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!
Saturday, June 27, 2009
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.
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