I've become an international babysitter. Last month my brother flew me from CT to Ohio to look after his kids and today I'm watching my cousins kids in the UK. Since, I'm all about travel and getting the 'insider' experience, I'm wondering if this is the way forward career-wise.
My cousins kid's are pretty cool. There's something about little kids with British accents that crack me up. Aged 7 and 4 with white blond hair and blue eyes, all proper and smart like they stepped right out of some turn-of-the-century English children's novel like Dicken's or Peter Pan. There's kind of a nostalgic fairytale feel with them - old school charm. I wake up in the morning to the eldest playing piano and go to bed after a family viewing of my pictures of India - all cuddled round on the sofa, the kids completely engrossed in my tales of the Taj Mahal, camels, elephants and monkeys.
At the same time, it's culture shock after India and some of the stuff I encountered, but didn't put in my blog. It's hard to reconcile and comprehend that both worlds exist at the same time. Driving to the airport in the early morning leaving India the sidewalks were home to sleeping dogs and people. I'd been out walking the night before and kept coming across piles of what I thought were discarded trash bags and burlap sacks in my path. Garbage is everywhere, so it's something you get accustomed to. Then, I'd see a hand sticking out from beneath the rags and realize with a shock I'm about to step on someone. Those that were lucky had beds tucked into alleys that were woven from rubber strips of tire and fashioned to a handmade frame crafted from recycled wood. The most haunting moment came when trying to exit a rickshaw. A woman with anremmaciated baby blocked out way out of the cart. The child was curled in a fetal position tucked against her breast sleeping. It's head was bald with a giant wound wrapping from ear to ear across the back of its head. It looked like it had been scalded by hot water or worse.
It was the afternoon after my visit to the non-profit where I'd been warned by the director about parents who harm their children intentionally to be able to beg more 'efficiently' from tourists. It wasn't the first time I'd heard this since telling people I'd be visiting India and, then of course, there's the scene from Slumdog Millionaire. (I'd heard an interview on NPR with the film's director, he had validated the validity of the scene and so did the women I'd met with earlier that day.) I was told explicitly not to encourage the practice by giving to anyone who approached me with an injured child. It seemed logical and obvious when I agreed, but how do you walk away when actually faced with it?
Co-existance can be a strange thing - leaving all that and boarding a flight back to England. (Did I mention the flight path took us right over Afghanistan? Isn't that restricted airspace or something? We flew directly over Kabul... Just how effective are those surface to air missile launchers?? I mean, really, is that the safest route home?? ) On the plane I was given a British paper to read - the headline story recapping two police detectives who share a job and watch each other's daughters on their off days. The government has deemed their arrangement illegeal for some reason I can't figure out, and put an end to it. Then this morning the call-in on BBC radio taps the outrage over postmen leaving "sorry you weren't in" notices on people's doors and not attempting to deliver packages when the residents were indeed home. Really? The difference of the two worlds has left me in a head spin. I think I've lost track of where I am....
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Flat Tires & Proposals
Am back in the UK now doing the family thing. Fed went back to the US last week and I'll head home this weekend.... despite all kinds of craziness I am safe and relatively unmarried.
Our last day in India was insane. Rakesh drove us back to Delhi after a couple days in Jaipur. His car had been hit by a tuk-tuk whacking one of the rear wheels out of alignment before starting the trip with Federico and me. Not sure why he didn’t get it fixed, but for the entire trip we listened to it thump awkwardly. Finally, as we entered Jaipur it went flat, but because of the holiday/festival Rakesh couldn’t get the problem fixed or buy a new tire. So, here we are, about to return to Delhi, a 250km trip on a bum wheel – should take four hours.....
Eight hours and five, yes FIVE flat tires later, we arrive. Basically we’d go 40kms, the inner tube would pop, we’d put on the second tire. We’d then take the first tire to a ramshackle roadside hut, where some guy would take out what looked like a bicycle repair kit and patch the tube. Never mind the tire itself has a giant cartoon style jagged edge hole in it. We’d then go for another 30 mins, it would explode again and we’d repeat the process. For someone who complained it their last blog about getting a watered down sterilized India experience this was comically absurd and I was loving every second. We also get invited to Rakesh's for dinner that night. Fed declined because he had work to do, but I agreed.
It ends up being one of the most bizarre nights of my life, culminating in Rakesh offering an arranged marriage between me and his 24 year old son. Honest. I can just imagine my father getting a crackling phone call at 3.15am from a distance Indian man offering to take me off my father's hands for the price of a cow. Apparently when Rakesh's other son married he got a bunch of furniture and a ceiling fan with the new daughter-in-law. No joke. But the daughter-in-law can't speak in front of Rakesh or show her face. I made the faux pas of trying to speak to her when Rakesh was present and was told to stop.
The whole set up of 'dinner with my family' was really weird - it ended up being just the two of us eating while his family served us (mainly his wife). Weirder still, we sat at a makeshift table in the bedroom Rakesh shares with his wife.
I'm still trying to process, but did decline the marriage proposal.... If you want the full story you're going to have to ask - I swear I couldn't make this stuff up...
I did learn that 90% of marriages in India are arranged and found the following comparison which I though was interesting. It's from an Indian speaking to a BBC correspondent:
“In your country you marry the woman you love. Here, we love the woman we marry. You fall in love and then get married. We get married then fall in love.”
I think I'll stick to the bar scene.
Our last day in India was insane. Rakesh drove us back to Delhi after a couple days in Jaipur. His car had been hit by a tuk-tuk whacking one of the rear wheels out of alignment before starting the trip with Federico and me. Not sure why he didn’t get it fixed, but for the entire trip we listened to it thump awkwardly. Finally, as we entered Jaipur it went flat, but because of the holiday/festival Rakesh couldn’t get the problem fixed or buy a new tire. So, here we are, about to return to Delhi, a 250km trip on a bum wheel – should take four hours.....
Eight hours and five, yes FIVE flat tires later, we arrive. Basically we’d go 40kms, the inner tube would pop, we’d put on the second tire. We’d then take the first tire to a ramshackle roadside hut, where some guy would take out what looked like a bicycle repair kit and patch the tube. Never mind the tire itself has a giant cartoon style jagged edge hole in it. We’d then go for another 30 mins, it would explode again and we’d repeat the process. For someone who complained it their last blog about getting a watered down sterilized India experience this was comically absurd and I was loving every second. We also get invited to Rakesh's for dinner that night. Fed declined because he had work to do, but I agreed.
It ends up being one of the most bizarre nights of my life, culminating in Rakesh offering an arranged marriage between me and his 24 year old son. Honest. I can just imagine my father getting a crackling phone call at 3.15am from a distance Indian man offering to take me off my father's hands for the price of a cow. Apparently when Rakesh's other son married he got a bunch of furniture and a ceiling fan with the new daughter-in-law. No joke. But the daughter-in-law can't speak in front of Rakesh or show her face. I made the faux pas of trying to speak to her when Rakesh was present and was told to stop.
The whole set up of 'dinner with my family' was really weird - it ended up being just the two of us eating while his family served us (mainly his wife). Weirder still, we sat at a makeshift table in the bedroom Rakesh shares with his wife.
I'm still trying to process, but did decline the marriage proposal.... If you want the full story you're going to have to ask - I swear I couldn't make this stuff up...
I did learn that 90% of marriages in India are arranged and found the following comparison which I though was interesting. It's from an Indian speaking to a BBC correspondent:
“In your country you marry the woman you love. Here, we love the woman we marry. You fall in love and then get married. We get married then fall in love.”
I think I'll stick to the bar scene.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Independent India??
Last full day in India tomorrow - yep, time flies.... Did something a litte unusual on this trip and hired a driver to do the outside of Delhi excursion to the "Golden Triangle" - Agra (Taj Mahal), Jaipur, Delhi. Usually I do my backpacker thing - take public transportation, stay in local family run hotels, eat at local restaurants and try to absorb into the place as much as I can. What I didn't know is that this is a big holiday weekend in India, so all the transport was booked months ago. Our hotel in Delhi offered to arrange a driver, hotels and everything in between for us. A 'package' trip. Didn't have much choice and figured why not....
Ironically a writer friend of mine recently wrote a piece on the pros of cons of independent vs. group travel. I helped with the critique and struggled to remember what organized travel was like.... now I remember.
We have a great driver, Rakesh, and nice car with a/c. Huge benefit as everyday had been mid 90s/30s and humid - and women need to be covered shoulder to toe. The downside is I feel like I'm experiencing the country through a vaccuum sealed viewing pod. Every restaurant, hotel, shop has been pre-determined by a highly elaborate ring of commission and kickbacks to both Rakesh and the hotel in Delhi who organzed the trip.
The restaurants are purpose built for tourists - not a scrap of Hindi on the menu, but plenty of club sandwiches. The shops are designed to accomodate buses full of Euro-Yankee travellers, complete with inflated prices and limited room for negotiation. We're corralled and lead through room after room of mass produced products unable to escape. Each stop commands an hour of our time. Rakesh gets paid $4 for bringing us there and 2% commission on whatever we buy. How do I know this? He told me.
I like the guy and understand he has a family to feed, but I feel like a puppet to the king pin of India's tourism trade. They are controlling most of our moves and watching where Rakesh's car travels to ensure he takes us to assigned stores and does not cheat the king pin. It's twisted - we are 6 hours from Delhi, but Rakesh recieved a call this morning asking why we missed a stop yesterday that was in the middle of nowhere. Yes, we missed it. Yes, we had a flat tire. Yes, Rakesh was questioned. The network is vast.
It appears that tourism in India is about controlling where the money is spent and ensuring your network is the one benefitting - something that sucks when you're here to learn about the country and experience the life. Marketing and consumerism are wiping out India's abilty to showcase is history, culture, people with a sense of passion an ethnic pride. Instead I am held captive by an invisile man who wants my dollars and nothing more. I guess that how the word works today, but form now on I'll stick to ackpacking.
Don't worry though, I've found ways round the system and my independence is still intact. Just this morning I hired a rickshaw, hit an outdoor market (with no room for tour buses), bought a painting directly from the artist and, dog-forbid, ate tandoori chicken from a man who spoke no english. Mmmmm delicious.
Ironically a writer friend of mine recently wrote a piece on the pros of cons of independent vs. group travel. I helped with the critique and struggled to remember what organized travel was like.... now I remember.
We have a great driver, Rakesh, and nice car with a/c. Huge benefit as everyday had been mid 90s/30s and humid - and women need to be covered shoulder to toe. The downside is I feel like I'm experiencing the country through a vaccuum sealed viewing pod. Every restaurant, hotel, shop has been pre-determined by a highly elaborate ring of commission and kickbacks to both Rakesh and the hotel in Delhi who organzed the trip.
The restaurants are purpose built for tourists - not a scrap of Hindi on the menu, but plenty of club sandwiches. The shops are designed to accomodate buses full of Euro-Yankee travellers, complete with inflated prices and limited room for negotiation. We're corralled and lead through room after room of mass produced products unable to escape. Each stop commands an hour of our time. Rakesh gets paid $4 for bringing us there and 2% commission on whatever we buy. How do I know this? He told me.
I like the guy and understand he has a family to feed, but I feel like a puppet to the king pin of India's tourism trade. They are controlling most of our moves and watching where Rakesh's car travels to ensure he takes us to assigned stores and does not cheat the king pin. It's twisted - we are 6 hours from Delhi, but Rakesh recieved a call this morning asking why we missed a stop yesterday that was in the middle of nowhere. Yes, we missed it. Yes, we had a flat tire. Yes, Rakesh was questioned. The network is vast.
It appears that tourism in India is about controlling where the money is spent and ensuring your network is the one benefitting - something that sucks when you're here to learn about the country and experience the life. Marketing and consumerism are wiping out India's abilty to showcase is history, culture, people with a sense of passion an ethnic pride. Instead I am held captive by an invisile man who wants my dollars and nothing more. I guess that how the word works today, but form now on I'll stick to ackpacking.
Don't worry though, I've found ways round the system and my independence is still intact. Just this morning I hired a rickshaw, hit an outdoor market (with no room for tour buses), bought a painting directly from the artist and, dog-forbid, ate tandoori chicken from a man who spoke no english. Mmmmm delicious.
Taj Mahal
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- speechless.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Subway Vindaloo
So there's not much night life here in India.... just in case you're wondering why I'm spending every night on the blog!
Visited the volunteer agency this morning which was really impressive. They've partnered with a bunch of NGOs in the area and really have their stuff together. They've set up volunteers to do everything from a three hour project teaching street kids how to brush their teeth to a year long internship helping women sell their handmade crafts. They're also doing a bunch of stuff that I never even considered, but could definitely develop into. I was buzzing when I left the place thinking of the possibilites. Plus the staff is very efficient and exactly the type of program I want to be working with. Best of all I felt like I was able to capitalize on the BA gift. The woman even said to me, as if cued, "How lovely to see a face and not be on the phone." Ha!
the rest of the day was an adventure in eating. We landed in a place featuring South Indian cuisine and had to share a table with a local guy. Wasn't too happy at first - I mean I already felt self-conscious enough not knowing what the heck I was ordering or how to pronounce it. But when he ordered before us, I just followed his lead and said I'd have the same - a little food roulette. Turned out it was some Thali thing that came with 10 pots of sauces on a banana leaf tray, a bowl of rice, 3 puffed bread and pompadon... yeah, right? What the heck?? Luckily this guy, Jaipal, saw my confusion and showed me how to eat it like a local. Next thing I knew I had chucked my cutlery and was mixing sauces and rice by hand on the banana leaf . (The leaf has some property that helps sooth the stomach, so he says.) Then he showed me how to properly pack the rice mixture in my hand and eat it. India's one of those countries where you onlyeat with your right hand and save your left hand for 'dirty' work. Dig it. Anyway, loved the whole processa nd the food was AMAZING - felt like a kid making mud pies... and so tasty! Just not so sure about the yellow fingernails....
The only problem with the food here is that it's all Indian. (That's meant to be funny.) Seriously though, breakfast, lunch and dinner is all curried something.... though not the holy cow. I love Indian, but once a twice a week is usually my limit - I know my dad and brother would say I'm looking a gift horse in the mouth, but I caved and went to Subway tonight. I tried to stay cultural and got a chicken tikka sub, but they didn't warn me it was more like a hot, fiery vindaloo. The only Subway in the world that needs to add heat ratings to its food. We did stop in to look at the McDonalds menu too - not a beef burger in sight.... just chicken and veggies.
The other event of the day was my encounter with a palm reading fortune teller. He gave me some interesting info and told me I'd die in my sleep at age 85. Seriously? Are they allowed to do that? So with this new found confidence, I stepped off the curb directly into traffic....
So tomorrow we leave Delhi and head to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal and then spend two nights in Jaipur. Excited to get out of the city and see what the rest of the country is like. Keep you posted....
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Delhi Dolly
I realized today that the time difference from here to the US is 9.5 hrs. Don't usually get the .5 hour, so decided to celebrate it... just not sure how yet... or why.... just feels like it deserves it. Maybe I should drink a mango lassi every 30 minutes? Or throw down some Bollywood style dance moves?
The only other time I encountered something like it was in Nepal, where Kathmandu is Xhrs and 45 mins ahead. Now that really throws off the time/space thingy, but anyway....
So one of the 'extras' that Fed negotiated for our upgraded room was a divine view of a show that was taking place next door. There's a mini outdoor amphitheatre (located in the middle of the surrounding slum), microphones, loud music and lots of kids. What a treat! Except it started at 8 and didn't finish until 2am. I really have no idea what it is or why people send their kids to it so late... it's kind of a British pantomime type thing, but on a school night. At one point there were four grown men pretending to paddle an oversized canoe though dry ice across the stage while singing in Hindi. I enjoyed the first 4 1/4 hours, but got bored around midnight and developed a migrane by dawn. I've only had about a half dozen migraine's in my life, but the show plus a hot day in a black t-shirt and jeans knocked me out. Lucky me just learned the 'show' is a regular nightly feature and we'll be treated to a sequel tonight. Maybe I'll record it for you.
I also got to play dress up today. The morning was a waste thanks to my head, but made it out to go sari shopping after lunch. We walked into a shop and it was like stepping into a rainbow. The colors are just unreal and all the glittery little beads... it's hard to say no... so I didn't. I tried on a million combinations - trying to find one stylish and modern enough to transition to the streets of NYC. The greatest thing is that you buy a giant dress and then the onsite tailor takes your measurements and custom fits it for you. The guy sits outside of the stall with an old-school hand operated sewing machine resting on a table with only three original legs. The Singer looks identical to the ones in a museum my aunt once took me to and is probably a leftover from the British Raj. Even so,I came back an hour later and my clothes were a perfect fit. Yes, clothes. I couldn't decide which outfit to get..... so I bought three (my trademark manuever when faced with indecision), complete with leggings and scarves to match. All for the price of a single pair of mid-range jeans back home. BARGAIN!
I also bought a new pair of shoes - and the FUGLIEST shoes I have ever put on my feet. I swear they will not make it home with me. Bought them out of necessity after my flipflops tore a hole in my foot yesterday. Nothing like walking through India with an open wound just inches from the filth and pestilence smelting below your feet. Potentially I'm doomed to one nasty infection, please pray the new kicks save me.
So yeah, this trip is taking on a absurd vibe. For one I'm not really a pantomime viewing shopper when I travel, but then I don't usually have company either. The first thing Fed said he wanted to do while we stood waiting for his bags at the airport was get a manicure. His hotel requirements demand WiFi and he was really excited about finding a store last night that sold Lindts, Doritos and Ben & Jerry's. In fact, he's so excited he's taking his camera back tomorrow to film it - no joke. Usually, I'm just excited to find a foreign bed that doesn't contain fleas - brand names optional.
Thing is, I appreciate the different outlook. It's amusing ( I tease him openly, so don't think I'm being mean) and plus it distracts both of us from the poverty and unsettling sites we've seen. I worked at a homeless shelter for a while, so I'm not completely unaccustomed to people who are down and out, but India is bad. There was a guy today sleeping beneath an underpass (actually there were about six or seven men) - his clothes, hair and skin were all stained the same grimy color of the dirty ground where he made his home. He slept with his mouth wide open while a parade of flies camped out on his cheek. Maybe he was too far into slumber to feel them or maybe there comes a point when you no longer bother to wipe them away. Either way it's an image that hit me, but also why I'm here. Tomorrow I'm meeting with a volunteer placement agency and will learn the true depth of the needs here.... based on what I've seen it'll be a sobering day. Maybe Fed will have some Ben & Jerry's waiting for me when I get home.
The only other time I encountered something like it was in Nepal, where Kathmandu is Xhrs and 45 mins ahead. Now that really throws off the time/space thingy, but anyway....
So one of the 'extras' that Fed negotiated for our upgraded room was a divine view of a show that was taking place next door. There's a mini outdoor amphitheatre (located in the middle of the surrounding slum), microphones, loud music and lots of kids. What a treat! Except it started at 8 and didn't finish until 2am. I really have no idea what it is or why people send their kids to it so late... it's kind of a British pantomime type thing, but on a school night. At one point there were four grown men pretending to paddle an oversized canoe though dry ice across the stage while singing in Hindi. I enjoyed the first 4 1/4 hours, but got bored around midnight and developed a migrane by dawn. I've only had about a half dozen migraine's in my life, but the show plus a hot day in a black t-shirt and jeans knocked me out. Lucky me just learned the 'show' is a regular nightly feature and we'll be treated to a sequel tonight. Maybe I'll record it for you.
I also got to play dress up today. The morning was a waste thanks to my head, but made it out to go sari shopping after lunch. We walked into a shop and it was like stepping into a rainbow. The colors are just unreal and all the glittery little beads... it's hard to say no... so I didn't. I tried on a million combinations - trying to find one stylish and modern enough to transition to the streets of NYC. The greatest thing is that you buy a giant dress and then the onsite tailor takes your measurements and custom fits it for you. The guy sits outside of the stall with an old-school hand operated sewing machine resting on a table with only three original legs. The Singer looks identical to the ones in a museum my aunt once took me to and is probably a leftover from the British Raj. Even so,I came back an hour later and my clothes were a perfect fit. Yes, clothes. I couldn't decide which outfit to get..... so I bought three (my trademark manuever when faced with indecision), complete with leggings and scarves to match. All for the price of a single pair of mid-range jeans back home. BARGAIN!
I also bought a new pair of shoes - and the FUGLIEST shoes I have ever put on my feet. I swear they will not make it home with me. Bought them out of necessity after my flipflops tore a hole in my foot yesterday. Nothing like walking through India with an open wound just inches from the filth and pestilence smelting below your feet. Potentially I'm doomed to one nasty infection, please pray the new kicks save me.
So yeah, this trip is taking on a absurd vibe. For one I'm not really a pantomime viewing shopper when I travel, but then I don't usually have company either. The first thing Fed said he wanted to do while we stood waiting for his bags at the airport was get a manicure. His hotel requirements demand WiFi and he was really excited about finding a store last night that sold Lindts, Doritos and Ben & Jerry's. In fact, he's so excited he's taking his camera back tomorrow to film it - no joke. Usually, I'm just excited to find a foreign bed that doesn't contain fleas - brand names optional.
Thing is, I appreciate the different outlook. It's amusing ( I tease him openly, so don't think I'm being mean) and plus it distracts both of us from the poverty and unsettling sites we've seen. I worked at a homeless shelter for a while, so I'm not completely unaccustomed to people who are down and out, but India is bad. There was a guy today sleeping beneath an underpass (actually there were about six or seven men) - his clothes, hair and skin were all stained the same grimy color of the dirty ground where he made his home. He slept with his mouth wide open while a parade of flies camped out on his cheek. Maybe he was too far into slumber to feel them or maybe there comes a point when you no longer bother to wipe them away. Either way it's an image that hit me, but also why I'm here. Tomorrow I'm meeting with a volunteer placement agency and will learn the true depth of the needs here.... based on what I've seen it'll be a sobering day. Maybe Fed will have some Ben & Jerry's waiting for me when I get home.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
India....?
I'm in India... don't ask how I got here. Or where I've been. I'm not sure I know myself. It's been about three months since my last entry and most of you just gave up following me. I get that, but here I am drunken with jet lag in the middle of India wondering how cows became a staple feature in the afternoon rush hour. Seriously.
I arrived this morning courtesy of a trip I won through British Airways. My business brought me here - it won the contest. Kind of a boring story, but BA was looking to help small business grow internationally by flying them out to have face to face meetings with their international partners. I applied, they liked my gig and now I'm eating curry for breakfast.
It's all good timing though and probably the push I needed. The Central American trip just kicked my butt - tougher than I thought and super exhausting. Travelling solo, being constantly on the move and covering hundreds of miles can be toxic. Throw in a few extra unexpected problems and that wristband beach resort doesn't sound so hideous after all. Truth is, it took me the rest of the summer to get back on my feet. Just need to get over the final hurdle now and what can be more therapuetic that landing in the chaos of Delhi?
Luckily, the terms of the prize allowed me a travel buddy, so I recruited my friend Federico. Known him for a few years and he's been helping me with some webstuff, so figured this was a good way to say thanks. Plus he's good fun and the only person out there who can actually take off for three weeks on short notice. See, I applied an hour before the deadline, was told I won the middle of last month and left a week ago. We spent seven in London and never really adjusted to UK time before getting here. Guess I'm now ten hours ahead of the US? The flight was nine hours, overnight, the city just lost power (thank dog this computer lab has a generator) and two plus two doesn't seem to equal four anymore.... my space time mathematical continuim is all kinds of screwed up.
So we landed this morning in a 92 degree soup of smoggy humidity. (I only brought jeans - whoops.) I can't even figure out how to describe this place either. Frantic chaos? I mean we took a cab from the airport to our hotel. The driver goes along a four lane highway at top speed, but nobody pays attention to the lane markers, so it becomes six or seven lanes as cars straddle the lines and lanesplit like motorcycles. We witness an accident and the tow truck pulling a car away. It looked like an old yellow tonka truck and it just dragged the wreck sparking and smoking down the highway by a single piece of rope. We get off the highway and enter morning rush hour, battling it out with buses, tuk-tuks, rickshaws, and carts pulled by bikes, manpower, cows or elephants all ramming each other without care. (And don't forget the holy cow who decides to take a nap in the middle of the vehicular mess.) It's scary when you realize you need to hire a taxi just to pick you up do a u-turn and drop you on the other side of the street.
Buildings, alleys and people are just as manic. Fed got freaked out by the original hotel we booked and insisted we go to a different place. Fine by me and he pulled great deal - something to be said for not going solo. The guy's got an advantage though. He's born and raised Connecticut, but his family is from Peru - over here he looks native. It's working both for and against us. People talk to him in Hindi and taxis give us local rates, but then people look at me like I'm some kind of Euro-Yankee Sugar Momma..... except I'm broke and bed sharing just isn't our thing.
The other thing is how much the locals are fascinated by white people. Kinda surprising when you remember India is a former British colony - I woulda thought they'd had enough of us. Either way, I've already posed with six random people who found me more interesting than the local tourist attractions.... ??? I always wanted to be popular.
Will try to get some pics posted tomorrow and promise to never complain about I-95 again..
I arrived this morning courtesy of a trip I won through British Airways. My business brought me here - it won the contest. Kind of a boring story, but BA was looking to help small business grow internationally by flying them out to have face to face meetings with their international partners. I applied, they liked my gig and now I'm eating curry for breakfast.
It's all good timing though and probably the push I needed. The Central American trip just kicked my butt - tougher than I thought and super exhausting. Travelling solo, being constantly on the move and covering hundreds of miles can be toxic. Throw in a few extra unexpected problems and that wristband beach resort doesn't sound so hideous after all. Truth is, it took me the rest of the summer to get back on my feet. Just need to get over the final hurdle now and what can be more therapuetic that landing in the chaos of Delhi?
Luckily, the terms of the prize allowed me a travel buddy, so I recruited my friend Federico. Known him for a few years and he's been helping me with some webstuff, so figured this was a good way to say thanks. Plus he's good fun and the only person out there who can actually take off for three weeks on short notice. See, I applied an hour before the deadline, was told I won the middle of last month and left a week ago. We spent seven in London and never really adjusted to UK time before getting here. Guess I'm now ten hours ahead of the US? The flight was nine hours, overnight, the city just lost power (thank dog this computer lab has a generator) and two plus two doesn't seem to equal four anymore.... my space time mathematical continuim is all kinds of screwed up.
So we landed this morning in a 92 degree soup of smoggy humidity. (I only brought jeans - whoops.) I can't even figure out how to describe this place either. Frantic chaos? I mean we took a cab from the airport to our hotel. The driver goes along a four lane highway at top speed, but nobody pays attention to the lane markers, so it becomes six or seven lanes as cars straddle the lines and lanesplit like motorcycles. We witness an accident and the tow truck pulling a car away. It looked like an old yellow tonka truck and it just dragged the wreck sparking and smoking down the highway by a single piece of rope. We get off the highway and enter morning rush hour, battling it out with buses, tuk-tuks, rickshaws, and carts pulled by bikes, manpower, cows or elephants all ramming each other without care. (And don't forget the holy cow who decides to take a nap in the middle of the vehicular mess.) It's scary when you realize you need to hire a taxi just to pick you up do a u-turn and drop you on the other side of the street.
Buildings, alleys and people are just as manic. Fed got freaked out by the original hotel we booked and insisted we go to a different place. Fine by me and he pulled great deal - something to be said for not going solo. The guy's got an advantage though. He's born and raised Connecticut, but his family is from Peru - over here he looks native. It's working both for and against us. People talk to him in Hindi and taxis give us local rates, but then people look at me like I'm some kind of Euro-Yankee Sugar Momma..... except I'm broke and bed sharing just isn't our thing.
The other thing is how much the locals are fascinated by white people. Kinda surprising when you remember India is a former British colony - I woulda thought they'd had enough of us. Either way, I've already posed with six random people who found me more interesting than the local tourist attractions.... ??? I always wanted to be popular.
Will try to get some pics posted tomorrow and promise to never complain about I-95 again..
Saturday, June 27, 2009
God's View - Market pics
Here's the pics from yesterday's journey to the roof.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=132516&id=724695545&l=3683ebc7df
The market itself was unbelieveable - it's the biggest in all of Guatemala. There's people everywhere, selling anything- clothing, spices, rope, baskets, hats, pigs, cows, goats, leather goods. The women balance their puchases on their head or strap them to their backs in bundles of fabric. The men use harnesses that stretch across their forheads with their purchases hanging down each side, perfectly balanced. I bumped into one guy and accidently jabbed one of the sacks hanging down his back. It let out a nasty squeal - he was caryying piglets.
The bus back to Xela was packed full and I shared a bench seat with a young Mayan couple. The woman had what I figured was her purchases bundled on her back. Wrong again. 20 mins into the trip it started to cry and she pulled out a 3 month old baby.
Off to Chichicastenango today and the big craft market there tomorrow!
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=132516&id=724695545&l=3683ebc7df
The market itself was unbelieveable - it's the biggest in all of Guatemala. There's people everywhere, selling anything- clothing, spices, rope, baskets, hats, pigs, cows, goats, leather goods. The women balance their puchases on their head or strap them to their backs in bundles of fabric. The men use harnesses that stretch across their forheads with their purchases hanging down each side, perfectly balanced. I bumped into one guy and accidently jabbed one of the sacks hanging down his back. It let out a nasty squeal - he was caryying piglets.
The bus back to Xela was packed full and I shared a bench seat with a young Mayan couple. The woman had what I figured was her purchases bundled on her back. Wrong again. 20 mins into the trip it started to cry and she pulled out a 3 month old baby.
Off to Chichicastenango today and the big craft market there tomorrow!
The arrival of friends
This weekend marks the end of my solo travel and the arrival of my friend Alexia. I've known Alexia for 7 years. We met on my first Habitat build and have been traveling together ever since. Even though we've checked five countries off the list together (Ecuador, Canada, UK, El Salvador, Dominican Republic), we've only seen each other once in the US - a short weekend in Chicago.
She'll travel with me for the next week and on Wednesday we'll be joined by another group of friends I know primarily through travel and Habitat, including my best friend Steph. That group will be with me for about three weeks. We're doing a week long Habitat build in Rabinal Guatemala, then making our way to Belize for some R&R.
Excited for the company of friends from home.... can't wait!
She'll travel with me for the next week and on Wednesday we'll be joined by another group of friends I know primarily through travel and Habitat, including my best friend Steph. That group will be with me for about three weeks. We're doing a week long Habitat build in Rabinal Guatemala, then making our way to Belize for some R&R.
Excited for the company of friends from home.... can't wait!
Monterrico - Xela
My legs read like braille. They are full of bumps and lumps telling me to buy bug spray and mocking me for not having any itch relief. The hazzards of visiting a jungle during rainy season.
I left Guatemala City and took a chicken bus down to Monterrico a beach town on the Pacific with volcanic black sands. I sat at the back of the bus and watched four kids jump up and down in their seats trying catch some air when the bus bounced over the speed bumps that marked every town along the route. They reminded me of when, as kids, we did the exact same thing on our way to elementary school. After ten minutes they timed it perfectly and caught a great bounce- they squealed with laughter. I couldn't help but laugh too. Then the Mayan man across the aisle who'd been watching me started laughing with me and then another, and another, and it soon kicked off the whole bus. It was one of those little moments where language and culture disolve and you find the real joy of travel.
Arrived at Monterrico and checked into a beach front cabana. Turned out there were two Brits and a Swede who also just arrived and were single women travellers. Was great to be able to kick back in a hammock and relax with them for a couple days - even if we got eaten alive and a Canadian woman who joined us the following day found fleas on one of the beds.
Louise, the Swede, joined me in checking out a turtle conservation project 8 kms outside of town. Was so close but took us about 2.5 hrs to get there along a narrow sandy track - and that was by bus. Got there and found the director wasn't available. Spent 15 mins talking to a volunteer, learned there wouldn't be another bus for 3 hrs and started our hike back to town in stifling humidity and 90 degree heat under the midday sun. Louise figured hitch-hiking was our best option and flagged down a passing pick up. We hopped in the back with a couple of goats and off we went. (Don't worry. When the truck approached I read the sign on the side - they were pastors from the local church.)
Had a monster travel day from Monterrico to Xela (Quetzeltenango) on Wed. My 'direct shuttle' included two extended layovers which meant I didn't arrive until 8.30pm - clearly breaking my no-travel-after-dark rule. I was the only passenger on the last leg and the driver Manuel had me sit up front with him. Manuel liked to talk, which worked for me as he spent the first 45 mins telling me how overworked he is. He'd already put in 16 hours that day (which was normal) and hadn't had any time off in about a month. I would have been happy to ride in silence but figured so long as he was talking he was awake.... and I needed him to be.
The two and half hour drive was along a windy road through a mountain pass. It was dark, rainy and intensly foggy - the type of fog where you can't see the road. Manuel told me how he spent a good chunk of his life in California driving 18-wheelers from the Bay Area to Arizona. He figured all the US driving exams he had to pass and the fog he regularly navigated there made him much more qualified in Guatemala, so he sped along at top speed in the white out. To prove his point, he pointed out how there was no on in front of us and a long trail of cars behind following his lead.
The other thing about Manuel is that he likes to use his hands when he talks- a lot. Meaning he rarely had them on the wheel- always a bad situation and it was compounded by the rain dislodging mini landslides dumping oil drum sixed boulders in our path. Then there was the confused chicken bus driver who wandered onto the wrong side of the divided highway at a construction zone and came at us head on.
It wasn't all bad with Manuel and even though it reads like a nighmare. I felt surprisingly secure during the drive and when the fog receeded it felt like we were driving on top of the world with all the lights of the valley towns below us. Manuel is also a tour guide, so once he finished his life story he gave me the history of the Mayans and the Spanish Conquistadors. My big lesson of the night was the 'Mayans' in Guatemala aren't really Mayans at all, but indigenous people that the Spanish brought with them from Mexico to help 'settle' Guatemala. I think they were brought against their will as slaves, but Manuel, a Spanish descendent, wasn't willing to admit that part of the story.
Arrived in Xela, the hub of Guatemalan Volunteerism and the whol reason I'm here. My hotel is cheap $3.80 a night for a private room and full of long term expat residents, mostly students studying Spanish and doing volunteerwork. Not everyone is a student though.... been hanging out with two guys Brett and Walter. Brett's an Aussie who works as a wine maker, following the seasons and harvests around the world. Right now he's stuck in Guate waiting for his income tax refund to come in and living off pineapple which he buys 3 for 10Q - about $1.40. He claims he can't afford anything else. Walter is a retired San Francisco cab driver and one of the most educated and intelligent people I've met in a long time. He's a scruffy looking guy with long, greasy, yellow-white hair and a Santa Claus beard who smells a little funny. He splits his time between Mexico and Guatemala, spending his days playing chess and facilitating electronic political debates on the internet. He's sitting next to met as I write this, sharing philosophical quotes by literary masters. He barked out a great one a few minutes ago that I wanted to remember, but I forgot it already. He's also the only other person I know, besides my father, who's read Prouts complete works multiple times.
Walter is also the one who informed Brett and me that Michale Jackson died yesterday. The news sparked off a hotel-wide tribute fueled by cheap Guatemallan beer, cheap Guatemala rum and the looped play of "We Are The World" - the only Michael Jackson song that could be found on short notice.
Hangovers were rife this morning, but I still made it to the San Franciso market. The whole mountain town is transformed into one vendor stall after another selling clothes, household goods, and livestock. Manuel had given me a tip that if I spoke to the man at the church he'd let me up on the roof . He claimed the view was one of the best in all of Guate - and he was right. Felt liberating, if erie, to be standing all alone on the roof of a 400 years old colonial church on a mountain topin Guatemala, but there I was looking down at the mass of market goers below snapping pictures and wondering exaclt what decisions I'd made that led me to be right here right now. God's view.
I left Guatemala City and took a chicken bus down to Monterrico a beach town on the Pacific with volcanic black sands. I sat at the back of the bus and watched four kids jump up and down in their seats trying catch some air when the bus bounced over the speed bumps that marked every town along the route. They reminded me of when, as kids, we did the exact same thing on our way to elementary school. After ten minutes they timed it perfectly and caught a great bounce- they squealed with laughter. I couldn't help but laugh too. Then the Mayan man across the aisle who'd been watching me started laughing with me and then another, and another, and it soon kicked off the whole bus. It was one of those little moments where language and culture disolve and you find the real joy of travel.
Arrived at Monterrico and checked into a beach front cabana. Turned out there were two Brits and a Swede who also just arrived and were single women travellers. Was great to be able to kick back in a hammock and relax with them for a couple days - even if we got eaten alive and a Canadian woman who joined us the following day found fleas on one of the beds.
Louise, the Swede, joined me in checking out a turtle conservation project 8 kms outside of town. Was so close but took us about 2.5 hrs to get there along a narrow sandy track - and that was by bus. Got there and found the director wasn't available. Spent 15 mins talking to a volunteer, learned there wouldn't be another bus for 3 hrs and started our hike back to town in stifling humidity and 90 degree heat under the midday sun. Louise figured hitch-hiking was our best option and flagged down a passing pick up. We hopped in the back with a couple of goats and off we went. (Don't worry. When the truck approached I read the sign on the side - they were pastors from the local church.)
Had a monster travel day from Monterrico to Xela (Quetzeltenango) on Wed. My 'direct shuttle' included two extended layovers which meant I didn't arrive until 8.30pm - clearly breaking my no-travel-after-dark rule. I was the only passenger on the last leg and the driver Manuel had me sit up front with him. Manuel liked to talk, which worked for me as he spent the first 45 mins telling me how overworked he is. He'd already put in 16 hours that day (which was normal) and hadn't had any time off in about a month. I would have been happy to ride in silence but figured so long as he was talking he was awake.... and I needed him to be.
The two and half hour drive was along a windy road through a mountain pass. It was dark, rainy and intensly foggy - the type of fog where you can't see the road. Manuel told me how he spent a good chunk of his life in California driving 18-wheelers from the Bay Area to Arizona. He figured all the US driving exams he had to pass and the fog he regularly navigated there made him much more qualified in Guatemala, so he sped along at top speed in the white out. To prove his point, he pointed out how there was no on in front of us and a long trail of cars behind following his lead.
The other thing about Manuel is that he likes to use his hands when he talks- a lot. Meaning he rarely had them on the wheel- always a bad situation and it was compounded by the rain dislodging mini landslides dumping oil drum sixed boulders in our path. Then there was the confused chicken bus driver who wandered onto the wrong side of the divided highway at a construction zone and came at us head on.
It wasn't all bad with Manuel and even though it reads like a nighmare. I felt surprisingly secure during the drive and when the fog receeded it felt like we were driving on top of the world with all the lights of the valley towns below us. Manuel is also a tour guide, so once he finished his life story he gave me the history of the Mayans and the Spanish Conquistadors. My big lesson of the night was the 'Mayans' in Guatemala aren't really Mayans at all, but indigenous people that the Spanish brought with them from Mexico to help 'settle' Guatemala. I think they were brought against their will as slaves, but Manuel, a Spanish descendent, wasn't willing to admit that part of the story.
Arrived in Xela, the hub of Guatemalan Volunteerism and the whol reason I'm here. My hotel is cheap $3.80 a night for a private room and full of long term expat residents, mostly students studying Spanish and doing volunteerwork. Not everyone is a student though.... been hanging out with two guys Brett and Walter. Brett's an Aussie who works as a wine maker, following the seasons and harvests around the world. Right now he's stuck in Guate waiting for his income tax refund to come in and living off pineapple which he buys 3 for 10Q - about $1.40. He claims he can't afford anything else. Walter is a retired San Francisco cab driver and one of the most educated and intelligent people I've met in a long time. He's a scruffy looking guy with long, greasy, yellow-white hair and a Santa Claus beard who smells a little funny. He splits his time between Mexico and Guatemala, spending his days playing chess and facilitating electronic political debates on the internet. He's sitting next to met as I write this, sharing philosophical quotes by literary masters. He barked out a great one a few minutes ago that I wanted to remember, but I forgot it already. He's also the only other person I know, besides my father, who's read Prouts complete works multiple times.
Walter is also the one who informed Brett and me that Michale Jackson died yesterday. The news sparked off a hotel-wide tribute fueled by cheap Guatemallan beer, cheap Guatemala rum and the looped play of "We Are The World" - the only Michael Jackson song that could be found on short notice.
Hangovers were rife this morning, but I still made it to the San Franciso market. The whole mountain town is transformed into one vendor stall after another selling clothes, household goods, and livestock. Manuel had given me a tip that if I spoke to the man at the church he'd let me up on the roof . He claimed the view was one of the best in all of Guate - and he was right. Felt liberating, if erie, to be standing all alone on the roof of a 400 years old colonial church on a mountain topin Guatemala, but there I was looking down at the mass of market goers below snapping pictures and wondering exaclt what decisions I'd made that led me to be right here right now. God's view.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Guatemala!
A quick update on a hectic week.... haven´t spent the night in the same bed for over a week now, have covered I don´t know how many miles and sat in dozens of bus seats befreinding dozens of locals along the way. Traveled from San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua all the way up to Guatemala City, Guatemala.
Encountered a greedy ticket collector who put me on his bus the wrong place leaving San Juan. Told me he was going to Granada when he was really going to Managua (the last place I wanted to be in all of Central America). Luckily I´d studied the maps ahead of time and knew something was up before being dropped unwillingly into the chaos of Managua.
Finally got to Granada and met a highly spritual Dutch woman who comes from a long line of gypsy healers and an American doctoral candidate studying the mating habits of crickets. Went to breakfast together and listened to them get into the most diometrically opposed debate over human existance. She claiming we´re enetering a period of love and untiy, where all that matters is positive energy and we will no longer need food or water to survive. This didn´t go over too well with the hard-core scientist... but we all left as friends. Just a typical morning in Nicaragua!
My ankle by this time was as large as an elephant due to some weired bug bit. The healer took me to a doctor and who cured me. (Turns out I had an allergic reaction to whatever is was.) Total bill for a consutltation, plus purchasing three prescriptions.... take note, Pres Obama - a whopping $7.42!!
Left Granada for a night in Leon. Wasn´t to fussed by either place. If you want a charming colonial town just go to Antigua, Guatemala. I did meet a social studies professor from the University of Leon on the way to Leon. Really sweet woman who helped me plan my route through Honduras and even offered to e-mail her friends there for additional suggestions. We had the whole conversation in Spanish and she was great on coaching me on the language too. I guess a teacher is always a teacher.
Went from Leon, Nicaragua to San Pedro Sula, Honduras in one very long day of 14 hours of bus travel, plus another frontera crossing. Yet the border was sooo quiet, no one there but me - hurrah. As for San Pedro, it´s Honduras´s second largest city and not somewhere I really wanted to be, but missed my connecting bus by 10 minutes so got stuck there. Hotel was nice though even if the guy on the desk offered to come to my room and give me a personal ´massage´. Creepy.
Finally, got to Copan Ruinas on Saturday, where I was trying to go but missed the bus. Wow - what a gorgeous town; cobbled streets, cobbled sidewalk, white washed adobe houses with terracotta roofs all set on a hilside in the mountains. Visited the neighboring Mayan ruins, a UNESCO World Heritage Site that I´m hoping to write an article on for a project a friend connected me to. The place is so inspiring it should be easy to write.
Left Copan for Guatemala City yesterday and rolled into a swanky hotel in the affluent part of town unshowerd, covered in dust with wind blown hair. It didn´t help that my hostel the night before had plumming problems that cut off the water supply for half a day and was still not restored when I left. I think the people here at this hotel wanted to fumigate me before putting me in a room. Oh well, am checking it out for my honeyteers and think it will be perfect for them. Plus the food is fantastic!
Off to Monterrico in a few minutes - a beach town on the Pacific. Checking out another hotel for my honeyteers and a couple volunteer organizations. May even get two nights in the same bed!!
Encountered a greedy ticket collector who put me on his bus the wrong place leaving San Juan. Told me he was going to Granada when he was really going to Managua (the last place I wanted to be in all of Central America). Luckily I´d studied the maps ahead of time and knew something was up before being dropped unwillingly into the chaos of Managua.
Finally got to Granada and met a highly spritual Dutch woman who comes from a long line of gypsy healers and an American doctoral candidate studying the mating habits of crickets. Went to breakfast together and listened to them get into the most diometrically opposed debate over human existance. She claiming we´re enetering a period of love and untiy, where all that matters is positive energy and we will no longer need food or water to survive. This didn´t go over too well with the hard-core scientist... but we all left as friends. Just a typical morning in Nicaragua!
My ankle by this time was as large as an elephant due to some weired bug bit. The healer took me to a doctor and who cured me. (Turns out I had an allergic reaction to whatever is was.) Total bill for a consutltation, plus purchasing three prescriptions.... take note, Pres Obama - a whopping $7.42!!
Left Granada for a night in Leon. Wasn´t to fussed by either place. If you want a charming colonial town just go to Antigua, Guatemala. I did meet a social studies professor from the University of Leon on the way to Leon. Really sweet woman who helped me plan my route through Honduras and even offered to e-mail her friends there for additional suggestions. We had the whole conversation in Spanish and she was great on coaching me on the language too. I guess a teacher is always a teacher.
Went from Leon, Nicaragua to San Pedro Sula, Honduras in one very long day of 14 hours of bus travel, plus another frontera crossing. Yet the border was sooo quiet, no one there but me - hurrah. As for San Pedro, it´s Honduras´s second largest city and not somewhere I really wanted to be, but missed my connecting bus by 10 minutes so got stuck there. Hotel was nice though even if the guy on the desk offered to come to my room and give me a personal ´massage´. Creepy.
Finally, got to Copan Ruinas on Saturday, where I was trying to go but missed the bus. Wow - what a gorgeous town; cobbled streets, cobbled sidewalk, white washed adobe houses with terracotta roofs all set on a hilside in the mountains. Visited the neighboring Mayan ruins, a UNESCO World Heritage Site that I´m hoping to write an article on for a project a friend connected me to. The place is so inspiring it should be easy to write.
Left Copan for Guatemala City yesterday and rolled into a swanky hotel in the affluent part of town unshowerd, covered in dust with wind blown hair. It didn´t help that my hostel the night before had plumming problems that cut off the water supply for half a day and was still not restored when I left. I think the people here at this hotel wanted to fumigate me before putting me in a room. Oh well, am checking it out for my honeyteers and think it will be perfect for them. Plus the food is fantastic!
Off to Monterrico in a few minutes - a beach town on the Pacific. Checking out another hotel for my honeyteers and a couple volunteer organizations. May even get two nights in the same bed!!
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Pics from San Juan
Some pics from San Juan...
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=130216&id=724695545&l=4db64b705f
Breakfast on the water, one of my fav things and better yet when it's only $2.50. So cheap and last night's dinner, plus two pina coladas, while watching the most beautiful sunset of my life was a mere $7.50. I love this place, a peaceful town, full of color and flowers, with cobbled streets, thatched beachfront cabanas and palm trees. What's not to like?
My only regret is being on my own - not the solo part, but the single part. I meet so many interesting guys on the road and that's what they say right? Do stuff you love and you're destined to meet somebody. That probably works for most hobbies, but being in Nicaragua and meeting some fantastic guy from California, or Vancouver or some part of Europe doesn't really work, no matter how 'perfect' they are.
Instead, I look at the hotels, towns and romantic spots, each full of loving couples and promise myself I'll come back some day with that special guy. San Juan del Sur being top of the list.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=130216&id=724695545&l=4db64b705f
Breakfast on the water, one of my fav things and better yet when it's only $2.50. So cheap and last night's dinner, plus two pina coladas, while watching the most beautiful sunset of my life was a mere $7.50. I love this place, a peaceful town, full of color and flowers, with cobbled streets, thatched beachfront cabanas and palm trees. What's not to like?
My only regret is being on my own - not the solo part, but the single part. I meet so many interesting guys on the road and that's what they say right? Do stuff you love and you're destined to meet somebody. That probably works for most hobbies, but being in Nicaragua and meeting some fantastic guy from California, or Vancouver or some part of Europe doesn't really work, no matter how 'perfect' they are.
Instead, I look at the hotels, towns and romantic spots, each full of loving couples and promise myself I'll come back some day with that special guy. San Juan del Sur being top of the list.
Karma Pays Me Back
Karma paid me back today. I took a risk that was either really smart or really stupid. Even though it paid off, I'm still not sure what the answer is....
I'd read there were no banks in my destination of San Juan del Sur and so I would have to change my money at the manic frontera. Waiting in line with my towering lineback of Germans and Pedro at my side, I consented to one of the money changing touts. I pulled out the $20 I keep in my ''decoy'' wallet and converted it to Nicaraguan Cordovas.
Showing money in public is never a good idea and it didn't get more public than here - people everywhere, but just enough space to see what other's are doing at a distance. Even so, with my new team of backers and circling government officials, I figured this may be better than a solo run at a secluded ATM.
I tried to be discrete, but the boredom of the wait, and lack of entertainment, meant that my transaction became the focus of attention. Twenty-five pairs of eyes were watching as I shoved my new money into my wallet and I was second guessing my idea. But $20 isn't a lot, and I figured there was additional safety with a small amount. However, ten minutes later Pedro informs me it was a week's wages for some. So with every payment I self-consciously yanked out the appropriate bill and stashed my change without looking at or counting it.
Later that night, safely tucked into my hotel room, I pulled out my wallet and counted what was left. Waded in with a bundle of 20C notes was a 200C note. Someone had given me the wrong change-US$10 too much. Ironic how in my paranoia of losing additional money I accidentally capitalized on someone else's mistake. Karma paid me back.
I'd read there were no banks in my destination of San Juan del Sur and so I would have to change my money at the manic frontera. Waiting in line with my towering lineback of Germans and Pedro at my side, I consented to one of the money changing touts. I pulled out the $20 I keep in my ''decoy'' wallet and converted it to Nicaraguan Cordovas.
Showing money in public is never a good idea and it didn't get more public than here - people everywhere, but just enough space to see what other's are doing at a distance. Even so, with my new team of backers and circling government officials, I figured this may be better than a solo run at a secluded ATM.
I tried to be discrete, but the boredom of the wait, and lack of entertainment, meant that my transaction became the focus of attention. Twenty-five pairs of eyes were watching as I shoved my new money into my wallet and I was second guessing my idea. But $20 isn't a lot, and I figured there was additional safety with a small amount. However, ten minutes later Pedro informs me it was a week's wages for some. So with every payment I self-consciously yanked out the appropriate bill and stashed my change without looking at or counting it.
Later that night, safely tucked into my hotel room, I pulled out my wallet and counted what was left. Waded in with a bundle of 20C notes was a 200C note. Someone had given me the wrong change-US$10 too much. Ironic how in my paranoia of losing additional money I accidentally capitalized on someone else's mistake. Karma paid me back.
La Frontera con Pedro
Frontera. The Spanish word for border. 'Frontier' is the obvious and direct translation, and probably a more accurate description. It conjures images of the Wild West - lawless, chaotic and full of scrambling people - and thats' about right.
The last land crossing I did was from El Salvador into Guatemala two years ago and I never got off the bus. I didn't need to. The authorities came on, collected out passports, stamped them and returned them. Before that, my last encounter was during my summer backpacking trip through South America four years ago. So, I'd like to say I have experience, but even that can be useless at a high-intensity crossing... at it's impossible to know what to expect.
My day started in Costa Rica at 3am - up to catch the first of five buses on the day - not that I knew that at the time. The 4am bus arrived at 4.45am and wound it's way down narrow dirt tracks with steep drop offs and magnificent views as it returned us to sea-level.
I spotted a cluster of exceptionally tall Germans while waiting for that bus and confirmed on the next bus they were also headed to Nicaragua. Rule #1 of a border crossings- attach yourself to someone, the more height and testosterone the better.
The German's weren't the most friendly so I trailed them on the three buses it took to get to the border. Arriving we saw a line out the door and down the block, with people everywhere. I stepped off the bus and into a mess of hawkers - requests from every direction to carry my bags or change my money. I fought them off and headed to the end of the line, marked by a giant muddy puddle. Luckily, I times it right and the Germans' were right behind me, looking like we were together. Carry all my bags, valuable, both passports and money in that environment is unnerving, a criminal's perfect tourist feeder.
The line moved slow, so I decided to practice my Spanish on the guy in front of me - a migrant worker named Pedro. He lives in Managua, but works in Costa Rica. He tells me his 18 yr old daughter lives in Miami. He proudly pulls out his address book to show me her number, complete with a Florida area code..
Pedro spends six hours on the bus, plus extended border crossings to get to his job on the Nicoya Peninsula. He can only stay in Costa Rica a month at a time, so he woks 30 days straight then returns home to Managua for a government required seven days. Then he goes back. The pay is much better in Costa Rica he tells me. Pedro works in construction, a brick layer. Suddenly I see him as the maestro of the Habitat builds I've done in Latin America. He isn't really, but the idea of it endears him to me even more.
Pedro guides me through the border and all the processes that feel as foreign as Star Trek's final frontier - agents, forms and a currency tout, informing me who to use, the proper rate and how much to change. Without any agenda or personal gain, even my skeptical self felt comfortable under his advisement. We parted a few minutes later at the Costa Rican departure desk. He left for a bus to Managua.
I got my exit stamp and stood confused about where to go next. There were no signs and no obvious route, just a door returning me to the frenzy outside. A guard informed me I had to walk 2 kms through a dusty no-man's land . I surveyed the route and decided to wait for the Germans - they were heads taller than any local and a quadruple play was just what I needed. They understood my intimidation and escorted me through a maze of trucks and obscure passages - I can only assume their height gave them an advantageous perspective, because I had no clue which way to go on an otherwise confusing route to the Nicaraguan immigration house.
We emerged at a swine flu check - a yes or no checkbox survey, facilitated by hefty woman at an outdoor folding table with plastic chairs. Answering 'no' to every question- no headache, no soar throat, no nausea, no unwashed hands literally got us a stamp of approval to enter. We paid our entry tax, got out stamp and were thrown into a new flurry of touts ushering us into taxis and onto buses. I said good bye to the Germans and went looking for my bus.
Of course my bus didn't leave from the main terminal, instead it was across a dusty road full of 18 wheelers headed for the border and the other side of a long razor wire topped wall keeping the local townsfolk separated from the immigration station. I paid a dollar to enter through a guarded gate into real Nicaragua, being jostled and barraged with offers of taxi's and hotels. Vendors sold fruit, vegetables, socks, batteries and any other possible items of desire under a sweltering sun. I kept my bags close and my head down, heading for the old school bus loading passengers. I asked the ticket collector standing at the buses door if it went to Rivas where I had to change for San Juan del Sur. No, he tells me, no buses go there, I must take a taxi. Two taxi drivers listening to the conversation immediately start bartering with each other to get my fare, lowering the amount faster and faster without me saying a word. Even so, it was more than I was wanting to pay and I was certain there was a bus to San Juan.
Overwhelmed I stood with my back to a wall like a mafia man does to limit points of attack. I pat the change purse stuffed in my bra and my 'decoy ' wallet and passport tucked in my pocket. I pull back and calm myself, refusing to get caught up in the chaos.
'Where you going?' a man asks after I refuse all offers of taxis. I tell him Rivas and he tell tells me to get on the bus I'd just been turned away from. "it's good' he says. He calls over to the ticket collector and I realize this guy is the driver. The collector and I lock eyes without speaking and he motions for me to get on board. I refuse, he has my bag and I want to see it go on ahead of me. He stores it behind the driver's seat, where there is one free seat next to it. Feeling conned and frustrated I beeline for the seat claiming it with my eyes and not looking away until I am seated in it. Eventually I look up at the man sitting next to me. It's Pedro and everything is ok again.
The bus follows the road that runs along the edge of Lake Nicaragua. Tall mountains on the far side and flat farm lands on our side. We pass houses fall smaller and shabbier than those in Costa Rica. Outside one hangs freshly made paper mache pinatas drying in the sun. There are horse drawn carts and a twenty something guys with gelled hair and a muscle shirt galloping down the road bringing home groceries on his horse.
Pedro tells me about Rivas and other places I will be visiting - he reminds me not to travel at night, but says otherwise everywhere I'm going is safe. We arrive in Rivas and he tells the driver to help me find the bus to San Juan del Sur. Before I can get off at the station,we are flooded with passengers and I am stuck on the bus. The driver spots the San Juan bus about to pull away and honks his horn. He tells me to stay on the bus and we watch the San Juan bus leave. The driver snaps the door shut and pulls out in pursuit of the other bus. We chase it up and down city blocks and finally catch up. My driver forces him to the cub at an intersection and tells him to stop. May bags are handed from one bus to the other and I am on my way to San Jan. I thank everyone and say goodbye to Pedro hoping hat somewhere in Miami a stranger is being as kind to his daughetr as he is to me.
My new bus is packed beyond breathing room. School bus bench seats packed with three adults and two children. Being last one on my spot is at the very front - where I usually prefer, but not three feet from an open bus door. My new driver and ticket collector, wearing coordinating Che Guevara caps, find a standing room spot a few rows back for me. The collector then climbs over seats collecting fares. Once again I feel a little nervous in the crowd, wondering about the integrity of those around me and my valuables that are in their reach. I stand there bobbing and rocking with the sway of the bus, thinking about my choice. Was i being foolish? Should I have forked out for a taxi? I felt safe but.... and then an older man seated to my left taps my arm. He and his wife offer me kind, warms smiles and insist I take his seat.
The last land crossing I did was from El Salvador into Guatemala two years ago and I never got off the bus. I didn't need to. The authorities came on, collected out passports, stamped them and returned them. Before that, my last encounter was during my summer backpacking trip through South America four years ago. So, I'd like to say I have experience, but even that can be useless at a high-intensity crossing... at it's impossible to know what to expect.
My day started in Costa Rica at 3am - up to catch the first of five buses on the day - not that I knew that at the time. The 4am bus arrived at 4.45am and wound it's way down narrow dirt tracks with steep drop offs and magnificent views as it returned us to sea-level.
I spotted a cluster of exceptionally tall Germans while waiting for that bus and confirmed on the next bus they were also headed to Nicaragua. Rule #1 of a border crossings- attach yourself to someone, the more height and testosterone the better.
The German's weren't the most friendly so I trailed them on the three buses it took to get to the border. Arriving we saw a line out the door and down the block, with people everywhere. I stepped off the bus and into a mess of hawkers - requests from every direction to carry my bags or change my money. I fought them off and headed to the end of the line, marked by a giant muddy puddle. Luckily, I times it right and the Germans' were right behind me, looking like we were together. Carry all my bags, valuable, both passports and money in that environment is unnerving, a criminal's perfect tourist feeder.
The line moved slow, so I decided to practice my Spanish on the guy in front of me - a migrant worker named Pedro. He lives in Managua, but works in Costa Rica. He tells me his 18 yr old daughter lives in Miami. He proudly pulls out his address book to show me her number, complete with a Florida area code..
Pedro spends six hours on the bus, plus extended border crossings to get to his job on the Nicoya Peninsula. He can only stay in Costa Rica a month at a time, so he woks 30 days straight then returns home to Managua for a government required seven days. Then he goes back. The pay is much better in Costa Rica he tells me. Pedro works in construction, a brick layer. Suddenly I see him as the maestro of the Habitat builds I've done in Latin America. He isn't really, but the idea of it endears him to me even more.
Pedro guides me through the border and all the processes that feel as foreign as Star Trek's final frontier - agents, forms and a currency tout, informing me who to use, the proper rate and how much to change. Without any agenda or personal gain, even my skeptical self felt comfortable under his advisement. We parted a few minutes later at the Costa Rican departure desk. He left for a bus to Managua.
I got my exit stamp and stood confused about where to go next. There were no signs and no obvious route, just a door returning me to the frenzy outside. A guard informed me I had to walk 2 kms through a dusty no-man's land . I surveyed the route and decided to wait for the Germans - they were heads taller than any local and a quadruple play was just what I needed. They understood my intimidation and escorted me through a maze of trucks and obscure passages - I can only assume their height gave them an advantageous perspective, because I had no clue which way to go on an otherwise confusing route to the Nicaraguan immigration house.
We emerged at a swine flu check - a yes or no checkbox survey, facilitated by hefty woman at an outdoor folding table with plastic chairs. Answering 'no' to every question- no headache, no soar throat, no nausea, no unwashed hands literally got us a stamp of approval to enter. We paid our entry tax, got out stamp and were thrown into a new flurry of touts ushering us into taxis and onto buses. I said good bye to the Germans and went looking for my bus.
Of course my bus didn't leave from the main terminal, instead it was across a dusty road full of 18 wheelers headed for the border and the other side of a long razor wire topped wall keeping the local townsfolk separated from the immigration station. I paid a dollar to enter through a guarded gate into real Nicaragua, being jostled and barraged with offers of taxi's and hotels. Vendors sold fruit, vegetables, socks, batteries and any other possible items of desire under a sweltering sun. I kept my bags close and my head down, heading for the old school bus loading passengers. I asked the ticket collector standing at the buses door if it went to Rivas where I had to change for San Juan del Sur. No, he tells me, no buses go there, I must take a taxi. Two taxi drivers listening to the conversation immediately start bartering with each other to get my fare, lowering the amount faster and faster without me saying a word. Even so, it was more than I was wanting to pay and I was certain there was a bus to San Juan.
Overwhelmed I stood with my back to a wall like a mafia man does to limit points of attack. I pat the change purse stuffed in my bra and my 'decoy ' wallet and passport tucked in my pocket. I pull back and calm myself, refusing to get caught up in the chaos.
'Where you going?' a man asks after I refuse all offers of taxis. I tell him Rivas and he tell tells me to get on the bus I'd just been turned away from. "it's good' he says. He calls over to the ticket collector and I realize this guy is the driver. The collector and I lock eyes without speaking and he motions for me to get on board. I refuse, he has my bag and I want to see it go on ahead of me. He stores it behind the driver's seat, where there is one free seat next to it. Feeling conned and frustrated I beeline for the seat claiming it with my eyes and not looking away until I am seated in it. Eventually I look up at the man sitting next to me. It's Pedro and everything is ok again.
The bus follows the road that runs along the edge of Lake Nicaragua. Tall mountains on the far side and flat farm lands on our side. We pass houses fall smaller and shabbier than those in Costa Rica. Outside one hangs freshly made paper mache pinatas drying in the sun. There are horse drawn carts and a twenty something guys with gelled hair and a muscle shirt galloping down the road bringing home groceries on his horse.
Pedro tells me about Rivas and other places I will be visiting - he reminds me not to travel at night, but says otherwise everywhere I'm going is safe. We arrive in Rivas and he tells the driver to help me find the bus to San Juan del Sur. Before I can get off at the station,we are flooded with passengers and I am stuck on the bus. The driver spots the San Juan bus about to pull away and honks his horn. He tells me to stay on the bus and we watch the San Juan bus leave. The driver snaps the door shut and pulls out in pursuit of the other bus. We chase it up and down city blocks and finally catch up. My driver forces him to the cub at an intersection and tells him to stop. May bags are handed from one bus to the other and I am on my way to San Jan. I thank everyone and say goodbye to Pedro hoping hat somewhere in Miami a stranger is being as kind to his daughetr as he is to me.
My new bus is packed beyond breathing room. School bus bench seats packed with three adults and two children. Being last one on my spot is at the very front - where I usually prefer, but not three feet from an open bus door. My new driver and ticket collector, wearing coordinating Che Guevara caps, find a standing room spot a few rows back for me. The collector then climbs over seats collecting fares. Once again I feel a little nervous in the crowd, wondering about the integrity of those around me and my valuables that are in their reach. I stand there bobbing and rocking with the sway of the bus, thinking about my choice. Was i being foolish? Should I have forked out for a taxi? I felt safe but.... and then an older man seated to my left taps my arm. He and his wife offer me kind, warms smiles and insist I take his seat.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Costa Rica Pics
Made it to Nicaragua this morning/afternoon... okay it was an allday affair I'll write about later.
For now here are some more pics from week 2 in Costa Rica.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=130172&id=724695545&l=b25c36e912
For now here are some more pics from week 2 in Costa Rica.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=130172&id=724695545&l=b25c36e912
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
A Meeting With Karma
This has a been a trip of extremes when it comes to luck - some good, some not so good. Right now it´s stalled, much like the weather system soaking the mountain top town I´m in.
I got lucky with an upgraded room - a full apartment with floor to ceiling windows on two sides overlooking the valley and Monteverde Reserve. There´s a balcony too, with views across the Nicoya Peninsula some 4o miles away. The sun comes up before the rains set in and fills my room with warm morning light. So lucky, so cheap, I´ve spent four night here. I´ve cooked my own meals, watched movies in Spanish, relaxed in a tub and even used the body scrub.
My last hotel wasn´t too bad either. I had a fantastic view of Mt Arenal, a live volcano smoking, rumbling and erupting in the distance. But I also had a theif. I got robbed by one of the family members who owns and runs the place. (Never stay at Gringo Pete´s Too in La Fortuna, Costa Rica.) Luckily it was only $20. Luckily it was my "decoy" wallet. Luckily it prevented him from looking further and finding my real stash of cash. (Don´t worry I´m not giving anything away, I´ve blown all my cash now and have nothing left to steal.)
It´s all about Karma, and I actually met Karma at that same hotel - in the form of a Canadian woman from Ontario. Understandably, she´s pretty spritiual- bestowed with a name like that you´re not given much choice. Karma´s been my traveling companion for the past few days. It´s how it works on the road, you meet people heading in the same direction at the same time and buddy up. A solo trip is everything but solo.
Karma´s karma wasn´t so hot either. She lost almost $100, stolen right out of her lock box. That´s how we know it was an inside job. Only the family had keys to her lock box and my room. They didn´t actually steal our wallets, they just went through them cleaning out our US cash, leaving the local bills and other valuables.
Karma was pissed. She called the police who emptied her bags and wasted her time. The owner arrived, cursed Americans (??) and called her a liar. He said she had the only key.
"It´s okay, " she told me after with a serious look, "Karma will get them."
I agreed but didn´t know which Karma she meant.
I got lucky with an upgraded room - a full apartment with floor to ceiling windows on two sides overlooking the valley and Monteverde Reserve. There´s a balcony too, with views across the Nicoya Peninsula some 4o miles away. The sun comes up before the rains set in and fills my room with warm morning light. So lucky, so cheap, I´ve spent four night here. I´ve cooked my own meals, watched movies in Spanish, relaxed in a tub and even used the body scrub.
My last hotel wasn´t too bad either. I had a fantastic view of Mt Arenal, a live volcano smoking, rumbling and erupting in the distance. But I also had a theif. I got robbed by one of the family members who owns and runs the place. (Never stay at Gringo Pete´s Too in La Fortuna, Costa Rica.) Luckily it was only $20. Luckily it was my "decoy" wallet. Luckily it prevented him from looking further and finding my real stash of cash. (Don´t worry I´m not giving anything away, I´ve blown all my cash now and have nothing left to steal.)
It´s all about Karma, and I actually met Karma at that same hotel - in the form of a Canadian woman from Ontario. Understandably, she´s pretty spritiual- bestowed with a name like that you´re not given much choice. Karma´s been my traveling companion for the past few days. It´s how it works on the road, you meet people heading in the same direction at the same time and buddy up. A solo trip is everything but solo.
Karma´s karma wasn´t so hot either. She lost almost $100, stolen right out of her lock box. That´s how we know it was an inside job. Only the family had keys to her lock box and my room. They didn´t actually steal our wallets, they just went through them cleaning out our US cash, leaving the local bills and other valuables.
Karma was pissed. She called the police who emptied her bags and wasted her time. The owner arrived, cursed Americans (??) and called her a liar. He said she had the only key.
"It´s okay, " she told me after with a serious look, "Karma will get them."
I agreed but didn´t know which Karma she meant.
Home On The Road
Mmmmm so fabulous to be back out traveling. Back on the road where wearing no make up and the same close for two days are perfectly acceptable..... the place where no one cares what brand your jeans are or if you kitchen counter is made of granite or formica. Life here is simple and basic - the smaller your backpack, the fatter your passport and the more advice you can offer are the fuel of connection.
"When did you leave home?" I ask some fellow travellers. "October 21st." They reply, then ask if I can sum up the collapse of the economy. Okay, so maybe being that out of touch with the news is a little scary, but the round the world trip they´re on isn´t. They´re a British couple who quit their London jobs and hit the road. They started in India, then Cambodia and Vietnam. They spent time with friends in Australia and New Zealand, and made their way to South America working their way north to where they met up with me in Costa Rica. Eventually they´ll fly home out of Florida. It´s a common story, one I´ve heard numerous times in the past few weeks and I feel boring by comparison.
We talk for hours, swapping travel tips and recommendations. They want to know how Americans can cope with only two weeks of vacation a year and flip when I tell them many people don´t even use it all. That´s got to change they say, it´s bad for people´s health, their well being, why do they accept it? It´s a good question and I have hours of theory, but won´t bore you with it. I´m sure it´s just culture, but think about it.... why do we accept it when Germans receive a minimum of 45 days and the EU dictates at least 25....?
The couple tells me Vietnam is overly commercial and Cambodia is lovely. They say India is frenetic, but you miss it when you leave and the cab drivers in Peru can be scammers. They´ve had no trouble, budgeted about $10k each for the trip and rented out their flat. There is no energy of boasting or bragging. It´s a community of interest and adventure, a forum for planning future trips and staying safe. It´s fascination and awe.... it´s oh my god, I have to go THERE!
Other people join in as we talk: a pair of Isreali´s backpacking a month in Costa Rica and two in Nicaragua, a Canadian student completing a semester abroad, a Philippine couple doing a short three week trip to CR and Panama, a Dutch woman living in NY with my same itinerary - Costa Rica to Belize in two months. We make plans to meet up along the way. There are other Americans too. Ones on extended trips, some working their way south to fly home from Buenos Aires or staying indefinitely in Costa Rica hoping to find jobs in eco-conservation. We make fast friends and talk about people at home. People who look at us heading out on the road and think we´re odd. People who might not get it, people who might not understand us, but right here, right now, in this community of kinship, we´ve found a home and fit right in. Heaven.
"When did you leave home?" I ask some fellow travellers. "October 21st." They reply, then ask if I can sum up the collapse of the economy. Okay, so maybe being that out of touch with the news is a little scary, but the round the world trip they´re on isn´t. They´re a British couple who quit their London jobs and hit the road. They started in India, then Cambodia and Vietnam. They spent time with friends in Australia and New Zealand, and made their way to South America working their way north to where they met up with me in Costa Rica. Eventually they´ll fly home out of Florida. It´s a common story, one I´ve heard numerous times in the past few weeks and I feel boring by comparison.
We talk for hours, swapping travel tips and recommendations. They want to know how Americans can cope with only two weeks of vacation a year and flip when I tell them many people don´t even use it all. That´s got to change they say, it´s bad for people´s health, their well being, why do they accept it? It´s a good question and I have hours of theory, but won´t bore you with it. I´m sure it´s just culture, but think about it.... why do we accept it when Germans receive a minimum of 45 days and the EU dictates at least 25....?
The couple tells me Vietnam is overly commercial and Cambodia is lovely. They say India is frenetic, but you miss it when you leave and the cab drivers in Peru can be scammers. They´ve had no trouble, budgeted about $10k each for the trip and rented out their flat. There is no energy of boasting or bragging. It´s a community of interest and adventure, a forum for planning future trips and staying safe. It´s fascination and awe.... it´s oh my god, I have to go THERE!
Other people join in as we talk: a pair of Isreali´s backpacking a month in Costa Rica and two in Nicaragua, a Canadian student completing a semester abroad, a Philippine couple doing a short three week trip to CR and Panama, a Dutch woman living in NY with my same itinerary - Costa Rica to Belize in two months. We make plans to meet up along the way. There are other Americans too. Ones on extended trips, some working their way south to fly home from Buenos Aires or staying indefinitely in Costa Rica hoping to find jobs in eco-conservation. We make fast friends and talk about people at home. People who look at us heading out on the road and think we´re odd. People who might not get it, people who might not understand us, but right here, right now, in this community of kinship, we´ve found a home and fit right in. Heaven.
Adios Costa Rica
Nicaragua tomorrow! Costa Rica is done. I spent the last four days In Monetverde - zip lines, tarzan swings, and tree top tours. I´ve processed coffee and made candy from sugar cane. I stopped eating bugs and started playing tourist. I´ve seen live volcanoes, butterflies and the elusive quetzal. (Central America´s answer to Africa´s Big 5.) I´ve jumped off a 30 foot platform into nothing and rode a horse to a waterfall where some friends got engaged. The weather is soggy and the views spectacular.
Tommorow it´s up at 3am to catch a bus to the San Juan del Sur - one of the top five beaches in Central America. It´ll be good to dry my shoes.... and get a tan. Beachside hammocks and not a mosquito for miles. Did I tell you had 22 bites on a credit card sized patch of skin?
The next section will be pretty hectic. I have to be in Honduras by Friday. Not just Honduras, but the Honduras-Guatemala border, Copan to be exact. If not I miss appointments in Guatemala, appointments for my honeyteers. So it´s probably one night each in San Juan, Granada and Leon.... I´m determined to skirt around Managua, the capitol. It´ll cost me extra time, but I´ve heard bad things. Robberies in the bus station and petty crime, nothing we don´t have at home, but why take a risk?
So it´s hot sun in San Juan, Nicaraguan´s top vacation town, then colonial retreats in Grenada and Leon. Grenada more touristy and on the lake, Leon smaller and more laid back.
It´s all fun stuff, but I still like the visiting the non-profits best. Getting there is half the fun, especially when the secretary tells me they´re located in a city that´s actually three hours away. It´s not that she´s lying,they really are only 40kms from the city, but the bus system is such that it takes three hours. Remember the collectivo? That´s now the norm, just the cattle truck has been replaces by former US school buses that can´t get above 10kms a hour of the dirt track roads. At first I was unaware. It was like showing up in Manhattan thinking you´re going to visit a place in the Bronx. Suddenly an hour has passed and your in White Plains. You ask the driver how much farther and realize you´ll be in Albany by the time your done. I´m talking time-wise of course, but no one tells you that up front. Leaving in the morning you ask which bus to take. Culture seems to dictate the person answers by informing you of the first leg only and leaving you to be surprised when you get off at the at the designated stop and learn you have another bus to go... and then another. Lucky for me I´ve been waking up at 6am have all day to get there.
And when I get there the people (all Ticos) are the most gracious hosts. They offer me a bed for the night, food and introductions to their family and friends. I get caught in the rain and a shop keeper runs out with a plastic bag to keep my head dry. I get caught without transport and a friend of my host is there with a car. Even the spider monkey at the animal rehad welcomed me with a hand shake and sat holding my hand while the director told me her tale. It´s the difference between tourism and travel, guest and tourist, Liberty Travel and Woven Journeys.
Tommorow it´s up at 3am to catch a bus to the San Juan del Sur - one of the top five beaches in Central America. It´ll be good to dry my shoes.... and get a tan. Beachside hammocks and not a mosquito for miles. Did I tell you had 22 bites on a credit card sized patch of skin?
The next section will be pretty hectic. I have to be in Honduras by Friday. Not just Honduras, but the Honduras-Guatemala border, Copan to be exact. If not I miss appointments in Guatemala, appointments for my honeyteers. So it´s probably one night each in San Juan, Granada and Leon.... I´m determined to skirt around Managua, the capitol. It´ll cost me extra time, but I´ve heard bad things. Robberies in the bus station and petty crime, nothing we don´t have at home, but why take a risk?
So it´s hot sun in San Juan, Nicaraguan´s top vacation town, then colonial retreats in Grenada and Leon. Grenada more touristy and on the lake, Leon smaller and more laid back.
It´s all fun stuff, but I still like the visiting the non-profits best. Getting there is half the fun, especially when the secretary tells me they´re located in a city that´s actually three hours away. It´s not that she´s lying,they really are only 40kms from the city, but the bus system is such that it takes three hours. Remember the collectivo? That´s now the norm, just the cattle truck has been replaces by former US school buses that can´t get above 10kms a hour of the dirt track roads. At first I was unaware. It was like showing up in Manhattan thinking you´re going to visit a place in the Bronx. Suddenly an hour has passed and your in White Plains. You ask the driver how much farther and realize you´ll be in Albany by the time your done. I´m talking time-wise of course, but no one tells you that up front. Leaving in the morning you ask which bus to take. Culture seems to dictate the person answers by informing you of the first leg only and leaving you to be surprised when you get off at the at the designated stop and learn you have another bus to go... and then another. Lucky for me I´ve been waking up at 6am have all day to get there.
And when I get there the people (all Ticos) are the most gracious hosts. They offer me a bed for the night, food and introductions to their family and friends. I get caught in the rain and a shop keeper runs out with a plastic bag to keep my head dry. I get caught without transport and a friend of my host is there with a car. Even the spider monkey at the animal rehad welcomed me with a hand shake and sat holding my hand while the director told me her tale. It´s the difference between tourism and travel, guest and tourist, Liberty Travel and Woven Journeys.
Friday, June 12, 2009
The Ajo Tree State Building
I am at termite today. Yes, intentionally, plucked straight off the tree. He was supposed to taste like carrots, but he was just crunchy. I´m told the type of wood they eat determines what they taste like, I guess mine just wasn´t eating carrot flavoured wood.
The good news is I´m learning a lot of survival skills. That´s great for me because ever since I was a kid I´ve been fascinated by survivor stories and have mentally filed away random tips to help me when I need them. So if I´m ever being chased by a hippopotamous I know to zig zag then climb a tree, if caught in an avalance or mudslide and can´t figure out which was is up, just spit and if your car goes underwater shortcircuiting your windows, punch out the windshield to escape... I even carry the recommended screwdriver in ym glove box. It´s part paranoia and part love of useless info that makes me the perfect trivial pursuit partner.
So far I´ve learned a lot of jungle survival skills. Guido, my guide at the conservation center started me off. I didn´t help that the last episode of "I Shouldn´t Be Alive" I saw before arriving here featured a young couple lost on the Costa Rican jungle. Guido thought it was funny when I mentioned this and started pointing out all the tips to keep me alive. So when the couple saw a ´clearing´in the jungle and decided to stop there for the night - uh-uh, not me. It´s a leaf cutter ant nest.... those things clear a whole 15ft x 15ft section of forest, stripped clean of everything green. Not a good bed. I also now know to follow areas of heavy undergrowth. It´s harder to navigate, but a sign of civilization and a replanted forest. In the older, primary forest the canopy is so dense sunlight can´t get through- that means no one has chopped it down yet. No people, no rescue..... Like I said, useless info, but I´m happy to be your phone-a-friend.
Guido´s a fan of the Ajo tree, says it reminds him of an office building or Manhatten sky scraper. "There´s so much activity going on in there." Never thought of it that way.... the bugs, moss, vines, birds, monkeys, sloths, snakes, they all use it. No different from pigeons, roaches and workaholics, I guess. Lots of food, lots of resources to help keep a lost gringa going.
Next it´s the soldier ants. They clear the junge of any living insect to take back to their queen. One woman, thousands and thousands of men. Hmmm.... Then he tells me their sole purpose is to protect her (well, they all can´t mate with her!!) They do whatever it takes to make sure she survives... take a bullet, become dinner or drowning themselves in a stream so their bodies can be used to make a bridge for her. Kinda like getting lost in the jungle with your own secert service. I´ll make sure to bring mine.
But back to my termite. That was today´s lesson (and lunch) at the animal rehab center. Ironically, I didn´t even mention my fascination with survival skills. Alvaro just picked it off the tree and handed it to me. "Bite this he says." Yea, I´m kind of turned off, but it´s tiny and I always wanted to be on Survivor. I position my hand so it crawls from his finger to mine and crunch. He laughs at the face I make, "Now you can survive in the jungle."
The good news is I´m learning a lot of survival skills. That´s great for me because ever since I was a kid I´ve been fascinated by survivor stories and have mentally filed away random tips to help me when I need them. So if I´m ever being chased by a hippopotamous I know to zig zag then climb a tree, if caught in an avalance or mudslide and can´t figure out which was is up, just spit and if your car goes underwater shortcircuiting your windows, punch out the windshield to escape... I even carry the recommended screwdriver in ym glove box. It´s part paranoia and part love of useless info that makes me the perfect trivial pursuit partner.
So far I´ve learned a lot of jungle survival skills. Guido, my guide at the conservation center started me off. I didn´t help that the last episode of "I Shouldn´t Be Alive" I saw before arriving here featured a young couple lost on the Costa Rican jungle. Guido thought it was funny when I mentioned this and started pointing out all the tips to keep me alive. So when the couple saw a ´clearing´in the jungle and decided to stop there for the night - uh-uh, not me. It´s a leaf cutter ant nest.... those things clear a whole 15ft x 15ft section of forest, stripped clean of everything green. Not a good bed. I also now know to follow areas of heavy undergrowth. It´s harder to navigate, but a sign of civilization and a replanted forest. In the older, primary forest the canopy is so dense sunlight can´t get through- that means no one has chopped it down yet. No people, no rescue..... Like I said, useless info, but I´m happy to be your phone-a-friend.
Guido´s a fan of the Ajo tree, says it reminds him of an office building or Manhatten sky scraper. "There´s so much activity going on in there." Never thought of it that way.... the bugs, moss, vines, birds, monkeys, sloths, snakes, they all use it. No different from pigeons, roaches and workaholics, I guess. Lots of food, lots of resources to help keep a lost gringa going.
Next it´s the soldier ants. They clear the junge of any living insect to take back to their queen. One woman, thousands and thousands of men. Hmmm.... Then he tells me their sole purpose is to protect her (well, they all can´t mate with her!!) They do whatever it takes to make sure she survives... take a bullet, become dinner or drowning themselves in a stream so their bodies can be used to make a bridge for her. Kinda like getting lost in the jungle with your own secert service. I´ll make sure to bring mine.
But back to my termite. That was today´s lesson (and lunch) at the animal rehab center. Ironically, I didn´t even mention my fascination with survival skills. Alvaro just picked it off the tree and handed it to me. "Bite this he says." Yea, I´m kind of turned off, but it´s tiny and I always wanted to be on Survivor. I position my hand so it crawls from his finger to mine and crunch. He laughs at the face I make, "Now you can survive in the jungle."
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Do You Know The Way To San Jose?
Back in Costa Rica with the first round of pics posted ~ http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=128550&id=724695545&l=2ed9715988
Good to be back here after a jaunt through the southern part of the country. Good to reasses my plans (I’m two days ahead of schedule yee-haw!), do some laundry, have a lazy TV night and a leisurely morning doing nothing - although I’m sad to say bye to Stephanie. The girl is funny and we’ve had some great laughs. Maybe we’re just pretty similar all together. She’s a writer, works for Habitat, spent three years living in Guatemala, one year in Costa Rica, tells the best stories and despises Keanu Reeves as much as I do.
I leave for La Fortuna around 2pm today. Decided to take a shuttle instead of public transport on this one – partly because I won’t arrive until after dark and partly because I now realize I brought too much stuff. I lived out of a day pack for the past five days and now wish I could do that for the rest of the time I’m here. Ironically all my clothes stacked up in pile are only about 1 square foot in size and my bag is half empty, but it’s still too much. I think I went overboard on the vanity stuff. Why I decide I needed to bring body scrub or cotton balls is beyond me. I never use them at home, why would I suddenly start in the middle of the jungle? Do I really need post-it notes and scissors? I guess what they say is true: pack your bags, take out half, leave home.
Overall, for the trip? So far, so good. I’ve met with two different non-profits so far – one focused on environmental conservation and the other on organic farming. Both have great facilities and capable staff, even if the bug situation is a little worrisome. One place put me up in volunteer quarters with a bathroom full of mosquitoes. I felt the need to wear bug spray in the shower.
I'm most excited for the place I visit tomorrow. It’s an animal rehabilitation center – and I’m a huge animal lover. Most of their ‘guests’ are animals that have been harmed by poachers or loggers, or were recovered from smugglers trying to take them out of the country. I don’t know too much more at this point, but that’s why I’m visiting.
I'm still excited about the business plan, but think it's funny that before I left I felt really confident about finding clients and my big uncertainty was finding decent organizations to work with in-country. Now after seeing the resources and projects, getting a sense of their needs and how much they would benefit from the groups I send them, my fear is that I won’t be able to find clients. It’s a little twisted, but if you know me, you know I always have to have something to worry about…. although I probably don't need to. Voluntourism is the fastest growing segment of the travel industry, despite an overall decline in the market. Volunteer travel had increased by 25-30% in the past few years and a recent study by CNBC and Conde Nast found that out of 1600 people polled 62% of them were interested in volunteer vacation, 20% had been on one and 95% of these people wanted to do it again. Okay, boring statistical interlude completed.
I’ve also visited a bunch of eco-hotels. Unfortunately, there's no universal governing body that dictates standards or maintains quality control. I’ve done some homework though and most places measure up. The best was one on the Osa Peninsula. They definitely cover the basics using solar powered energy, bio-degradable soaps, linen napkins and produce their materials on banana leaf paper, but they also go way beyond. Out of 62 employees 58 are from the local area…. A very remote area where farming is the most common profession and university educations are rarer than quetzals. They provide food and lodging for their staff, have them rotate job responsibilities to diversify their skill sets and educate them on environmental science so they can share it with their family and local community members. My personal favorite technique is the pigs. They have about six that get fed all the scraps and leftovers. They then collect the pig crap in a big room and pipe the gas it emits back up to the lodge to use for heating the water. Who comes up with this stuff??
Monday, June 8, 2009
Collect-Tico
I am heading to the end of the road. The real purpose of me being in PJ is to visit with a conservation group that is looking for ongoing volunteers. I had e-mailed the science director before I left and he invited to me to visit their biodiversity center set in the heart of the peninsula´s rainforest. He also invited me to spend the night, but first I have to get there.
There is only one road that wraps around the tip of the peninsula connecting PJ to Carate and it dead ends in Carate. I´ve already learnt that Costa Rican addresses are comical and lacking in detail. Specifics like street names and numbers do not exist. Directions often read something like: turn left at the yellow house with the barking dog and the walking palm, but not the yellow house with the cackling rooster and the standing palm. Even in San Jose, the nation´s capital, my friend Stephanie´s address states the name of the nearest main boulevard (only main roads get names), then reads: Super Boulevard (which is the name of the shop at her corner), 500 north, 100 west, 50 north, white house right side. "500 north" means travel 500 meters north, etc. Yes, that is the actual address to which she recieves mail.
With only one road aroud the peninsula, I figure it must be easy enough to find where I need to meet my host. The directions he e-mails me tell to take a taxi to Murko School then pass between the old house and the school. However Amelia and her husband, who own the hotel in PJ I´m staying at, are convinced the cab will cost my $50 and the site I need to get to is an hour´s walk past Carate. There´s a lot of confusion and ideas start flying about, in minutes, a whole town meeting has been called to asses the best mode of transport to get me there. A freind of a friend of a friend is able to radio the science station, get a more precise location (1000 north of the turtle shaped boulder) and it´s decided I will take the "collectivo" departing for Carate at 1.30pm. Luckily the station entrance is actually before where the roads ends in Carate. I arrive at the collectivo stop with an entourage of Ticos who interpret the directions to the driver while I quietly assess this latest mode of transport.
The concept of a collectivo is the same as a bus, except the vehicle itself resembles something used to transport cattle, not people. Picture a covered wagon from the days of the wild west, but one with a square top instead of a rounded one. Wooden planks run the length of the bed like a split rail fence with wooden benches below them. The whole cargo\passenger area is wrapped in a blue plastic canvas to protect us from sun, rain and the low hanging branches we´re about to encounter.
About a dozen of us climb in and the gate is folded up into place and secured with a pin. My fellow passengers are a woman with two elementary school aged children, a woman with her teenaged son, two elderly male farmers, a guy with a surf board and three French Canadian women who speak Spanish, French and no English. Under the benches are sacks of rice, flour, tomato paste and cookies for other jungle outposts.
The truck bounces out of town on a road studded with rocks and pocketed with holes. We had about 40kms to cover and the going is slow. We have rivers to ford and missing portions of road to navigate, but gorgeous views of hills, valleys, cow pastures and coastline. Somehow the teenage son falls alseep on a road so rough I couldn´t hold my dictionay still enought to read the word I was looking up or find my mouth when trying to put a handful of trail mix in it. We crossed a small bridge where another collectivo driver had taken his truck into the river and was now washing it tenderly with a rag. About an hour into the trip one of the mothers let lose a shrill whistle. The bus stopped she and her son, now awake, climbed over the gate and disappeared down a narrow trail into the forest. Soon after a sign told us we´d only travelled 18 kms. Ocassioanlly we passed other vehicles- mopeds and SUV taxis. Like the wildlife, it was good to see the SUVs in their natural environment and not roaming lost and unchallenged on I-95.
I slid to the end of the bench and watched the places we´d already passed fade into the distance. I saw two big flashes of red in the sky above a clearing. The suburban girl in my immediately figured they were kites, but then realized they were red macaws - my first sighting.... and then... finally.... my stop.
There is only one road that wraps around the tip of the peninsula connecting PJ to Carate and it dead ends in Carate. I´ve already learnt that Costa Rican addresses are comical and lacking in detail. Specifics like street names and numbers do not exist. Directions often read something like: turn left at the yellow house with the barking dog and the walking palm, but not the yellow house with the cackling rooster and the standing palm. Even in San Jose, the nation´s capital, my friend Stephanie´s address states the name of the nearest main boulevard (only main roads get names), then reads: Super Boulevard (which is the name of the shop at her corner), 500 north, 100 west, 50 north, white house right side. "500 north" means travel 500 meters north, etc. Yes, that is the actual address to which she recieves mail.
With only one road aroud the peninsula, I figure it must be easy enough to find where I need to meet my host. The directions he e-mails me tell to take a taxi to Murko School then pass between the old house and the school. However Amelia and her husband, who own the hotel in PJ I´m staying at, are convinced the cab will cost my $50 and the site I need to get to is an hour´s walk past Carate. There´s a lot of confusion and ideas start flying about, in minutes, a whole town meeting has been called to asses the best mode of transport to get me there. A freind of a friend of a friend is able to radio the science station, get a more precise location (1000 north of the turtle shaped boulder) and it´s decided I will take the "collectivo" departing for Carate at 1.30pm. Luckily the station entrance is actually before where the roads ends in Carate. I arrive at the collectivo stop with an entourage of Ticos who interpret the directions to the driver while I quietly assess this latest mode of transport.
The concept of a collectivo is the same as a bus, except the vehicle itself resembles something used to transport cattle, not people. Picture a covered wagon from the days of the wild west, but one with a square top instead of a rounded one. Wooden planks run the length of the bed like a split rail fence with wooden benches below them. The whole cargo\passenger area is wrapped in a blue plastic canvas to protect us from sun, rain and the low hanging branches we´re about to encounter.
About a dozen of us climb in and the gate is folded up into place and secured with a pin. My fellow passengers are a woman with two elementary school aged children, a woman with her teenaged son, two elderly male farmers, a guy with a surf board and three French Canadian women who speak Spanish, French and no English. Under the benches are sacks of rice, flour, tomato paste and cookies for other jungle outposts.
The truck bounces out of town on a road studded with rocks and pocketed with holes. We had about 40kms to cover and the going is slow. We have rivers to ford and missing portions of road to navigate, but gorgeous views of hills, valleys, cow pastures and coastline. Somehow the teenage son falls alseep on a road so rough I couldn´t hold my dictionay still enought to read the word I was looking up or find my mouth when trying to put a handful of trail mix in it. We crossed a small bridge where another collectivo driver had taken his truck into the river and was now washing it tenderly with a rag. About an hour into the trip one of the mothers let lose a shrill whistle. The bus stopped she and her son, now awake, climbed over the gate and disappeared down a narrow trail into the forest. Soon after a sign told us we´d only travelled 18 kms. Ocassioanlly we passed other vehicles- mopeds and SUV taxis. Like the wildlife, it was good to see the SUVs in their natural environment and not roaming lost and unchallenged on I-95.
I slid to the end of the bench and watched the places we´d already passed fade into the distance. I saw two big flashes of red in the sky above a clearing. The suburban girl in my immediately figured they were kites, but then realized they were red macaws - my first sighting.... and then... finally.... my stop.
PJ all the way
Fri June 5
I spent most of last night in the hotel room, relaxing, unwinding, simply breathing. Breathing for the first time in many weeks, if not months. There is no pull of to do lists, internet research, trip planning or phone messages. There is no compulsion to continually hit refresh on my e-mail homepage. I am free.
There was only one program in English on tv. A David Attenborough feature demystifing the predators of an acacia tree. He details which herbivores snacked on ascending layers of the African tree.... boring by most standards, but it did wonders to calm my mind.... and if anyone wants to know why the acacia tree´s spikes provide inefficent protection, take a number and form a line.
Puerto Jimenez is lovely, absolutely lovely. Hard to get to, but worth the journey. (Okay, worth the journey if you´re the type of person who appreciates camping, otherwise talk to me... :) ) The street are wide, the houses low and the banana trees plentiful. The main road is paved for about a quater of a mile and lined with shops whose names are announced by hand-painted signs. It has a very low key feel to it, full of locals and ex-pats, but not many tourists. It reminds me of what Sosua (the town in the Dominican where my parents have a place) felt like twenty years ago. Except twenty years ago PJ didn´t have electricy, but it´s always had monkey and macaws.
I have lunch -the best black bean soup with poached egg, I´ve ever tasted. Granted it´s the only time I´ve had a poached egg, actually two, put in my soup, but the waitress told me it was better that way and she knew what she was talking about - alwasy listen to the locals. After lunch I walked along the waterfront indulging in the stunning views across the gulf. People at home would pay multi-millions for a view like this.... and don´t forget the dolphins and whales that regularly come to play, rest and breed in the ultra deep waters either.
The Ticos (what Costa Ricans call themsleves) are the friendliest people I´ve encountered. They greeted me and talked to me as if I was an old friend, so much so, that I thought the first person actually made the mistake and I suffered his embarassment. Now I know it´s normal for them to greet you in the street, ask where your headed, which bus you´re waiting for and wish you a good "compañero" - though I still need to figure out exactly what that means. On my walk around town, the bartender of a beachside cabana told me to go see the crocodiles sleeping in the lagoon and few meters down, but "no wake them." So I went. But then standing alone on a deserted road, eight feet from a partially, submerged nine foot long man-eater, I had a moment of panic, changed my mind and headed for home.
I spent most of last night in the hotel room, relaxing, unwinding, simply breathing. Breathing for the first time in many weeks, if not months. There is no pull of to do lists, internet research, trip planning or phone messages. There is no compulsion to continually hit refresh on my e-mail homepage. I am free.
There was only one program in English on tv. A David Attenborough feature demystifing the predators of an acacia tree. He details which herbivores snacked on ascending layers of the African tree.... boring by most standards, but it did wonders to calm my mind.... and if anyone wants to know why the acacia tree´s spikes provide inefficent protection, take a number and form a line.
Puerto Jimenez is lovely, absolutely lovely. Hard to get to, but worth the journey. (Okay, worth the journey if you´re the type of person who appreciates camping, otherwise talk to me... :) ) The street are wide, the houses low and the banana trees plentiful. The main road is paved for about a quater of a mile and lined with shops whose names are announced by hand-painted signs. It has a very low key feel to it, full of locals and ex-pats, but not many tourists. It reminds me of what Sosua (the town in the Dominican where my parents have a place) felt like twenty years ago. Except twenty years ago PJ didn´t have electricy, but it´s always had monkey and macaws.
I have lunch -the best black bean soup with poached egg, I´ve ever tasted. Granted it´s the only time I´ve had a poached egg, actually two, put in my soup, but the waitress told me it was better that way and she knew what she was talking about - alwasy listen to the locals. After lunch I walked along the waterfront indulging in the stunning views across the gulf. People at home would pay multi-millions for a view like this.... and don´t forget the dolphins and whales that regularly come to play, rest and breed in the ultra deep waters either.
The Ticos (what Costa Ricans call themsleves) are the friendliest people I´ve encountered. They greeted me and talked to me as if I was an old friend, so much so, that I thought the first person actually made the mistake and I suffered his embarassment. Now I know it´s normal for them to greet you in the street, ask where your headed, which bus you´re waiting for and wish you a good "compañero" - though I still need to figure out exactly what that means. On my walk around town, the bartender of a beachside cabana told me to go see the crocodiles sleeping in the lagoon and few meters down, but "no wake them." So I went. But then standing alone on a deserted road, eight feet from a partially, submerged nine foot long man-eater, I had a moment of panic, changed my mind and headed for home.
It´s a sunny day above the clouds...
I think I´ve learnt what I really love about travel is the travel itself. All the best stories, all the most exciting moments, come while being in motion. Probably because developing world transportation is a full adventure in its own right, providing rich details and a rush of adrenelaine. That is what I´m addicted to - the puzzle of how to get from A to B, establishing the solution, executing it, then sitting back and waiting for all the serendipitous, comical moments that are guaranteed to arrive well before the destination.
Arriving and exploring are just as fun too, but once that´s completed, and most people would be ready to settle in and relax for a few days, I find myself restless and ready for the next destination. So I start the process over...
Thurs June 4 (journal entry)
This is the first time in all my airport visits I´ve actually been asked to get on the scales with my baggage. Together we weigh a healthy 75kgs - that´s the first indication this is no ordinary flight. I am flying Nature Air to Puerto Jimenez (PJ) on Costa Rica´s Osa Peninsula. The airline claims to be the first carbon nuetral airline in the world, but I´m not really sure how that works or if it´s somehow related to my weight.
I´m told to take a seat next to the check-in counter and wait for boarding. There is no security check - just sit and wait. Next to me is a door directly onto the tarmack which is about 30 feet from the main entrance to the airport, the same one I used to get in. I wait and five others join me. Then a man in uniform arrives and asks to see our passports.
"We´re early, but we´re all here." He says. ¨Let´s go."
I realize he is our captain.
He leads us single file onto the tarmack and we follow him in a pin straight line, making a series of precise 90 degree turns to avoid traffic lanes and get to the plane. As we approach, he says he needs a volunteer to sit with him up front. I am the first to shout "MEEE!". The pilot pulls down the door of the plane which, when inverted, becomes a set of steps. The sign reads "One person at a time."
I am the last to board and when I get on I see one of the other passengers, a guy travelling with his girlfriend, has stolen my co-pilot seat. Jerk. I am stuck in what I call the dog´s box. (Any seat in the way back of a vehicle usually reserved for the family pet.) It´s probably just as well. Once we get airborn I will be leaping from window to windor, slobbering with glee and wagging my non-exitant tail with 1000 table-clearing beats a minute.
There are only eight seats on the plane, including the pilot´s. In the back, next to all our suitcases stacked on top of each other and secured by cargo netting, I am still only about twelve feet from the cockpit. I can see all the controls, the radar and every move my hero makes. If Woven Journeys fails I will definitely be enrolling in flight school.
I haven´t been on a plane as tiny as this since my parents took my brother and me up in a sea plane when I was twelve. We taxi to the runway and, as he revves the engines, you can feel the power building in the plane. Struggling to contain itself, the plane swivles from side to side, until the pilot release it. We tear down the run way and become air borne in seconds flat. The G-force is far more intense than a commercial airlines and I have to fight hard to stay upright. We bounce, rattle, climb, dive, judder and jolt like being tossed in a cocktail shaker and, in truth, the plane isn´t much biggger than one. The clouds, as usual, provide the worse turbulance, but I am loving it and once we´re above them it´s a beautiful sunny day. I can see out of every window including the front. Between the pockets of clouds there jungle covered mountains, mangrove lagoons and endless miles of coastline.
Eventually, through the cockpit window, I can see the Gulfo Dulce, one of only four fjords in the tropics and one of the most beautful places I will ever visit. We fly up the middle of the gulf with the land looking like long, moss covered fingers dipping themselves into the water. We bank right towards PJ and soon the runway is visible looking stunted and short by most standards. We bounce, skip and come to a perfect stop in between a transportation graveyard of rusted buses and prop planes on one side and a human cemetary full of tombstones and Virgin Mary candles on the other. I think they call that poetic irony, but however you return to the ground the airport will accomodate you.
Arriving and exploring are just as fun too, but once that´s completed, and most people would be ready to settle in and relax for a few days, I find myself restless and ready for the next destination. So I start the process over...
Thurs June 4 (journal entry)
This is the first time in all my airport visits I´ve actually been asked to get on the scales with my baggage. Together we weigh a healthy 75kgs - that´s the first indication this is no ordinary flight. I am flying Nature Air to Puerto Jimenez (PJ) on Costa Rica´s Osa Peninsula. The airline claims to be the first carbon nuetral airline in the world, but I´m not really sure how that works or if it´s somehow related to my weight.
I´m told to take a seat next to the check-in counter and wait for boarding. There is no security check - just sit and wait. Next to me is a door directly onto the tarmack which is about 30 feet from the main entrance to the airport, the same one I used to get in. I wait and five others join me. Then a man in uniform arrives and asks to see our passports.
"We´re early, but we´re all here." He says. ¨Let´s go."
I realize he is our captain.
He leads us single file onto the tarmack and we follow him in a pin straight line, making a series of precise 90 degree turns to avoid traffic lanes and get to the plane. As we approach, he says he needs a volunteer to sit with him up front. I am the first to shout "MEEE!". The pilot pulls down the door of the plane which, when inverted, becomes a set of steps. The sign reads "One person at a time."
I am the last to board and when I get on I see one of the other passengers, a guy travelling with his girlfriend, has stolen my co-pilot seat. Jerk. I am stuck in what I call the dog´s box. (Any seat in the way back of a vehicle usually reserved for the family pet.) It´s probably just as well. Once we get airborn I will be leaping from window to windor, slobbering with glee and wagging my non-exitant tail with 1000 table-clearing beats a minute.
There are only eight seats on the plane, including the pilot´s. In the back, next to all our suitcases stacked on top of each other and secured by cargo netting, I am still only about twelve feet from the cockpit. I can see all the controls, the radar and every move my hero makes. If Woven Journeys fails I will definitely be enrolling in flight school.
I haven´t been on a plane as tiny as this since my parents took my brother and me up in a sea plane when I was twelve. We taxi to the runway and, as he revves the engines, you can feel the power building in the plane. Struggling to contain itself, the plane swivles from side to side, until the pilot release it. We tear down the run way and become air borne in seconds flat. The G-force is far more intense than a commercial airlines and I have to fight hard to stay upright. We bounce, rattle, climb, dive, judder and jolt like being tossed in a cocktail shaker and, in truth, the plane isn´t much biggger than one. The clouds, as usual, provide the worse turbulance, but I am loving it and once we´re above them it´s a beautiful sunny day. I can see out of every window including the front. Between the pockets of clouds there jungle covered mountains, mangrove lagoons and endless miles of coastline.
Eventually, through the cockpit window, I can see the Gulfo Dulce, one of only four fjords in the tropics and one of the most beautful places I will ever visit. We fly up the middle of the gulf with the land looking like long, moss covered fingers dipping themselves into the water. We bank right towards PJ and soon the runway is visible looking stunted and short by most standards. We bounce, skip and come to a perfect stop in between a transportation graveyard of rusted buses and prop planes on one side and a human cemetary full of tombstones and Virgin Mary candles on the other. I think they call that poetic irony, but however you return to the ground the airport will accomodate you.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
The adventure really begins...
I know I’ve got behind on my blog already…. Argh.
Nerves and butterflies – that’s today. I leave San Jose where I’ve been transitioning into my adventure for the real start of my adventure. I’ve spent the past three days in the comfort of my friend Steph’s beautiful house in the busting capital city and am ready to get out to see the real Costa Rica.
In two hours I’ll be boarding a little teeny tiny prop plan to Puerto Jimenez in the south of the country. It’s off the traditional tourist track, but I’m told is a must see. There’s also a few conservation non-profits there I’m going to visit. I don’t have a hotel booked or know exactly where I’m going when I get there…. That’s the buzz I get from travel, the anxiety mixed with the excitement of anything’s possible. I have guidebooks and personal recommendations to lean on - it’s not like I’m Magellan discovering it for the first time. It’s interesting for me to talk to people who think I’m nuts doing this – they call it bravery, but I think they’re being diplomatic. In reality they probably think my parents should be locking me in the basement. But in truth, what is there really to be afraid of? It’s just communities of people living their lives, same as home. There’s still the waitress lady and the playground kids and the gas pump guy – same stuff, different place. Just because I haven’t been there (when thousands of others have) doesn’t mean I should be afraid. Maybe a little uncertain because I don’t know what I don’t know, but overall people are good and friendly and helpful. And hey if you can’t live without your morning Starbucks, they got coffee here too – where do you think your cuppa joe came from?? :)
So off to the airport…. And the good stuff!!
Departure
“Home.” I think as I push the revolving door and enter La Guardia. I guess most people probably don’t think that way about an airport, but I do. Comforting, inviting, full of possibility, but most of all they’re familiar. I know my way around them – the best cafes, cheapest place to buy water and the least crowded bathrooms. I can also tell you the quickest route to the security check in that avoids the masses, plus which line to get in. That’s probably the most important thing for me on an early Monday morning flight, the start of the commuter week and, on this occasion, the start of summer holidays. In the New York City airport rush hour, travelers are clearly divided into two categories; rookies vs. frequent fliers. Picking the right security line is essential to avoid excess delays and frustartion. I cling to the NY suits-they navigate security with precise, professional efficiency – shoes off, laptops out, no loose change and rarely a belt. By contrast getting behind the woman clutching an oversized pillow swaddled in pink is a precarious situation. Last year I even encountered an airport in Australia that had an ‘Experienced Travelers Only” line. It was defined as people who travel 2-3 times a month. Yep, give me a line full of briefcase, laptops and pinstripes any day…. And so I breeze right through.
The unnerving thing this morning is CNN’s non-stop broadcast of a missing Air France plane. People really pay attention to that tuuf in an airport. You can feel the energy shift from excitement to nervousness – the gate area is dead quiet, everyone’s focused on the tv. I’ve yet to see a follow up story, but I assume it can’t good.
The unnerving thing this morning is CNN’s non-stop broadcast of a missing Air France plane. People really pay attention to that tuuf in an airport. You can feel the energy shift from excitement to nervousness – the gate area is dead quiet, everyone’s focused on the tv. I’ve yet to see a follow up story, but I assume it can’t good.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
T minus 2 days....
Ooooff!! Two weeks without posting an entry… dangerous. I leave in three days, with a wedding in between…. rush!
I can’t even say ‘where has May gone’ because I know…. it went with two weddings, two birthdays, a baby shower, a christening, a graduation, two trips to Rochester, fourteen business meetings, five evenings classes, a writing group critique where I laughed so hard I cried (thanks ladies!), a camping trip to Ohio, a case of wine and five extra pounds on my belly…. with all my running, even I would like to know how THAT happened!!
I now have two websites - www.honeyteer.com and www.wovenjourneys.com My first ever proposals went out to my first ever clients (they chose Guatemala) and I am leaving for my Central American journey in just three days. I have business cards, an itinerary, a new biz plan (yes, I will now be doing group trips in addition to individual trips – thanks John!), a new web domain www.volunteer-vacations.com (thanks Ben!!), the promise of two articles on my project, an iPod full of great music (thanks Steph!) and an itinerary. Phew!!
So what’s my plan and how do I feel?? Well, part one is easy. I got lucky. You all know I volunteer with Habitat and last spring, for my birthday, I led a build to the Dominican Republic. My Habitat contact was a woman named Stephanie who was great to work with. We only spoke once or twice, never met, but swapped e-mails for about six months planning the trip. Just by chance she is now working for Habitat in the San Jose, Costa Rica office. We kept in touch and, when I told her I would be in the area, she invited me to stay. How awesome is that??
So here’s the outline of the trip…
- Fly to San Jose, 3 nights with Stephanie
- Fly to Puerto Jimenez – southern Cost Rica and a little off the tourist track, but lots of great eco-lodges and volunteer opportunities
- Wing it – make my way by bus to the northern part of the country and hoping that my friend Katinka will be able to join me for part of the adventure
- 4 or 5 days in Nicaragua. My friend Amy, who I met in Buenos Aires 4 years ago, raves about Leon and Granada. There’s also supposed to be some great beaches there.
- Honduras – okay, so my friend Juan from Panama warned me about El Salvador and Honduras. I’m not spending too much time here, just a night in Tegucigalpa and then a day or two in Copan. (I also figure El Salvador and Honduras can’t be too bad because Habitat still sends team there and they wouldn’t risk their reputation if they weren’t safe. I visited El Salvador in 07 and didn’t haven any problems outside rogue caterpillars and suicide showers.)
- Guatemala. Mmmmmm Guatemala!!! I LURRRRVE Guate!! So Buenos Aires Amy, who gave me excellent pointers on South American destinations when we were there, told me about a secret little island off the Pacific Coast… oh wow!!! I visited the website and it’s just lovely!! Will visit there for sure and then tour around Guate some more, visiting charities and checking on the itinerary for my clients. Will hit the best market in Chichi before the real fun….
- July1- my best friend Stephanie and five other friends will meet me in Guatemala City. We’ll have a pre-party before our Habitat build on July 4-12. After we’ll tour more of Guatemala before making our way to…
- Belize!! We’ve got a 5 bedroom waterfront house rented on an island, Ambergris Caye, off the coast…. Oh wow, just writing that makes me squirm in excitement!!
- I’ll spend a few extra days in Belize after they leave and will fly home on July 23…. I think my friend Christy is already planning my welcome home party. Gotta love her!! Xoxo
So how do I feel??? I’m relieved to have a friendly place to go and start my adventure with Stephanie - that’s a huge relief. I’m also nervous. Why? Because I’ll be visiting hotels and charities tying to sell them on my idea and partnering with me. Yes, I have good thing to offer, but it’s a different culture and who wants to faux pas??
Also, the language. To train myself I try and translate my thoughts into Spanish, but in the six hour car ride from Rochester to Norwalk this week I failed… miserably. What if I show up and can’t communicate? What if they think I’m a nut job? What if they think I’m just another tourista not worth their time of day? What if I get too shy and self conscious and give up too easily? Why if my social anxieties rear themselves at the most inopportune moment??
Failure is not an option.
Tomorrow morning marks my last day of internet access at home…. My next update will be from Costa Rica and I promise to bold every few days or as frequently as I can access an internet café! Hasta la vista!!
P.S. Thanks to all you lovely people who came out for my leaving do tonight!!
I now pronounce you Woven Journeys...
No. I do not sell low maintenance hair extensions perfect for travelling or long days at the beach. No, my trips are not just for women and no you will not find yourself sitting at a loom or any other textile producing machinery while on a trip that I have designed. Maybe Travel Weave is a little confusing….
Woven Journeys – sounds a little serious and intense, but expands beyond a name to encompass a concept. Weaving volunteer service with travel and fun. Get it? There’s lots of unique elements that go into the design of my trips that make it original… and I’m selling that originality. It’s my personal travel experience combined with hands-on cultural emersion and fun.
I also like the parallel of weaving. It’s symbolic. My trips take people to developing countries where weaving is still a common aspect of the culture. The materials they use; alpaca in the Andes, yaks in the Himalayas, grasses in the Caribbean, plus the patterns, plus the products the dyes are made from are native to their area. Even the materials their looms and tools are constructed out of are local and unique – just like the experiences I design.
Okay, maybe it’s too deep, too abstract, too foreign, but it’s me and I like it. Done!
Woven Journeys – sounds a little serious and intense, but expands beyond a name to encompass a concept. Weaving volunteer service with travel and fun. Get it? There’s lots of unique elements that go into the design of my trips that make it original… and I’m selling that originality. It’s my personal travel experience combined with hands-on cultural emersion and fun.
I also like the parallel of weaving. It’s symbolic. My trips take people to developing countries where weaving is still a common aspect of the culture. The materials they use; alpaca in the Andes, yaks in the Himalayas, grasses in the Caribbean, plus the patterns, plus the products the dyes are made from are native to their area. Even the materials their looms and tools are constructed out of are local and unique – just like the experiences I design.
Okay, maybe it’s too deep, too abstract, too foreign, but it’s me and I like it. Done!
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Scene from Caffeine, Part II
I finish my brownie… chocolate always makes me feel better. Sometimes I’m still like a little kid. If I fall and scrape my knee, buy me an ice cream cone and the world will be sunny again. (Even sunnier if you actually put some ice cream in the cone.)
I sit up a little and start bouncing names around with Federico. He’s great at helping me with this stuff and I never feel like I’m being a burden to him. I often feel like I am being a burden when I ask for help, so that’s a big credit to Fed.
Names start flying and we check the domain availability for each. Most are taken, forcing us to get more and more abstract, like Planet Bond, as in uniting the world. I veto it on the grounds that it sounds too much like an action hero. The name’s Bond, Planet Bond. Nope, you don’t get Ursula Andress appearing out of the water of your developing world destination if you book a trip through me, Sir.
I’m hoping for a feel of organic, earthy boutique. For the name and the website and the everything; a bit of class, a bit of nature and lots of personal touches. (Just not Ursula type touches- don’t get confused.)
So we start brainstorming nature feeling names; earth reach, sun bridge, etc. Federico’s phone rings, and I tune out as he switches to Spanish and consults with a Colombian co-worker. Mindlessly, I scan the crumbs on my plate, the wood floor, and the tapestry hanging on the exposed brick wall. I see an image of the Earth in my mind and picture a long line extending from the US down to South America. The line curves and gains texture like a rope. It wraps around one person, then another, and another connecting them. It becomes a piece of colorful yarn, then a hank of yarn and then switches to a string. But it’s not a singular line connecting them, I think. It’s a series of strings uniting them. Strings woven together.
“Weave!” I say, okay I’m a loud speaker anyway, so I probably shout it.
Federico, mid conversation, stops and looks at me. His eyes pop, “Weeeeeeeeave!”
Travel Weave.
The domain is free.
Travel Weave.
Weaving culture, fun and volunteer service.
I sit up a little and start bouncing names around with Federico. He’s great at helping me with this stuff and I never feel like I’m being a burden to him. I often feel like I am being a burden when I ask for help, so that’s a big credit to Fed.
Names start flying and we check the domain availability for each. Most are taken, forcing us to get more and more abstract, like Planet Bond, as in uniting the world. I veto it on the grounds that it sounds too much like an action hero. The name’s Bond, Planet Bond. Nope, you don’t get Ursula Andress appearing out of the water of your developing world destination if you book a trip through me, Sir.
I’m hoping for a feel of organic, earthy boutique. For the name and the website and the everything; a bit of class, a bit of nature and lots of personal touches. (Just not Ursula type touches- don’t get confused.)
So we start brainstorming nature feeling names; earth reach, sun bridge, etc. Federico’s phone rings, and I tune out as he switches to Spanish and consults with a Colombian co-worker. Mindlessly, I scan the crumbs on my plate, the wood floor, and the tapestry hanging on the exposed brick wall. I see an image of the Earth in my mind and picture a long line extending from the US down to South America. The line curves and gains texture like a rope. It wraps around one person, then another, and another connecting them. It becomes a piece of colorful yarn, then a hank of yarn and then switches to a string. But it’s not a singular line connecting them, I think. It’s a series of strings uniting them. Strings woven together.
“Weave!” I say, okay I’m a loud speaker anyway, so I probably shout it.
Federico, mid conversation, stops and looks at me. His eyes pop, “Weeeeeeeeave!”
Travel Weave.
The domain is free.
Travel Weave.
Weaving culture, fun and volunteer service.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
I am exhausted. I am up at 9 and working until 1am, sometimes 2 or 3. I have learnt more about SEOs, web marketing, professional liability, business lines of credit, cash flow projections and organic ink in the past week than I thought I could. It’s all interesting (relatively) and necessary, but ugh, I’ll be glad when it’s sorted.
I did have two exciting moments last week….
1. I bought my tickets – I fly into San Jose, Costa Rica on June 1 and fly home from Belize City, Belize on July 23. My itinerary is starting to take shape too and I can’t wait!
2. I talked to my clients… I had the official consultation with Michelle and Rick. Up until then it had been a series of e-mails swapping preferences and ideas. I led them through my questionnaire and it felt great, on two levels.
For one, my AmeriCorps team is family and Michele was one I was closest to. Despite it being ten years ago I still hold that bond, so being able to help her plan her honeymoon is a privilege. For her to trust me and put something that means so much in my hands is an honor.
For two, they asked questions, described what they wanted and I had the answers. Tropical locale, volcanoes, unique architecture, beaches, mountains, hotels with character, hiking, an eco-mind set – it might sound like a lot, but I know that place. I knew it in an instant. I know it because I’ve been there. It was a tremendous confidence boost, not only because I knew it, not only because I realized I was on the right track, but because I could help. Because I could plan an amazing honeyteer for an amazing friend.
AND.... I also canceled my cable last week – oddly liberating to be without a TV!!!
I did have two exciting moments last week….
1. I bought my tickets – I fly into San Jose, Costa Rica on June 1 and fly home from Belize City, Belize on July 23. My itinerary is starting to take shape too and I can’t wait!
2. I talked to my clients… I had the official consultation with Michelle and Rick. Up until then it had been a series of e-mails swapping preferences and ideas. I led them through my questionnaire and it felt great, on two levels.
For one, my AmeriCorps team is family and Michele was one I was closest to. Despite it being ten years ago I still hold that bond, so being able to help her plan her honeymoon is a privilege. For her to trust me and put something that means so much in my hands is an honor.
For two, they asked questions, described what they wanted and I had the answers. Tropical locale, volcanoes, unique architecture, beaches, mountains, hotels with character, hiking, an eco-mind set – it might sound like a lot, but I know that place. I knew it in an instant. I know it because I’ve been there. It was a tremendous confidence boost, not only because I knew it, not only because I realized I was on the right track, but because I could help. Because I could plan an amazing honeyteer for an amazing friend.
AND.... I also canceled my cable last week – oddly liberating to be without a TV!!!
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Scene from Caffeine, Part I
I am slumped on a sofa in the back corner of the local coffee shop. It’s a drizzly May afternoon and the weather has turned my hair into a wiry bird's nest.
I am dejected. I have broken up with the ‘Goldens’ and still need a name. I have learnt ‘honeyteer’ can’t be trademarked and that the website I envisioned will take thousands of dollars and weeks to create.
My friend Federico sits next to me trying to convince me to use a social networking site as a platform for my website. He has some good points, but I am not convinced. I love Federico. Federico is a cutting edge visionary. His creativity and conversation are boundless. I am more conservative. I do not own an ipod, though I did stop making mix tapes last year. I do not own a computer.
Federico teases me about my mood – he's never seen me vulnerable.
“I can NOT fail, Federico. I just CAN NOT fail.” There’s raw emotion emanating from somewhere inside that I haven’t discovered. I feel tears burning behind my eyes, just for a moment, and it becomes clear how poignant and true those words are. Even I am caught off guard by the intensity. Failure feels catastrophic.
Federico assures me of success and I eat the chocolate chip brownie that was supposed to be saved for dinner time dessert. If nothing else, chocolate and carbs make me happy….
I am dejected. I have broken up with the ‘Goldens’ and still need a name. I have learnt ‘honeyteer’ can’t be trademarked and that the website I envisioned will take thousands of dollars and weeks to create.
My friend Federico sits next to me trying to convince me to use a social networking site as a platform for my website. He has some good points, but I am not convinced. I love Federico. Federico is a cutting edge visionary. His creativity and conversation are boundless. I am more conservative. I do not own an ipod, though I did stop making mix tapes last year. I do not own a computer.
Federico teases me about my mood – he's never seen me vulnerable.
“I can NOT fail, Federico. I just CAN NOT fail.” There’s raw emotion emanating from somewhere inside that I haven’t discovered. I feel tears burning behind my eyes, just for a moment, and it becomes clear how poignant and true those words are. Even I am caught off guard by the intensity. Failure feels catastrophic.
Federico assures me of success and I eat the chocolate chip brownie that was supposed to be saved for dinner time dessert. If nothing else, chocolate and carbs make me happy….
Monday, May 4, 2009
Single Again
The wedding didn’t happen. 31 of you wonderful people came out and voted in the polls and another 41 wrote back politely telling me I was out of my head.
My favourite response came from Amy P (who’s actually Amy P-T nowadays, she married that James Taylor who’s not the James Taylor… see what driving a giant purple and yellow car can do for a guy?)
Amy says:
You know when a friend introduces you to someone they are excited about? "He's PER-FECT" she squeals, "we're moving in together!" And all you can think is, "don't get rid of the moving boxes too quickly." But you'd never say it out loud because she lovvvvves him. And how could you break her heart?I hate to share my initial thought, but you're asking.I see "Golden" and I think "the golden years" aka for the older folks.
Yep, point taken, thank you for saving me from divorce. Thank you for participating, thank you for humouring me, that you for so diplomatically redirecting my crackhead idea. Feeling a little foolish I got so excited, but that’s what I need all of you for – saving me!
So for now it’s back to the dating pool on the company name front, although I think I might have a plan….
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Wedding Bells are Ringing...
I think I may have met The One last night…. It was love at first sound. We cuddled through the night and come morning I wanted it to stay.
We are not married yet, but I am definitely engaged. We’ll court through the weekend and shares vows of commitment at sundown on Sunday.
This morning I met the family and discovered a set of triplets to choose from, though I need only one name.
Here are my options, please cast your vote below – I really, really, really need your thoughts and welcome any comments!!
Golden ~ I’m in love with the family and prefix! Golden embodies a duality. It reflects the special occasions: weddings, anniversaries, and other events my clients are celebrating. Golden also represents the value of the volunteer actions and good deeds being contributed.
Golden Works ~ my initial love.
Pros: Easy to understand, simple, concise
Cons: Works can be associated with factories and utility companies (??)
Golden Turns ~ I like the originality of ‘Turns’ and again it has multiple meanings:
1. change of course or direction, as in changing lives
2. doing someone a good turn, as in a favour
3. opportunity, as in the once in a lifetime experience my trips offer
Cons: Can be hard to understand when speaking, easily confused with ‘terms’ or ‘tours’. Could lose word of mouth business.
Golden Hands ~ I like it, again it’s simple, easy, concise. Not really any cons to it, other than it feels a little cutesy to me… and I’m not really the cutesy type!
So go scroll to the bottom of this page and vote!! ...or if you have suggestions of other words to put after Golden, leave me a comment.
Otherwise the wedding ceremony will be at 6 o’clock on Sunday, all readers welcome to attend. Honeyteer to follow… :)
Just to recap, here is the business overview:
To be the premier online source of customized honeyteer and volunteer vacations allowing people to celebrate their special occasions by contributing to the improvement of people and communities in need around the world. Experiences blend volunteer service, cultural explorations, and traditional R&R to meet the customer’s preferences.
(That no-name travel place) is committed to responsible tourism and environmentally friendly operations. We seek like-minded vendors and organizations as business partners.
Friday, May 1, 2009
That which we call a rose....
I feel like a blindfolded cow in a closet full of web marketing professionals. (I’ll come back to this in a sec.) The learning curve ahead of me is steep. I know that. I feel that. Among everything else I need to find a name for my business. I’ve polled family, friends and everyone else. I’ve gotten some good suggestions. Ones I’ve winked at, flirted with, taken to my birthday party and even spent the night with, but sadly, ultimately, we had to breakup.
I like the roots of some offerings and the prefixes of others: ‘share’, ‘works’ and ‘good’ are all solid and easy to spell, even if they lack pizzazz. I really liked Mixed Greens, until everyone said they’d be looking for me in the produce aisle.
A lot of people have suggested using ‘green’, but out of the salad context, isn’t it really the latest in a long line of a buzzwords? Choose it and it’s like putting a time stamp on a photo. I don’t want to be that girl walking around town wearing a sateen jacket, leg warmers and a side ponytail in 2020.
Ironically, as someone who likes to write, I rarely struggle to find a decent title for my work– they just pop right into my head. I got the slogan without a conscious thought, 'Volunteer Vacations for Special Occasions', and was hoping for the same result with an instant perfect name. Nope, this is a lot more complicated than titling an essay. Not only are there certain criteria that branding experts tell me I should follow, there’s also the game of web marketing….
First up, the experts dictate these Rules:
1. 2 or 3 syllables, definitely no more than 4
2. Catchy, easy to remember
3. Capture the essence of the business
4. Can grow with the company, not too defining
5. Has personality (okay, I made that one up… but it would be nice.)
Now let’s mix in the Internet effect. For example, I like the name Good Works. We’ve dated, separated and are now back on speaking terms. It meets the criteria above, but guess what? It’s married! Somebody already owns goodworks.com and goodworkstravel.com was nabbed by some flighty travel agent out in Iowa! Disheartening. I guess I could use ‘.net’ or ‘.biz’ but it always feels second-rate when I’m stumble on those sites. Sooooo…. try again.
I’m also learning the value of buying a pre-existing web domain, but this is where I don the aforementioned cow suit. The workings are complicated and boring, but buying a pre-existing name means I’ll pop up higher in search results = greater visibility, more traffic, better potential for business. Starting out with a new name could take six months to a year, plus lots of effort to achieve the same effect. Think about it – how many times do you ever get past page two when you Google something? How many times do you even get to page two??
My head is spinning with all this, but what it means is the name of my company could be dictated more by domain availability and web ranking/optimization than by me picking a pretty name out of the air – I guess if I want to do that I should buy a goldfish.
So, how do I know all this? Well, I haven't really touched on how lucky I’ve been with contacts and connections- that’s a whole other blog entry. I will say I’ve had some great advice from a couple friends and then there’s the son of a friend of mine who lives in California. He been a really great help, but even so, with all I’ve learnt, I still feel like a blindfolded cow.
I learned from Ben, my new friend in California, that the cost of web domains can vary from $200 to $25,000+. Microsoft paid $1 million for iphone.com a month before it launched the product. Although goodworks.com and goodlinks.com, another married favourite, are both ‘taken’ neither is actually a working site. Ben kindly did some research for me and suggested ‘goodworks’ would be worth around $500 and ‘goodlinks’ wasn’t worth a dime.
I take what he says and think ‘buyers market’. Then send an-email to the owner of the ‘goodlinks’ domain asking if he’d sell.
He writes back the next day: “Sure, I’d be open to offers.”
Alright, I think, the domain isn’t worth much. So I put on my blindfold, moo like a head of cattle and reply: “How about $50?”
“I feel it’s worth more,” the owner responds, “try $6,000.”
Ouch. Honeyteer!! (See, you can ad lib it as an expression too.) I think this breakup is the last.
At least he was polite, but I still need a name….
I like the roots of some offerings and the prefixes of others: ‘share’, ‘works’ and ‘good’ are all solid and easy to spell, even if they lack pizzazz. I really liked Mixed Greens, until everyone said they’d be looking for me in the produce aisle.
A lot of people have suggested using ‘green’, but out of the salad context, isn’t it really the latest in a long line of a buzzwords? Choose it and it’s like putting a time stamp on a photo. I don’t want to be that girl walking around town wearing a sateen jacket, leg warmers and a side ponytail in 2020.
Ironically, as someone who likes to write, I rarely struggle to find a decent title for my work– they just pop right into my head. I got the slogan without a conscious thought, 'Volunteer Vacations for Special Occasions', and was hoping for the same result with an instant perfect name. Nope, this is a lot more complicated than titling an essay. Not only are there certain criteria that branding experts tell me I should follow, there’s also the game of web marketing….
First up, the experts dictate these Rules:
1. 2 or 3 syllables, definitely no more than 4
2. Catchy, easy to remember
3. Capture the essence of the business
4. Can grow with the company, not too defining
5. Has personality (okay, I made that one up… but it would be nice.)
Now let’s mix in the Internet effect. For example, I like the name Good Works. We’ve dated, separated and are now back on speaking terms. It meets the criteria above, but guess what? It’s married! Somebody already owns goodworks.com and goodworkstravel.com was nabbed by some flighty travel agent out in Iowa! Disheartening. I guess I could use ‘.net’ or ‘.biz’ but it always feels second-rate when I’m stumble on those sites. Sooooo…. try again.
I’m also learning the value of buying a pre-existing web domain, but this is where I don the aforementioned cow suit. The workings are complicated and boring, but buying a pre-existing name means I’ll pop up higher in search results = greater visibility, more traffic, better potential for business. Starting out with a new name could take six months to a year, plus lots of effort to achieve the same effect. Think about it – how many times do you ever get past page two when you Google something? How many times do you even get to page two??
My head is spinning with all this, but what it means is the name of my company could be dictated more by domain availability and web ranking/optimization than by me picking a pretty name out of the air – I guess if I want to do that I should buy a goldfish.
So, how do I know all this? Well, I haven't really touched on how lucky I’ve been with contacts and connections- that’s a whole other blog entry. I will say I’ve had some great advice from a couple friends and then there’s the son of a friend of mine who lives in California. He been a really great help, but even so, with all I’ve learnt, I still feel like a blindfolded cow.
I learned from Ben, my new friend in California, that the cost of web domains can vary from $200 to $25,000+. Microsoft paid $1 million for iphone.com a month before it launched the product. Although goodworks.com and goodlinks.com, another married favourite, are both ‘taken’ neither is actually a working site. Ben kindly did some research for me and suggested ‘goodworks’ would be worth around $500 and ‘goodlinks’ wasn’t worth a dime.
I take what he says and think ‘buyers market’. Then send an-email to the owner of the ‘goodlinks’ domain asking if he’d sell.
He writes back the next day: “Sure, I’d be open to offers.”
Alright, I think, the domain isn’t worth much. So I put on my blindfold, moo like a head of cattle and reply: “How about $50?”
“I feel it’s worth more,” the owner responds, “try $6,000.”
Ouch. Honeyteer!! (See, you can ad lib it as an expression too.) I think this breakup is the last.
At least he was polite, but I still need a name….
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