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defining Utila

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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.

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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

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sol vs. the volcano — a history

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Sol vs. The Volcano — A History

In Portland, Oregon, when given a piece of white construction paper and finger paints, children will blob and smudge paintings of snow-capped mountains topped with whipped-cream clouds and sprinkled with pine trees. In San Diego, California, kids will draw sandy beaches lined with palm trees and spotted with sharks and surfers. In Guatemala, the children draw Volcanos.

Normally they draw them in pairs or triplets with square-page-corner suns looming over rolling hills or blue lakes. Today, the children have added something special to their volcanoes. Can you guess what it is? Let me give you a hint: it’s red, it’s fiery, and it has something to do with that game your mother used to yell at you for when she found you jumping from the couch to the dining room table in order to avoid touching the floor. Yup. Hot lava. Hot lava is what is spewing from Volcan Fuego at this very moment as I write from an internet cafe in Antigua, Guatemala. Hot lava, and pictures thereof, is what is finally making the front page of the local papers after two weeks of constant eruption activity. And hot lava, is what has inspired all the young Guatemalan artists to open, and apply liberally, the contents of the bottle of red paint.

The hot stuff, and that which produces it, has also fired a little inspiration in me. It has inspired a sort of reflection on The Volcano’s influence, or its *explosive* pressure, on my own life. And thus I present to you: Sol v.s. The Volcano — A History.

May, 1980: Sol vs. St. Hellens

Now it just so happens, that my earliest memory of life and/or consciousness took place on May 18th, 1980. Of course, my consciousness was not so keen enough to actually remember that date. The date I got online. My consciousness was only mature enough to grasp and remember the image of ashes falling from the sky as I was being held up on the top of a car. May 18th, 1980 is the date Mount St. Hellens erupted.

In the years between that fir-tree-fateful day and my first trip to Central America, The Volcano influenced my life only in the forms of ice cream cones, chemistry class filter flasks, and Madonna’s chest. But WHEN The Volcano decided to make a move in my life, it did so in true volcanic nature… violently.

October 2000: Sol vs. Volcan Madera

Volcan Madera is located on the Ometepe Island, in Lake Nicaragua. Myself and seven other travelers hitched and hiked our way up to an old banana plantation called Magdalena that had a hammock-deck open for backpackers wanting to hike the volcano towering over it. We arrived late in the night and passed out early in preparation for the eight hour hike the next morning. Early a.m., we gobbled up the only meal the plantation owners had to offer — beans, rice, eggs and bananas. The owner told us that we needed a guide to find our way and a rope to climb the last half hour down into the crater-lake. “Guide? Sheeah. Who needs a guide!” He offered us HIS rope.

Four of us were impatient waiting for two in our group to finish breakfast. They waved us on and told us they’d catch up with us in a few minutes. Now a five-hour hike up doesn’t sound like much, but please keep in mind, it was about the angle of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

About four exhausting hours into the trip, whilst we were sitting down for a rest at a break in the path, an Italian guy caught up with us. Two paths layed out in front of us and he opted for the one the rest of us had just decided against. But he was adamant, and I told the others to rest while I climbed it with him a bit. We had been climbing up the jungle floor for about ten minutes when I decided, mostly out of the fact that I didn’t WANT to climb mud any more, that the other path would be a better option. I yelled this up to him. The last I heard were his continued echos of, “No! I’m sure this is it….just a little farther!”. I turned around, found the others, and we took the other path. And hour later we were splish-splashing ourselves a very fine time in the lake within the crater of The Volcano and eating bruised-to-baby-food bananas and cracked eggs…. and feeling that very special type of proud you can only feel after successfully hiking a volcano.

In typical Central American rain season fashion, it POURED on us on our way DOWN The Volcano — turning our descent into the world’s largest non-yellow slip-and-slide. When we finally returned to camp, we were painted head to toe in mud and short one shoe. We kicked back in our hammocks anxiously awaiting the arrival of our friends (from their own adventures) so that we could clink beers and revel in how cool we were, together. We waited and waited…and it grew dark.

The pair that had told us they were going to follow us “in five minutes” came down first. They were covered in mud and scrapes. The girl was on the verge of hysterics. She read the questions in our eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.” she stated. Her partner stumbled up on the deck after her and replied, “See…we made it!”. She shot him a lava-hot glare that any volcano would have been jealous of, and stomped off to the showers. Apparently, she had followed him and his claims of “I know where we are!” around for a good eight hours before they ran out of water and fell down a stream created from the downpour. Eventually, but still hours later, she shoved him out of the way, and they managed to find and follow a river down The Volcano.

The second pair of travelers had left in the morning in search of some hidden waterfall at the foot of neighboring Volcan Conception. They never found the waterfall, but they DID find a dead body…in the ditch of a street. Traumatized, they headed back to the plantation, but got lost on their way back up in the dark and had walked into ants nests. No. They didn’t want to hear about our trip up The Volcano.

The next morning, the planation owner asked us if we had seen an Italian man when we were up on the Volcano. Apparently, he hadn´t come down yet. We crossed worried eyes at each other and told him our experience. He shrugged nonchalantly and told us that just the day before, a girl had sprained her foot on the way up and had spent the night on The Volcano. He stopped the next couple starting up on their hike up and told them to keep an eye out for a lost Italian — Nicaragua’s version of a formal search party. I saw the Italian come down a few hours later. I didn’t ask him if he wanted to talk about it.

4 lost hikers, 2 lost overnight, 1 dead body, 2 ant attacks, 1 sprained ankle, and 1 lost shoe — all offered as sacrafices on the altar of Volcan Madera in one weekend. Enough to appease the Gods?

October 2001: Sol vs. Volcan Pacaya

Volcan Pacaya is a 7,383-foot volcano that lies about 27 miles south of Guatemala City. For five bucks, a person can join one of the dozens of tour groups that climb the volcano daily. The hike takes about three hours to ascend in the tour group, but about 1.5 if you’re not “resting” every 15 minutes at the command of your guide while waiting for the stragglers in the back of the group. Pacaya is highly active, and if the prospect of a close encounter with the lava kind doesn’t inch up the adrenaline, the rumor that all the armed guards placed along the trail are ex-convicts usually does. No worries though, because your 50-year old guide DOES have a really big stick.

I hiked Pacaya in October, during the winter season of Guatemala. During the trip up, our guide repeatedly pointed out — into the walls of thick white fog surrounding us — the beautiful views of volcanos and cities that we could NOT see. (Advice: The best time to hike Pacaya is NOT in the rain or winter seasons. It is also suggested to hike Pacaya when it is NOT exploding. Sounds obvious, but you’d be surprised at what official warnings the tour agencies will NOT tell you about if they see a flash of cash.)

The last hour of the hike was up black volcanic sand.

*one step up…..slide two steps back*

*one step up…..slide two steps back*

It was in this manner that we lost ten percent of the hikers to exhaustion.

There were about 15 hikers in front of me on the narrow path when hard gusts of sulfuric gas began picking fights with each of us indiviually, trying to steal our oxygen. Three wide-eyed and crying girls came crawling frantically down the path yelping to everyone to turn around. Having been recently trained to spot the signs of panic in a divemaster course, I grabbed the first one, stared her squarely in the eyes, and instructed her to breath, be calm, and climb down. Admittedly, it WAS difficult to breath, but I had brought a handkerchief to cover my mouth and wasn’t about to turn around five minutes from the summit. (Stupid? Probably. For the record, I knew that.)

At the top, I found one of the guides posing pretty with successful hikers. Oddly enough, none of the ten or so cameras that made it up, worked — something to do with too much white balance because of the walls of fog and smoke. So we all just moved back and forth in a dance that involved inching closer and closer to the cliff of the crater *one, two, three* and jumping back and crouching low to cough and gasp for air *one, two, three* before we turned around and made our way back down *dip*.

The descent of The Volcano held its own surprise delights. First, the “one step up, slide two steps down” dance that exhausted us on the way up, made for a thrilling black-snow-ski-slope ride back down. Those daring to make a run for it, flew down the summit in echoing cries of laughter. It was while we sat on a cliff emptying sandfalls from our shoes that the walls of white fog decided to part like stage curtains and unveil to us — in gasps of awe and clicks of cameras — those INCREDIBLE views that we had missed the entire way up. It was a surprise party worth being unaware of.

February 2002: Sol vs. Volcan Fuego

More than 500 volcanoes are known to have erupted on the earth’s surface since historic times. One happens to be erupting within view of the window beside me. Last night, we drove to the foot of Volcan Fuego to get a closer seat at the show. After the initial shrieks of excitement (in response to the the river-of-red) subdued, we heard — in the silence — the undulating purr and roar of The Volcano. One word for that sound: Humbling.

The constant erupting action of Volcan Fuego over the last two weeks even inspired me to drop “Volcano” into Encyclopedia.com. It was there that I learned that Volcan Mauna Loa is taller that Mt. Everest (but its base is on the ocean floor) and that evidence of extraterrestrial volcanic activity has been found on Venus, Triton (a satellite of Neptune), and Lo (a satellite of Jupiter). Some travelers say that it’s the influence of the four volcanoes looming over Antigua that exert mysterious forces upon weekend passer-byers into changing their departure dates and getting lost here for months — a kind of Bermuda-Volcano Triangle if you will. Of course,despite my research, the mystery, magic and beauty of The Volcano remain indefinable in my own mental encyclopedia.

So, Volcan Hellens inspired consciousness within me. Volcan Madera inspired fear. Volcan Pacaya inspired beauty and awe. Volcan Fuego inspired magic and mystery. But it is in the cumulation of all of these experiences, that The Volcano has inspired one thing above all these others. And that is…respect.

(I’m traveling this weekend to Quetaltenago, to soak in the hot springs of Aguas Calientes Georgina for three days — Compliments of The Volcano.)

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how the chicken bus crossed the road

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I`ve had less than five hours of sleep each night this week….but fresh posts and pictures to come. But right now all I can think of is collapsing into my hammock for my first descanso (“break/rest”) this week.

The following essay is a compilation of a few old blogs that I pulled together as another entry into that Global Reporter contest — I`m posting it here because it was a terrible lesson learned *blows sarcastic kisses to Homestead.com, Xdrive.com & Zing.com* that the ONLY way to guarantee your hosted content won`t be lost at the receipt of a nice little note from the founder that opens with “We are very sorry, but due to the nature of the market….”, is if the site you are posting to, is your own.

Oh Yeah!  I SAW a VOLCANO erupt! At a dinner party last night, we went up to the roof to star-gaze, but the glowing waves of red trickling down Volcan Fuego completely stole the night`s show! It was incredible. Of course, this is a rather regular occurrence in Guatemala (Antigua itself is surrounded by four volcanos, at least two “active”) and it seems the newspapers don`t consider the hot-stuff all that news-worthy. I`ll continue my search for a picture in order to scan and share — or maybe her current steam and smoke show will step it up a few hot notches for an encore tonight? Vamos a ver…..

*****

How the Chicken Bus Crossed the Road

In Europe we go by train, in the States we go by plane, and in Central America, the name of the transportation-game?

*drum roll please*

… the Chicken Bus.

“Chicken what?”, you ask.

“Chicken Bus”, I repeat.

Chicken Bus: As defined by the completely unofficial and unrelated to dinosaurs Solbeam-Rogersauras:

A “chicken bus” is essentially an old-American-yellow-BlueBird-school-bus converted into a repainted-rainbow-God-proclaiming-dice-swaying-mean-machine mode of Central American transportation. To get from point A, to any point E, L, S or E in Central America, a traveler WILL, inevitably, adventure in one of these buses. If you are American, this of course, is a sweet skip down grade-school-memory-lane as you read “MC Hammer Rules” or “Johhny and Susie 4 Ever, San Jose, California – 1984″ carved in the back of the seat in front of you.

“And where does the “chicken” in “chicken bus” come from?”, you ask?

Ah yes. The age old chicken question.

Hypothesis 1: There exists a common traveler-route-rumor about the origin of “chicken” in which the term is attributed to the fact that when riding in one of these busses, there is a 90% chance that you will have a chicken (or a few children) on your lap for the duration of the trip. Think “opening scene” of the original Indian Jones Movie.

Hypothesis 2: That “chicken” is derived from the absolute reality that the busses pack in passengers like they would a truck full of chickens; 7 persons per 4 seat row, each squatting, squeezing and/or straining his or her *chicken* neck for a pocket of air that ISN`T 100% carbon dioxide.

I never questioned the authority of hypotheses 1 & 2 until whilst writing this composition I decided to drop the word “chicken” into www.dictionary.com which resulted in the following: (and this IS official…yet still unrelated to dinosaurs)

“Any of various foolhardy competitions in which the participants persist in a dangerous course of action until one loses nerve and stops.”

It is at this point that I would like to pause and share a story with you…

Date: 12/10/01

Time: 8:30 a.m.

Place: Zone 6. Guatemala City

Scene: Me and 100+ other passengers scrunched, squating and straining together in a Chicken Bus

Status of Bus: Standing Room Only (Is it EVER anything else?)

State of Traffic: Stand Still

Main Character: Bruce — The Bus Driver

Event:

Amidst the long sighs of Guatemantecos and Gringos alike, our Hero *the bus driver*, (we´ll call him “Bruce”) pulled a true Die-Hard-worthy maneuver in a *successful* attempt at circumventing the slower-than-frozen-molasses state of traffic….

What does Bruce do?

Bruce pulls himself across three lanes of traffic into the far left lane. Bruce finds a particularly wide gap in the cement-grass-and-tree-lined center divide. Bruce DRIVES the chicken bus OVER the center divide and INTO FOUR LANES OF ONCOMING TRAFFIC. Amidst the continuation of the long sighs of Guatemantecos and the hysterical laughs and gasps of the Gringos, Bruce CONTINUES to drive down the wrong way on a one way freeway. Amidst the swearing, honking and swerving car-commuters, Bruce finally crosses the four lanes of oncoming traffic, and makes his way OFF via the ON-ramp. We blink. We laugh. We arrive ON TIME.

Judge for yourself if this example qualifies according to the above definition.

A friend sent me the following question in an e-mail recently; “I saw a picture of an over-turned chicken bus in Guatemala in the news. Was that related to terrorist attacks?”

My response: “I, too, saw a picture of an over-turned chicken bus on the front page of the paper today. And there was a picture of one that went over a cliff in yesterday´s paper. AND I saw a picture of a chicken bus in a river the day before. Tomorrow, there is a 99% chance that, in the paper, there will be a picture of another chicken bus in some other precarious, life-threatening, doom-inspiring and/or goose-bumping scenario.”

Fact of Guatemalan life: At least one chicken bus per day will LOSE in it`s “chicken game” of “various foolhardy competition in which the participant persists in a dangerous course of action until one loses nerve and stops.” And the next day, the outcome will undoubtedly be recorded in bloody detail (because in contrast to the American media, Central American press has NO shame in printing photographs of decapitated, dismembered or otherwise destroyed human bodies in full color). AND *oh so ironically* these pictures will then be distributed ON the busses, TO passengers (i.e. high risk participants), to be reviewed DURING morning commute.

Which leads me to a question for myself (seeing as the author happens to chicken-bus-commute 10+ times a week)… WHO is really playing chicken now?

I opt to ignore THAT question.

(And a completely unrelated and statistically unfounded, BUT fairly interesting fact derived from my own research as a teaching assistant: 9 in 10 Guatemalan children name their “Favorite Food” as: (NOT pizza, NOT ice cream, NOT Kraft Mac and Cheese) but, yep, you guessed it….*chicken.)

*The term “chicken” was used 25 times in this essay.

*****

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where’s my double?

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Where´s My Double?

Date: 12/10/01

Time: 8:30 a.m.

Place: Zone 6. Guatemala City

Scene: Sol scrunched against window in a Chicken Bus

Status of Bus: Standing Room Only (Is it EVER anything else?)

State of Traffic: Stand Still

Main Character: Bruce — The Bus Driver

Event:

Amidst the long sighs of Guatemantecos and Gringos alike, our Hero *the bus driver*, (we´ll call him “Bruce”) pulled a true Die-Hard-worthy maneuver in a (successful) attempt at circumventing the slower-than-frozen-molasses state of traffic….

What did Bruce do?

Bruce pulls himself into the far left lane. Bruce finds a particularly wide gap in the cement, grass and tree-lined center divide. Bruce DRIVES the chicken bus OVER the center divide and INTO FOUR LANES OF ONCOMING TRAFFIC. Amidst the continuation of the long sighs of Guatemantecos and the hysterical laughs and gasps of the Gringos, Bruce CONTINUES to drive down the wrong way on a one way freeway. Amidst the swearing, honking and swerving car-commuters, Bruce finally crosses the four lanes of oncoming traffic, and makes his way OFF via the ON-ramp.

We blink. We laugh. We arrive On Time.

*****

The archives are working! The archives are working! Thank you Merc! Thank you Merc! Is this annoying? Is this annoying?

No really. I´m just super excited. Seven months of blogs (travel updates) are now a mouse click away…

*poins to the little yellow box maked “archives” on the left*

I REALLY wonder how many people have been keeping up with this entire adventure from Day 1, sometime in January? No way to find out, eh. Just another one of the 7+ wonders of the solworld.

*****

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in training…

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In Training…

I´m at “work” right now. I walked into my first shift at the “Funky Monkey Internet Cafe” eager and wide eyed….

“So where do we start?”

“Ah yes….where do we start. The first thing you need to know to work at the Funky Monkey….is how to juggle.”

Yes. As in three balls…in two hands. I’ve been practicing all night…in between hanging out with cool people, listening to sweet tunes downloaded from Napster, meeting travelers, playing on the Internet and drinking beer that is….

You´ll have to excuse me now….I have to get back to my….juggling

Oh wait!

There was one more rule….”If he´s cute…feel free to give him a discount.”

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inspiration torch

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Inspiration Torch

When I started working at CollegeClub, my very first project was the re-launch of our online dating service, Match U., and let me tell you, there is nothing more fun than playing virtual cupid! I have a LOT of “favorite” parts of working for CC…but getting to read the “Success Stories” from members about how Match U. found them a best friend, significant other, or even a spouse would put the stupidest grin on my face for hours. I still to this day receive about three letters a day *many of them with pictures of the couples*…and secretly… I like to pretend that I played a role *no matter how insignificant* in bringing those people together by developing the service they met through. People always ask why I was SO passionate about working on CC? It was because what WE did, what we created — it changes lives, everyday. It was the one part of CC I REALLY hated to say goodbye to….

…BUT imagine my surprise when I started to get letters in my inbox with messages like, “okay! I’ve been waiting on all these things to fall into place, but now I’m gonna just do it! Thanks for pushing me!” and “the book you recommended “The Alchemist” changed my life.” and “I’ve saving my money right now and will hopefully be pursuing my own globe trot about a year. Thank you for inspiring….”.

*astonishment*

Inspiration? The idea that anything I’ve said has been an “inspiration” to anyone honestly shocks me. This whole project has been for my own personal enjoyment, I love doing this, it’s just my idea of fun! But these letters that I’m suddenly receiving…mean more to me than….well, why don’t I share MY story of inspiration…

Around March of last year, I was on this little ferry boat on the Southern Coast of Brazil, a few hours south of Rio near an island called Ilha Grande. There I met a group of Aussies…and one of the guys was named Saxon. Saxon didn’t say a word for the first few hours that I sat next to him. But I could NOT keep my eyes off him. He had this calmness and peace about him that told me he had “seen” and “heard” enough things in his travels that he had learned the values of listening and quiet observation. That look that I saw in his eyes…that I had never seen before…was amazing, AND inspiring….

Anyway, “complications” arose with the boat and there was no way we were gonna make it back to catch our connecting ferry to the mainland. My pack, money, passport…all were locked up at a hostel hours away. All I had was my bikini. Two of the girls I was with decided to try to make it back to the mainland. I decided to spend the night with the Aussie boys on this essentially deserted (one extended family lived there) part of the island. I waved the ferry boy and his boat on…knowing full well, that he was probably not going to come back, and there was a good chance I was going to miss my flight home to the States.

I could write a book about that that night on the island…but in short…that night, was one of the the best of my life. I can’t even begin to describe the magic that was present. Although I remember all the sights, smells and sensations of that night as if it were yesterday, I do not remember the details of my short conversations with Saxon…except that he had been traveling about a year and half at that point. But Saxon inspired me. That “look” that he had in his eyes…I wanted it. It was that day that I made some serious promises to myself in regards to what exactly was going to happen in the next year. I wrote them all out and sat back and smiled in confidence of the wonderful decisions I had just made. All I had to do… was make them happen. Which leads me up to today, where I am finally about to realize those notes made in my travel journal about a year ago.

The day I announced my resignation to CC, I e-mailed Saxon for the 1st time and explained to him what my plans were. I told him exactly how he inspired me and expressed my appreciation. This is what he wrote back:

“Thank you for the greatest compliment one could receive. Inspiration is a powerful thing and, to the soul, more precious than all the diamonds on sandy African beaches. I hold my inspiration in the highest regard because with all of them collectively you can move the world. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

So I understand the power of inspiration. And if I have sent out one message to one person that has moved them a fraction of how I was moved that day in Brazil about a year ago, I will be hopelessly happy…and sporting that same stupid grin I get when reading those Match U. success stories. So don’t thank me. Let me thank YOU.

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