers an array of subjects including, but absolutely not limited to; French, Spanish, Club Med GO (staff) lifestyle, and shooting upwards of 400 smiles a day.

And what exactly am I shooting? Portrait sessions, kids shows, trapeze shows, GO shows, cocktail socials, archery, tennis, award ceremonies, Santa sittings, group photos, sailing, kayaking, discos, salsa lessons, backstage, roller-blading, fashion shows, pool aerobics, and private family photo sessions just to start… Essentially I roam the play fields of the Club from morning until late night — flashing my smile and then flashing at the guests’ smiles. It’s a LOT of work. A few small sacrifices in the line of duty: 1. the fat on my thighs from my new “walk-squat-flash, walk-lunge-flash” work-out routine (seeing as most of my subjects average about 3 ft tall) and 2. all the feeling in the tip of my right hand middle finger. Yeah. I have no idea what the numbness is about — but I’ve had no sensitivity in that finger for 7 days and counting now. I’ll keep you updated. (Cause I know how facinating the sensitivity status of my digit is to YOU.)

Okay. I’ve got kids to shoot. (But don’t quote me on that.)

But you can quote this….

While trying to get a tot to smile, one mom promised, “Honey…if you smile at the nice photographer woman…I’ll let you poop in the ocean!”

Flashed me cheek-to-cheek grin.

And wouldn’t you? ;)

Share

a reality float

Posted on by
Reply

A Reality Float

This weekend I was at salsa bar in Portland. I escaped from a twirling-wonderland on the dance floor for a brief re-hydration break.

The bartender gave me the acknowledgement nod.

Me: “Agua, por fa.”

Bartender: *Weird look*

Me: “I’m sorry…. WATER, please.”

Bartender: “In a glass?”

Me: “Agua Pura, en botella.”

Bartender: “WHAT?” *disturbed now by the amount of time I was taking*

Me: “I’m sorry! Water…purified…I can’t remember what’s it’s called!”

Bartender: “In a bottle?” *raising an eyebrow in an expression that added “you freak” onto the end of his otherwise polite question*

Me: “YES! Thank you!” I gasped.

Yes. Assimilation back into American culture is on my thoughts today. If you follow this journal, you probably know that I had a lot of pre-conceived ideas about what I’d feel and think upon re-entry into this society. Well, big surprise, almost everything has turned out to be contrary to my expectations. Of course I should have known better. For anytime I think I can advance on the chess-board-of-Expectation, Life has a way of slyly making some totally unforeseen move, forcing me to toss my previously successful strategy out the window ranting “you are good for nothing!”, where upon Life confidently and mockingly proclaims “checkmate.” So after successfully adapting to “home” for one month, I’ve taken some time to reflect on a few of those self-created myths regarding my re-integration into American reality that are currently fertilizing the flowerbed outside my mental window.

Myth #1: That bouts of depression and sadness would be unavoidable and that I would constantly talk about the past year and feel frustration in being unable to covey concepts that only existed in a Central American reality.

Contrary to what I expected, I have NOT yet had a single urge to break down crying in the shower in desperation of my discontinued adventures in Central America. Neither have I had the urge to pull out my hair and run screaming to the nearest airport to purchase a ticket to Anywhere, Buthere. In fact, I am totally and completely content.

Now as I had correctly guessed, the year abroad HAS taken on a dream-like quality. Of course the capital-case BUT comes before the fact that it is a dream I remember with VIVID clarity and with lasting impact. It’s almost as if the year was filled with SO many adventures and comical moments, that I actually NEEDED this downtime in order to fully relive, re-appreciate and LAUGH over the delight they were really responsible for. Have you ever caught a stranger on the street alone, and grinning or laughing hysterically to his or herself? Well that person is me. I now regularly find myself during moments of reflective solitude (on my runs, while in my car alone, laying in bed in the morning, etc) suddenly breaking out in mad fits of laughter. So not only am I not sad, but the memories only continue to entertain and delight.

Also, in direct contradiction to my prior assumption that I would have an impossible time relating my experiences to people at home, I have found that friends and family actually DO want to hear my stories, and are VERY patient and genuine in their interest in understanding my experiences. Of course, ironically, once I got here, I didn’t really feel like talking about my experiences any more. Instead I found myself totally content with full ownership on the patents of those memories, and even so much as treasured them, just for BEING my own.

So here I am – happy. A state of being that I’m beginning to suspect is nothing but a permanent trait of my character. I give Genetics the Grammy for this overly optimistic disposition of mine knowing that my own name will probably get a mention somewhere in the thank-you speech. The only down-flaw with what I call my “prozac-perspective” is that I can’t seem to give an objective opinion on my experiences:

“What did you think of Guatemala?”

“I LOVED it!”

“What did you think of the chicken busses?”

“There were GREAT!”

“How did you like working in the dump?”

“It was AWESOME.”

Sometimes, when asked for an opinion, I neglect to realize that SOME people don’t LIKE countries with especially high crime rates. That some people don’t see rides on overcrowded and dangerous busses as adventurous. That some people aren’t comfortable working in a community filled with dangerous fumes, diseases, and gangs. Which is why when I’m asked for opinions or advice, I most often find myself simply handing over my tattered and torn Lonely Planet Guidebook.

Probably the most important falsity of the myth is that I don’t feel any immediate inclination to return to the places where all those fond memories were born. Although that time and those experiences have influenced my character development significantly and irreversibly, I am cheerfully satisfied with my performance in that Guatemalan play and find myself ready and eager to move on to my next set.

Myth #2: That the joys of new passions discovered in Central America would be nontransferable to my life in America.

As evident by the opening quotes, Central America has left ample evidence of her lasting influence on my life. Suddenly I find Spanish everywhere! It’s in the aisles in supermarkets, over loudspeakers in airports, in bookstores and magazines, on multiple television channels and certainly in conversations around every corner. This weekend alone, I had at least six conversations in Spanish with different individuals from Guatemala, Salvador and Columbia. And it’s not that I seek these people out now – no, they were always there. It’s that my eyes and ears have just been opened to awareness of their presence. Yesterday, I even attended (and was severely humbled) at an all-day Salsa workshop in Portland. And my wonderful and dear father makes sure there is an endless supply of both avocados AND mangos in the kitchen solely to appease the unrelenting appetite for these treats that I acquired in Guatemala. Unbeknownst to me, all my favorite things about Central America had smuggled themselves into my baggage looking for a little adventure abroad of their own. How silly was I to think that those newfound passions would be deterred by a four-hour flight!

Myth #3: That I would feel unchanged.

Although totally happy, nothing could have prepared me for how DIFFERENT I feel.

A year of absence from American social influences has proved enlightening, if not a bit disturbing. Suddenly I feel bombarded with pressures and demographic norms and numbers and rules as to how to live my life.

I should get married before I’m 30? I should commit to each career for 2 years before considering a change? I should have started saving for my retirement when I was in my early 20’s? I need to go to grad school? It’s best to have children when I’m young? I’m wasting money by renting instead of investing in a house? 2 weeks of vacation from work each year is enough?

Now laid before me — in a light that only a year abroad could have shed — I can see the absolutely overwhelming influences of this American society. Twenty-five years of age here directly translates to twenty five years of demanding instruction by school, family, bosses, church, magazines, doctors, friends, movies, parents, teachers, co-workers and books on what exactly it takes to be happy in life. AS WELL as the guidelines to the who’s, what’s, when’s and where’s of attaining that happiness. And although Society has some serious muscle, I certainly was never force-fed. I would say it took more of an innocent and playful “putt-putting” plane approach, coming in for such a happy landing, that I didn’t even know it was mashed peas I was being served. I’ve never considered myself particularly susceptible to societal notions of “ideal”, but I am forced to admit that this atmosphere makes me squirm. Society keeps on feedin’ and I know I no longer have any obligation to eat it. I have put my spoon down, but regardless, I am uncomfortable at this dinner table. When faced with those tiers of expectation, how can anyone feel less than a failiure? No one can live THAT life. I will happily raise my hand and declare myself defunct from that ideal right now.

So here I am. I have absolutely no desire to let any type of precious metal near the fourth finger on my left hand like 95% of my friends. And I do NOT want an American flag sticker on my car. Fancy cars hold absolutely no wow-power for me and I could care less which big shot law firm the guy sitting next to me at the bar works for. I’m in the moonless-dark when it comes to the dinner discussion lingo pertaining to house down payments, wedding registries and Italian shoes. And two weeks of vacation from work a year will never be enough.

Being age 25 in the States, and being 25 on the road, are two totally different things. On the road, I am young. In America, I am “of age to start accepting certain responsibilities.” On the road I am free of commitments. In America, without a commitment to a career or significant other, I am “not preparing for my future.” On the road, I am chasing down my dreams. In America, I appear to be “running away from responsibility.” On the road, I am opening multiple doors to new worlds of opportunity. In America, I am closing doors and “passing up opportunities that I can only take advantage of while I’m young.”

And on the road, I am surrounded by others who share my excitement for the pursuit of something different. On the road, we’re all alone, all “in between” careers, all out of our element, and all vacationing from influence. And I’m learning that as wonderful as being “independent” and “alone” and “different” are, there is still something very special about having a community of people who share your same tastes at the dining table of life.

And above all else, on “the road”, the person I agree with, the person I AM, the 25-year old that I am comfortable BEING — feels at home. There, is my table.

Of course, I had to come here again to so clearly recognize that difference.

I feel as if I’m not so much “caught” but “floating” between realities. I understand this American one, know all the rules and can play the game, and even enjoy it (after all, it wasn’t so long ago that I took it quite seriously). And as long as I learn to “play” only for the sake of “playing” (and not “winning” — whatever prize that would be) — it can be quite fun. I take my turns and watch peacefully as others take theirs but I have no real interest in this pursuit. It’s not my game. My pursuit, my “place” is not here — not now anyway. As for what reality I’m floating TO, I’m not sure, and THAT, I admit, is a bit scary. But I do know I’m more comfortable with “the float” than I am at the dinner table discussing color schemes for wedding napkins. MY place is being set at a dinner table somewhere else, amongst unknown friends, in unknown lands — where mashed peas are not on the menu. And in this transitional period, I know that place will await me patiently. As I, smiling and squirming just a little bit in my seat, continue to await my path to that table.

Share

adventure incognito

Posted on by
Reply

Adventure Incognito

“Everything will work out.”

A simple mantra chanted regularly by travelers around the world.

“Everything will work out.”

Easy to advice, more challenging to receive, and sometimes downright impossible to believe.

Easy to advice — when it’s not YOU who has just had your only credit card (and only form of monetary funds) rejected at the third bank due to “inadequate funds.” Challenging to receive — when you find YOUR backpack slashed and your passport missing. Impossible to believe — when you find YOURSELF stranded on an island because of bad weather, with a flight to catch the next morning.

But it happens to all of us. Very few travelers are spared at least a few fearful, panicked, nerve-wrecking or adrenaline-pumping moments while on the road. And it doesn’t matter how many credit cards you bring, or how many locks you put on your pack, or how many days you left yourself to get to the airport because The Travel Gods of Misfortune and Accident care little for those details. But maybe we are making judgments too quickly? Maybe, if we look closer at our most memorable travel tales, we will see that it is exactly that element of insecurity, mistake or hazard that made those excursions so remarkable and memorable. And maybe we will recognize that it is actually the Goddess of Adventure, spreading her magic in the GUISE of the God of Misfortune and the RUSE of the God of Accident, but simply traveling incognito.

Maybe.

Amsterdam, Netherlands (August 1999)

The last day on my two-month tour of Europe and I found that in addition to overdrawing my two bank accounts, I had somehow lost my emergency fund of forty dollars that I was relying on to get me through the night and to the airport. After having run across town to three different full hostels, I found myself at the counter of The Flying Pig hostel in downtown Amsterdam. Exhaustion, trepidation, and apprehension were only a few of the feelings wrenching my gut as I dropped my heavy pack to the floor and with begging eyes, inquired as to if a single cot in the dorm was available. The attendant, without looking up, apologized and said no. My panic must have taken form, jumped up on the desk, let out a yelp and collapsed on the booking sheet he was studying, because he looked up, into my eyes, and said, “Um. Well, wait here. Let me see.” An hour later I was settled into a cot paid for at the discounted rate of “whatever you can dig up in your pack” (which actually included money in three different currencies). Somehow, the rumor of my moneyless-ness had spread, and as I collapsed into the pillows in the living room, I found myself approached by three different strangers. One dropped me off a sandwich, one passed me a beer, and one offered me herb; Three kings with offerings better than frankincense and myrrh. I was even offered the train fare to get to the airport. And they expected nothing in return. “Everything worked out,” thanks to the astounding generosity of these favors from complete strangers.

Isla Grande, Brazil (March 2000)

We had hired a boat and captain to take us to the other side of the island on a three-hour tour (…a threeeee-hour tour). Our “mistake” was not checking out the quality and speed of his boat. It took us five hours just to get to our destination on the other side of the island. Our captain informed us that it would take at least as long to get back, but now it was getting dark, the water was rough and we were going against the wind and waves. I had to get back by the next afternoon in order to catch a ferry to the mainland to get back to Rio, where I was to catch my return flight to the US. But the four Australians we had just spent a fantastic day with on the boat invited us to flip off that fate and, instead, camp out the night on that side of the island with them. We asked the captain if he could return and pick us up first thing in the morning. He told us he couldn’t assure anything, but he’d “try.” “Will any other boats come by?” we inquired. He told us the chances were very slim.

“To hell with it! Drop us off at the next village!”

The next village was a small stretch of beach with a few houses — all home to related families of fishermen. We waved goodbye to the captain *wondering if we’d ever see him again* and hopped onto the beach with nothing but our bikinis. That night, the six of us toasted Caipirinhas on the open deck of a house owned by one of the fisherman. He cooked for us a splendid supper of the fish and squid he had caught that day and proudly showed me a picture of a “brother who’s best friend had a son that lived in California.” Another local made his way up to the deck playing a tambourine and singing in Portuguese. He played, laughed and danced until we had pushed all the dinner tables out of the way and were ALL dancing, laughing and singing with him. It went on like this for hours. Eventually a swim was suggested. Having never heard of phosphorescence in science class, I could only conclude that the trail of glowing light that followed each underwater movement was NOTHING less than pure magic. Our enthrallment and pure delight with the underwater fire works made even the blood dripping down our legs (from crashing up on the coral) only laughable. “Enchanted” is the only word I can use to describe that night. And the next day the captain DID show up….two hours late. On the ride back home, we caught up to a speed boat, hailed it down, jumped boats and raced back to the port. We made our scheduled ferry by about five minutes — and, *surprise* — “everything worked out” just perfectly.

Tortugero, Costa Rica (October 2000)

Tortugero is a small town in Costa Rica that is ONLY accessible by boat through canals or by plane. Opting for a day longer on the island instead of a day traveling by boat and bus, my best travel mate Kim, and I, had purchased plane tickets to get us back to San Jose in time for our return flights to the States. We showed up at the “airport” promptly at 7:30 for our 8:00 flight. I put the word “airport” in quotes because the “airport”, in this case, was simply a sand landing patch. A plane landed and we loaded our luggage and boarded the small craft. After take off, I inquired as to why we were heading North instead of West. I was told that we were picking up a few more passengers in a small town called Yamaha. This I noted as peculiar as I looked around and saw that there was only ONE seat left vacant on the plane.

I nudged Kim and laughed nervously, “We ARE on the right plane aren’t we? Cause we didn’t give that guy our tickets did we?”

A man across the isle interjected, “You’re going to San Jose right? Yep! This is the right plane!”

As the plane came down for landing, Kim and I laughed at such a silly idea. Ha! Busses and trains, sure…but now really, who could actually get on the wrong plane?

While we all waited patiently, I observed outside two awaiting passengers talking with the pilots. I watched as the passengers hand gestures became more animated and angry, and as the pilots pulled out papers and scratched their heads.

And then I knew it. A shit-eating grin was all I could manage as one of the pilots boarded the plane and announced, “I’m going to read off a roster of names. If you could please raise your hand if your name is NOT called, I would appreciate it.”

He didn’t need to read the roster. We raised our hands and I choked back on my giggles.

He looked us directly in the eyes and said, “I’m sorry. But one of you will have to stay here.”

I could stifle no longer. Laughing, I asked, “And where are we sir? And are there any busses or boats we can catch to get to San Jose?”

“I’m sorry. But one of you will have to stay,” he repeated. “You can only leave this town by plane. I will try to contact the plane that you were SUPPOSED to be on, and maybe they can come and pick you up here.”

THAT was certainly an idea worthy of more laughs.

Five minutes later, we found ourselves sitting on our backpacks, in the middle of the runway, in a town in the middle of NOWHERE, waving goodbye to our plane…. and laughing hysterically about these facts.

&nbsp&nbsp

When the laughing fit finally subsided, we smiled and exchanged “Now what?” glances at each other.

“Everything will work out. It always does,” we agreed.

As if on cue, a man, out of nowhere appeared and said, “Hear you guys have a problem. I know a guy. I’ll send him over.” And he walked away. Five more minutes later, we met Mr. Brown. He shook our hands firmly and said, “Ya know? It JUST so happens that I have a flight of guys coming in for a fishing expedition in half an hour. My plane is going to San Jose afterwards. I’ll let you jump on board for half of whatever you paid for that other flight.” My mate flashed me a “Shit! Do we have enough money?” look that Mr. Brown caught faster than I did. He grinned. “Hey…how ‘bout you guys just pay me back the next time you’re in Costa Rica, okay? Deal?!” He flashed us a huge and happy smile, handed me his card and wished us blessings. We were in San Jose less than two hours later.

I could tell a few dozen more stories, but I have faith that the reader is recognizing a pattern. The story problems differ, but the conclusion is always the same; “Everything always works out.” And once this is recognized, the equation can be simplified and the factors of “stress” and “worry” crossed out. Life has this endearing quality of constantly moving forward…and like pulling out the knots on a roll of rope, if you just keeping moving forward, focusing on one inch at a time, things seem to have a way of simply pulling themselves out straight.

“Everything works itself out.”

And the favors that I received from those strangers never go unappreciated. That day in Amsterdam, I happily vowed to be forever in travel-favor-debt. Now I regularly invite homeless travelers to crash on my couch and take opportunities to slip some cash into the book of someone who’s credit card was eaten in an ATM or offer a beer to a traveler on his or her last and penny-less day of adventure abroad; All in aspiration of having the opportunity to offer a Mr.Brown-type-blessing one day. It came around and I will make sure it continues to go around, taking my turn, and playing MY role in “making everything work out” for others.

Many travelers have learned, as I have, that some of the best adventures are found off the planned path. It’s important not to label those turns in the road as trouble or misfortune, for really, they are not so much “turns” in the road, as they are forks. Adventures are never lost, but they can change. And that change might be instigated by something originally perceived as “less-than-lucky.” But if not for lost money, how would I have found a new faith in the goodness of strangers in a hostel in Holland? But if not for a misleading captain, a slow boat and some rough water, how else would I have found the magic in the music of a tambourine and fireworks in the water of a fishing village in Brazil? And if not for sand-patch airports and poor check-in procedures, how else would I have witnessed an angel in action and received the blessing of Mr. Brown? It is in thanks to “misfortune” and “mistake” that today I can raise my hand and proclaim, “Yes! Actually, I HAVE gotten on the wrong plane before!”

Watch events unfold and stay open to a possibility of a happy, even IF alternative, conclusion. For Adventure travels incognito. And recognizing and receiving her as such — are what put both the fun AND freedom into traveling.

Share

“SSR” — Saint Seeking Revelers

Posted on by
Reply

“SSR” — Saint Seeking Revelers

Name:

San Simon

Aliases/Nicknames:

Maximon, Ry Laj Man, Judas Iscariot, Pedro de Alvarado, Rij Laj

Ethnicity:

Mayan with Spanish Influences

Height:

Your Average Life Sized Doll

Weight:

About 50 lbs (hard as wood), hollow inside…but certainly not shallow.

Eye Color:

Painted Brown & Sporting Only the Finest in Eye-wear

Age:

Over-The-Hill (and then a few centuries)

Occupation/Professions:

Revered Deity, Soul Cleanser, Alcohol Resale, Model ( 3 Quetzales per viewing, 5 Quetzales per picture)

Religion:

Combination of Mayan God and Catholic Saints

Residence:

Zunil, San Andres, Santiago Atitlan & Throughout the Guatemalan Highlands. Within each village, makes a pilgrimage to a new house every year on November 1st.

Relationship Status:

Currently in relationship with this year’s “cofradias” (town elders). Seeking replacements as of 11/03. Ideally, at least one is needed to keep cigarette burning during all daylight hours and clean ashes off chest, one to tip the chair back in order to pour shots of alcohol into mouth, and one to collect fees from worshipers and photographers.

Pets:

The occasional chicken. But most are eventually sacrificed at the in-house altar in plea for good harvest.

Music Tastes:

Songs and incantations sung in dedication rituals.

Sports:

Not very active. Prefers to simply sit on throne.

Style:

Western Clothing and Brand Names. Partial to Gucci Glasses and Armani Suits. Never Leaves Home w/o “Collection-Bag” Worn Around Neck (see picture above).

Enjoys:

Cigars, Cigarettes, Rum, Fine Fabrics, Burning Candles, Money, Petting & Hand Massages, Prayers, Sleeping, and, in general, any shrine or sacrificial offering.

Favorite Holiday:

Holy Week — when ceremonially hand-bathed, dressed in the finest of clothing, and then carried in massive processions throughout the town.

Annual Income:

Considerable. Refer to modeling rates above. For special fees/sacrifices, additional pleas will be considered. The alcohol that is “consumed” can also be purchased at a special “holy-rum” rate.

Pet Peeve:

Jesus Christ. He’s always competing for the adoration and prayers of the people.

Contact:

Just ask anyone in the town for “San Simon.” If interested in meeting in person, please bring any combination of the following: cigars, money, cigarettes, beer, candles, or a bottle of Venado rum or “Firewater” Quezalteca.

Share

defining Utila

Posted on by
Reply

Defining Utila

Oh Utila.

The first time thy name graced my ears was whilst bartending in Antigua, Guatemala…

*****

A riley group of international backpackers on their third round of Cuba Libres were getting into animated conversation at the bar…

Mate #1: “…oh yeah…I completely got narked. I couldn’t add 4 + 6 on the wet board!”

Mate #2: “…and did you do that thing with the eggs? How cool was that?!”

Mate #3: “I didn’t see any egg thing. Why didn’t my instructor show us that?”

Mate #1: “Well that’s because YOU are only Open Water Certified, and WE are “Advanced.” They only do the egg trick in the Advanced Course.”

Mate #3 then proceeds in making the following ordered hand motions:

1. first spreading his arms wide

2. then sticking one finger into the enclosed circle of an “okay” sign

3. and finally making the motions of dealing out a deck of cards.

All three bust out in hysterics and high fives.

This is where I serve them their 4th round of Cubas and interject:

“What did that mean?” (referring to the hand motions).

Mate #3 laughs, repeats the hand motions, and says, “It’s the underwater signal for; “Big Fucking Deal.”

*****

Defined: Utila

Utila is part of the Caribbean Bay Islands, 50km (31mi) off the North coast of Honduras and world renowned as one of the cheapest places in the world to learn how to dive.

Utila, in a dozen more animated backpacker-bar-conversations, was described to me as: “a backpackers paradise”; “a gringo-trail legend”; and even “a divers wet dream.”

*****

“Well we will see about that!”, I said to myself as I hopped over the bar one Friday, told my boss I’d be back in a week, and grabbed my rucksack.

I didn’t return for three months.

*****

I left Antigua at 4 a.m. on Saturday and arrived the next day on the daily morning ferry into Utila at 10 a.m.

Arriving at the port the first day, most newcomers haven’t any idea of their “fresh meat” status. Divemasters and instructors from every dive shop line up the docks scouting out perspective students for a course in diving….or in bed.

But I had been warned. Somehow, on my ferry ride to the island, I found myself sitting at a table of divemasters who were living on Utila but returning from a weekend “breather” in La Ceiba.

They eyed me up and down carefully…

“Ah. You’re new. One week? Yeah right. You’ll be here for months. So let me offer you some advice. There are three lies that sum up life on this island which you will encounter regularly:

1. “I’m not drinking tonight”

2. “I love you.”

3. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“For many, in that order. You’ve been warned.”

*****

My story begins here. But not only are there hidden “lies” and “rules” to life on the island Utila, but also a list of lingo that it takes two months of trodding the island barefoot to comprehend. Therefore, throughout the story, I pause to define such terms that might be in need of explanation. And thus we proceed…

*****

Upon disembarkment, I broke off from the herd and explored the island a bit.

“Hum. No real beach to speak of. Not even many palm trees. *ouch* The locals all speak English. The water is full of trash. Is that a refrigerator door jutting out from the sand? The bathrooms on the docks all drop directly into the water. *ouch!* *ouch!* And WHAT is biting me?!”

*****

Defined: Sandfly

Minuscule insects that visit the bay islands in waves of blood-thirsty destruction. Visits are unpredictable and always untimely. Known for their passionate addiction to sweet backpackers-blood. DEET resistant, but famously rumored to “drown” in coconut oil. May leave as many as 50 bites per square inch of skin.

*****

“Not a chance I’ll stay on this island for more than three days,” I said as I slammed my mental fist down.

I “wandered” down the only road on the island to the dive shop “Underwater Vision” and signed up for a three-day Open Water certification course for an a brilliant $130 dollars (INCLUDING my room for three nights).

The next day I began my PADI Open Water Course in scuba diving.

&nbsp&nbsp

Before &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp After

*****

Defined: Scuba Diving

Skin diving with scuba apparatus where one *who is comfortable* is very likely to fall head-over-heals in love with the underwater world. Love for sea turtles and Spotted Eagle Rays, Queen Angel fish and Green Moray Eels. Love for sea fans and jellyfish, for the iridescent squid and octopus, and for lobster and shrimp hidden under coral and in sponges. Love for firework shows of bioluminescence, for schools of squealing dolphins racing the boat and for the chance that one might actually meet acquaintance with the legendary Whale Shark one day. The kind of love that could make a person call his or her ticket agent to postpone a date of departure a few days, weeks…or months.

*****

My love for daily diving, sunsets and stars in combination with my sudden distaste for shoes festered together into a new passion for this so-called “island life.” But my “week plan”, and my boss’s emails inquiring as to my return date to bar-work, still dug their fingernails into my agenda.

And then something happened. Something VERY small happened, with monumental consequences.

I caught Amoebas.

*****

Defined: Amoebas

Naked freshwater, marine or parasitic protozoa that form temporary pseudopods for feeding and locomotion.

Parasites..*grimaces*..that live in your stomach… *cringes*… and mass reproduce… *shudders*… and force you to lay in your bed in gut wrenching pain until your roommate, tired of your constant moaning, drags your in-denial-ass to the doctor *which in Utila, inspires a terror of its own* to get antibiotics. The drugs essentially nuke the little bastards, as well as everything else in your digestive and immunity systems. Not pretty. But if you´re young, you´ll survive.

*****

And how specifically did this terrible infection conspire to re-route my entire travel itinerary into staying on this island for 2.5 months?

A week of “down time” with mild sickness allowed Utila just enough flirting time for me to successfully and completely “fall” for island and diving life.

And what exactly did I fall for? Barefootedness. Constant sunshine. Coconut bread. Walls of beautiful ocean. Baleadas (local “cuisine”). Bars on docks. Frothy coconut drinks. Skinny dips. Fresh fish BB-Qs every night. No cars. No phones. No TV. No air conditioning. AND passionate and interesting people from every corner of the world who all shared a love for the former, as well as a love of lacking the latter.

But most importantly: Diving. Days dedicated to diving and constant discussion about diving with people passionate about diving.

&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp

And thus, I found myself enrolled in a two month course to become a PADI certified Divemaster.

*****

Defined: Divemaster

Rigorous training course in which one becomes a certified and professional scuba diver. Course normally includes about 6-8 weeks of daily diving in coordination with physical tests and intensive study of the Physics, Physiology, Mechanics, Equipment, Instruction and Safety of underwater diving. At successful completion of the course, trainee receives a pretty little card and the very “cool” title of “Divemaster” — which legally allows a person to work professionally in the dive industry. Certification makes world travel suspiciously easy, usually completely neglects all former years of formal education and has caused more than one “spat” between diver and his/her parents who have higher aspirations for their child that becoming a “dive-bum.”

*****

Life became gloriously simple.

Two dives in the morning. Lunch with fellow divemasters discussing what we saw on our morning dives and laughing over silly student stories. Two dives in the afternoon. Dinner (often times guiltily eating what we saw during our afternoon dives) with fellow divemasters discussing what we saw on our afternoon dives and laughing over silly student stories. In the evening, drinks on the docks watching sunsets, discussing what we saw on our afternoon dives and laughing over…

You get the point.

Diving, food, diving, fish, diving, drinking, diving, BB-Qs, diving, swimming, diving, snorkeling, diving, stargazing, diving, sunsets, diving.

It doesn’t take long to wade deep into the wave of island life in Utila. Before you know it, your skin is the shade of the coconuts burning in your campfire, your feet are tough enough to walk on glass, and your tolerance for CocoLoco’s pina coladas is in the double digits.

*****

Defined: CocoLocos

CocoLocos is the most famous bar-on-a-dock in Utila. It hosts regular theme nights including, but not limited to; Toga Night, Cross-dressing Night and Body Paint Night. A large square hole is centered in the dock (just down flow from the drop-into-the-ocean toilet). An average of five persons per night will undoubtedly pass through this hole before the night ends (promptly at 1:00 a.m., when ALL the electricity on the island abruptly turns off).

*****

Directly related to the fact that there is severely limited access to television, radio, phones and, in general, ANY form of communication with the outside world (even slower-than-frozen-molasses internet costs a budget-crushing $15 US per hour) — most temporary habitants of the island are happily forced to find other productive uses of their non-diving time.

One such activity includes laying your body at the end of the sand airplane landing strip and then screaming mad profanities whilst the plane comes in for landing within an green-moray-eel’s-length from your head.

Another fashion of island entertainment comes in the form of monthly full moon parties, and of course, the infamous bi-annual “SunJam.”

*****

Defined: SunJam

Ingredients for “SunJam”

1 Deserted Island a boat ride away from Utila

125 Palm Trees

2 Fresh Fish Fry Tables

30 Kegs

1 Generator

2 Palm Leaf Thatched Huts

1 Space Cake Stand

500 International Travelers

200 Hammocks

7 Imported DJs

1 Whopping Sound System

2 Dozen Tiki Torches

1 Sunrise

1 Sunset

Instructions for making SunJam:

Place deserted island in a body of turquoise blue water and sprinkle the edges with soft, white sand and surround with the world’s second largest coral reef. One boat at a time, slowing churn in the 500 browned travelers. Turn on the party around 12:00 in the afternoon, add the space cake and let simmer for six hours. Then slowly turn the music up and congregate the people into the sand dance floor. The DJs will naturally bring the crowd to a full boil. Maintain this temperature for twelve hours, or until the sun has risen. When the screaming and whistling turns to “ohhhing” and “ahhhhing”, it’s time to lay the people out in hammocks under palm trees to cool. Let rest for 24 hours. Savor the sweet memories and repeat twice a year.

*****

Other forms of island entertainment include: “Bunkering Down for Hurricanes”, “Nitrogen Narcosis”, “Watching or Participation in Snorkel Tests” and “Pursuit of the Mythical Whale Shark” — all of which are defined below.

*****

Defined: Hurricane

Severe, tropical cyclones occasionally crash the Utila party. Hurricane Chantal did so during my own stay on the island. The emergency plan for hurricanes usually consists of bunkering down with the beer and waiting. My dive shop was the ONLY on the island to send our boat out on the last day of the storm. Our mild fear turned into laughing hysterics when, like a picture page from a Dr. Suess book, we saw a full sized COUCH float by us…in the middle of the ocean.

Defined: Nitrogen Narcosis

The intoxicating effect nitrogen produces when you breath it underwater (of which the exact cause still eludes physiologists). Symptoms include: stuporous and/or inappropriate behavior, impaired attention, slow thinking, euphoria and elation, poor judgment and short term memory loss. Divers are likely to first notice narcosis around 80 feet and are always anxious to feel it on their first deep dive. “Did you get narked?!” is a question that you will over hear at 90% of “Advanced Course” dinner table circles. The effect is equal to about one CocoLoco pina colada.

Defined: Snorkel Test

Initiation rite of passage for becoming a certified Divemaster. Consists of a snorkel, large crowd on a bar on the beach, and the nastiest, most despicable concoction of spirits your best and most un-trustworthy mates can dream up (who, of course, are determined to “up” the nastiness scale at least 10 notches from their OWN *unmemorable – only because they blacked out* snorkel test). Escape from this date with liver death is impossible; One must simply succumb to the stool in the center of the circle and accepted his/her soon-to-be-faced fate. Frightenly similar to a scene from “Animal House” or some equally terrible American, 80′s, frat-house-flick.

Defined: Whale Shark

The largest fish in the world, the Whale Shark is a plankton-eating Rhincodon typus shark, sizing up to 50 ft (15 m) in length. Holds legendary, and almost mythical status on Utila. Boat captains (despite “sighting bonuses”) go madd *-er than they already are* at constant requests to follow flocks of birds that “supposedly” fly over roaming whale sharks who are stirring up plankton that the birds like to feed on. Everyone knows “someone” who saw one.

*****

And so it was in this manner that 2.5 months of dive and island life waved in and out of my life like that couch in the ocean; A comical, colorful, fiction-like and purely delightful episode of my life that I sometimes wonder if really happened at all.

The magic of Utila is in it’s unique island and diver culture. And some may say that Utila is only a petty backpackers’ party, but for me, Utila was, and continues to be, simply a gathering place for people passionate about life. We were called from all parts of the world, to share the same daydream, under the same palm tree, in the same aqua waters, for the same magical moment. And although not a single player in my Utilian adventures remains on the island today, it brings me many silent smiles knowing that THIS morning, someone was surely lying at the end of the airstrip waiting for the plane to land. And that THIS afternoon, someone certainly told the story of a near-death escape from a barracuda over lunch. And, TONIGHT, without a doubt, someone will jump through the hole in CocoLoco’s dock.

So the legend lives on.

And my feet may be soft again, but my memories will forever walk on glass.

*puts regulator in mouth*

*deflates her BCD*

*gives the underwater ‘OK’ sign*

*head disappears underwater*

*****

See the Entire Utila PhotoGallery

Share

alfombras

Posted on by
Reply

THIS is what is happening on every cobble stone calle in Antigua right now:

&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp

All of the “Alfombras” (literally “carpets” made from colored sawdust, flowers, fruits, etc) awaiting their turn-at-treading from the grandest processions of Semana Santa …

See ALL the pictures of “The Making of the Alfombras”

*****

And all is silent on the homefront, as I sit on the floor of my bedroom, scratching my head, glancing back-and-forth between my tiny back pack and the towering heaps of clothing, gifts, remembrances and nick-knacks, wondering how in the world I will ever be able to fit one into the other.

And then I sit on the floor on my bedroom, dabbing my eyes, mentally glancing back-and-forth between my life behind and my life ahead, and wonder how in the world one person can feel such towering heaps of excitement, sadness, nervousness, appreciation, fear and love all at the very same time.

And then I go to the market to buy another bag.

And there I realize — there are no weight or bag limits in the check-in lane of life. These memories will never be lost, and are insured for a lifetime.

*****

Share

slowly fasting

Posted on by
1

Slowly Fasting

I’m still at the lake (San Marcos), but just hopped a pick-up truck to a nearby Mayan village for a look around and spotted an internet cafe. (Amazing how un-wide this world web is getting.)

Four days at the Pyramids Meditation Center: Four days of morning yoga, afternoon discussions on Metaphysics, and evening meditation — all in combination with Reiki massage, bathing in the lake, a few steam sessions in the sauna and a LOT of delicious vegetarian food…on Sunday and Monday anyway.

On Tuesday I started to fast. Haven’t eaten for *looks at watch* about 40 hours now. The only thing my taste buds are savoring now is this special re-hydration drink composed of the juice of 7 oranges and 7 limes (mostly picked off the ground under the trees near our hut), a pinch of sugar and salt, and a dash of bicarbonate (baking soda) – mixed with a couple liters of water.

Why am I fasting? For a few reasons: In dedication to the children of the project, for whom this feeling is a reality, not an experiment. To experience hunger for the first time in my over-privileged life. To detox my body. To test my will-power. To try something new. To clear my thoughts and clarify my thinking (you’d be amazed at how much of our lives we spend thinking, preparing, anticipating and just waiting for and wanting FOOD.)

So how do I feel? Light, clear-minded, and a little dizzy — both mentally and physically. Life seems to be moving a little slower, in a soft cloud-like way. It’s nice. There is no stomach cramping or “pain” like I might have previously assumed. But then again, we’re only halfway through, so maybe Pain is waiting patiently in store for me, ready to pounce me after my afternoon sauna session….which happens to be in a half an hour.

Time for me to hit the hitch!

A light, clear-minded, slightly dizzy and cloud-like chao…

:) sol

And to quote Siddhartha again (but poorly, because it comes from memory):

“And what is so intelligent about fasting Siddhartha?”

“Well, if a man has no money or food, isn’t fasting the most intelligent thing he can do?”

Share

daze of days

Posted on by
Reply

Daze of Days

Did you know that you have muscles in your fingers, armpits, neck and wrists? Well I do NOW…. because they, and the 200 other muscles that I have successfully managed to ignore my twenty-five years are today SCREAMING at me;

“HA! We DO exist! It’s about time you gave us proper recognition! Use us! Abuse us! Let’s go Rock Climbing AGAIN!”

All I have to say is, “UNCLE!”

But the pain was well worth the gain. What an exhilarating experience! I have all new respect for those of you who make a profession of this sport.

“Just stick your wrist in that crack, twist it 90 degrees until it’s locked there and swing your right foot over to that 1/8th of an inch “ledge” to support your weight. Just center your gravity and push.”

And, for the record, this is not something I would have EVER done five years ago. But after a few years of regularly exercising the mental muscle and my motto, “C’mon, what would you do if you weren’t afraid….just do it..” — I’m gettin’ pretty good at this “pushing my limits” stuff. In any case, it took me to the top of the wall and farther even than the three other climbing novices that were in my group — two of which were men. Admittedly, the little tomgirl in me was jumping up and down in excitement at “beating the bigger boys”.

This week is my last working at the project. Ug. I’m dreading Friday. Saying goodbye is NOT my strength. I usually prefer to just slip out stealth-style. But with kids, it’s different — and now I have to be all grown-up about it. I repeat. Ug.

Saturday, I’ve signed up for a MONSTER hike up Volcan Acatenago. It’s peak is less than 1km from the erupting Volcan Fuego and I’m spending the night up there, so if a look down into the lava spewing Fuego isn’t worth the trek, the sunrise certainly will be. (For where else does the “sol” in solbeam come from?)

Monday morning I’m off to the Lake Atitlan…again. This time though, I’m making my way directly to the famous Pyramid Retreat Center, where I´m shutting myself up in a lake front hut and taking a vow of silence. I figure a week of reflection is the least that is due for such an intense year of learning and social consumption. And I’ll NEED a solid grasp on all my “inner peace” to get on the plane the next Monday.

So my vow of silence will probably be extending to the keyboard over the next two weeks. Please excuse my absence whilst I clean up my messes and kiss my goodbyes! (And when I return home, I’ll FINALLY have the chance to catch up on emails and the dozens of adventures I never had time “on the road” to document.)

Share

the sol times

Posted on by
Reply

The Sol Times

News for Saturday the 9th, of March 2002

Crime Report

Last night, at approximately 11:10 p.m. at the nightclub “Casbah”, located in Antigua Guatemala, a fight was reported to have broken out on the dance floor during a promotional event for Gallo, the Guatemalan beer giant. In the midst of the commotion, a beer bottle was thrown, but as the intended victim ducked, it’s course continued to strike and knock down the dancer behind. The female victim, 25 years of age and going by the name of “Sol” suffered a blow to the jaw. After the initial shock wore off, she was reported to have been back on the dance floor and happily grooving again, albeit holding her *cold* Cuba against her jaw.

When asked if she was okay, she is quoted as saying, “uuhhh..aets eally ard or me oh talk ight now….it urts ew smile…can wee alk ater?”

Sources report that her jaw status as of this morning is swollen but the pain quite bearable. The victim is, however, having problems chewing and is reported to have smiled and stated, “Eff it oesn’t fit rough a straw, it isnt on my menu.”

Comic

Last week Sol was out with her good Guatemalan friend Henry (aka “Mr. Antigua”) having drinks at a local bar when another male friend of hers approached. Unbeknownst to the new arriver, Henry had been politely reminding Sol at numerous points in the day that she should NOT be scratching her suspicious skin disease #3 (which should be noted has finally gone away!). The new arriver kissed Sol on the cheek in customary Guatemalan greeting fashion. At this moment, it also happened to be that Sol was scratching her legs. Henry quickly gave Sol a fast SLAP! on the leg to remind her not to scratch. The new arriver, jumped back, mumbling most sincere apologies to Henry (who happens to be a body building champ and quite scary in a tight t-shirt) and ran away into the crowd before the two even had the chance to realize what had happened and break out in hysterics.

Entertainment

Siskle-Sol gives the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy (the BOOK) “Two-Very-Enthusiastic-Thumbs-Up”. Which looks a little bit like this:

She will be attending the 3:30 showing of the MOVIE this afternoon, and the Sol-Times will be the first to receive her report.

Correction — CHICK-Bus

The editor would like to make an amendment to a past issue of the Sol Times. In January, in the article titled “How the Chicken Bus Crossed The Road” it was quoted:

“Although I’ve never actually seen a chicken on one of these busses…”

For the Sol Times record, let it be corrected that on Sunday the 3rd of March, on a chicken-bus from Quetzaltenago to Chichicastenago, our foreign corresponder Sol spent four hours inside of a chicken bus with 301 chickens. Technically, 300 chicks, in boxes, and 1 rooster, tied up in a plastic bag — all of which were located in the baggage bin above her head. Other witnesses report that every time the bus went around a turn…where upon the 300 chicks ceased their constant chirping as they “rolled” from one side of the box to the other, a smuggled giggling could be heard from the row of passengers underneath them. Our correspondent denied hearing any such noises.

Travel

In direct correlation to the robbery of numerous digital cameras, as it may have been noticed, there are often times delays between the actual events posted at the Sol Times, and the photographs visually capturing those events. We apologize for this delay and promise that as soon as we get back to the States, and get our hands on that new Sony CD400 that is covered in our own drool, we’ll be back in live action. For the meantime though, we have some photos to present representing various past traveling trips:

Getting in the “swing” of Mexican beach life in Tulum:

&nbsp &nbsp

Sol’s gererally-overly-energetic self in Puerto Escondido, Mexico:

&nbsp &nbsp

More Mexico Pictures

And a sunset in Monterico with the wonderful (and tree-like) German boys:

More Monterico and “Living Antigua” Pictures

Sports

Our foreign correspondent in Guatemala will be embarking on her very first Rock Climbing trip tomorrow at 12 noon. She hopes this activity will be less dangerous than dancing at the local discoteque.

Signing Out,

Senior Editor Sol

Share