Ramblin Schambelan

Coast to Coast - New Orelans, LA to Savannah, GA

2009-09-24T12:31:00.001-07:00

With the better part of 700 miles separating New Orleans and Savannah, we still had a lot of ground to cover, on this, our last day on the road. We set out early, planning on not making any unnecessary stops along the way so that we might arrive in Savannah before nightfall and with a chance to celebrate our homecoming with a dinner out on the town.

As we sped across I-10, we began to pass through states like they were mile markers. First we came to a huge sign welcoming us to Mississippi, and we were passing through Biloxi before 10am. Then, before we knew it, we were gassing up in Mobile, Alabama. We hit the Florida state line before lunch and at that point settled in for the long haul out to the Atlantic.

We hadn't noticed it much in New Orleans, but having arrived in the Southeast, we had entered into another ecological zone. A temperate, almost tropical, landscape lay before us, with salt grass marshes breaking up dense jungle enclaves of over-grown ferns and moss-covered Cypress and Oak trees. And the land was brimming with life; fresh hatches of bugs splattered against our windshield like a light passing rain shower; flights of birds, armies of billowing frogs, and orchestras of crickets filled the thick humid air for miles and miles of open road.

I-10 is an amazing freeway, stretching, almost in a straight line, from Louisiana to the Northern tip of Florida, and we made amazing time. We were passing though Jacksonville by mid-afternoon and looked to be arriving in Savannah before 5pm. Then, with little more than 15 miles left to go in our 3,200 mile journey, disaster struck.

We were cruising along in the fast lane when I glanced in my rear-view mirror and saw two large men closing in behind us on big hogged-out Harleys. Unlike most people in the South, I pulled out of the lane to let them pass. As they pulled along side me, I got a better look at them, both guys were African-American, both probably 350 to 400 lbs, and both had much smaller females sitting behind them clutched to the backs of their waists. The guys were wearing leather gloves and goggles (and helmets of course), standard issue gear for long-distance rides, but they were also sporting t-shirts and loose fitting pants, both things that can leave you vulnerable if you ever got into an accident on a bike.

This very thought was passing through my mind when, now about 25 yards in front of me, the front bike suddenly bucked on itself and nose-dived into the asphalt going around 85 miles an hour. After that everything else seemed to pass in slow motion. The first bike, and its riders started to skid along the freeway as the second bike crashed straight into them and sent the second set of people skidding along the pavement as well. Sparks and metal flew off the bikes as we quickly came up behind them and I had to quickly swerved to the right, narrowly missing the bikers as we flew past them.

Once passed, I looked back in my side view mirror to see other cars swerving out of the way to avoid hitting them as they continued to skid off the freeway and shoulder toward a grass ditch serving as the median. I shutter to think of what would have happened if there was no median.

I quickly pulled off the freeway, coming to a screeching halt about 100 yards in front of the accident. I told Naomi to stay put with Zoe and I ran back to toward the rising smoke. I came up on the first couple, now laying in a watery ditch next to their bike in the middle of the median. I expected the worst but, miraculously, they were not only still alive and in one piece, but able to pull themselves out of the bog under there own power. “Are you guys OK?” I asked. The man, dazed, gave me a slow nod. “Yeah, we’re good, check on my boy,” he said as he motioned up to the shoulder where the second couple lay, about 25 yards apart, motionless, on the pavement.

At this point, about half a dozen other people had gotten out of their cars and were running up to help. People were already attending to the girl so I ran up to the man to give aide. He was lying on his side and as I approached I could smell burnt flesh in the air. I came closer and could see his pants and shirt were torn in many places, blood oozing from the holes onto the hot concrete. I knelt down by his head and could hear him breathing. Well, wheezing actually, and they were coming in short sporadic heaves. I peered over his big shoulders and looked at his face. His eyes were open, but glazed over and drifting off in two different directions. Blood was dripping down the side of his mouth. This was not good.

Having been an instructor at a sports camp for kids throughout high school and college, I had extensive trained in first aid and CPR. But at this exact moment, I might as well have had never taken a class, I was drawing a blank as to what I should do. I tried to remember the first steps when you come to the scene of an accident. What was it.... Ah yes! ABC (airway, breathing, circulation), that is what you're supposed to check first! Then I reminded myself that he was already breathing and I didn't need to do that. I froze up again. See if he can respond, I remembered more from common sense then from training. "Sir, are you OK?" Nothing. "Sir, can you hear me?" He just continued to lay there with a vacant stare, bleeding and breathing laboriously. His neck! You've got secure his neck, Scott. I reached down to hold his helmet and as I did, he gowned and fell on his back. Shit! I thought. I just snapped his spinal cord.

Then I looked up and saw a crowd of people standing over me and I stopped thinking about what I should do and just starting doing it. I barking out orders: "someone tell me how the girl is doing?" "She's breathing, and can move her legs but I don't think she can hear us" someone yelled over to me. "Did someone call 911?" I inquired. "I'm on the line with them right now," someone else responded. "Good, tell them we got two down and unconscious, non-responsive, and with possible head trauma and bleeding."

Just then the big man moved his arms. Oh my god, I thought, I didn’t break his neck after all. That’s good. But then he started to mumble, "get it off... get... it off" and he reached up for his helmet. This was not good, if he did have any injuries to his head or spine taking off this helmet could make things a lot worse. "Some one grab his hands!" I yelled. Two guys jumped in and took hold of his hands. Just then, the other guy from the first bike staggered up. "Tim, Tim are you okay?" he asked. "Get it off!" he garbled again. The first guy just stood there staring, no doubt in shock in seeing his friend in this condition. I jumped in. "Hey man, you said his name is Tim?" "Uh, yeah" he uttered. "Okay, I need you to talk to your buddy Tim, and let him know that help is on the way and that we can't take the helmet off until they get here." He bent over and started speaking into Tim's ear. Whispering really, that everything was going to be alright. Meanwhile I waited for the sirens, and help to arrive.

At this point a women came bursting onto the scene carrying a first aide badge shoving it into peoples face. “Excuse me,” she said, in thick southern accent, “coming through, I’m trained in first aid, please let me by.” She came up to us and pushed the Xeroxed credentials in my face. “I’m First Aid Certified!” she announced. “That’s great” I said, wondering what the hell she wanted me to do about. “Let me talk to this man,” she said an leaned down. “Miss,” I started “he’s not really responding, but he’s got motion in both his–.” “Sir,” she said leaning over the big guy uninterested in what I had to say, “Sir, can you hear me.” “Miss,” I offered again, “we’ve already trie–” “Sir,” she said cutting me off again “Sir can you tell me your name.” She reached over and tried to turn his head. At that point, I leaned over and got between them. “Miss, as you are also first aid certified, you’ll remember that you never want to move someone, especially there head, unless they are not breathing” (it was starting to come back to me at this point). “Well,” she said, obviously embarrassed to be called out in front of everyone, “I am just trying to help.” And, with that she got up, dusted herself off and walked off in a huff.

The minutes passed and my arms were starting to ache. I felt like I had been holding his head forever and Tim, while not responsive to us, was beginning to move around and become more adamant about getting his helmet off. He had full use of both arms now and one of his legs, and even though he was very much crippled by the accident, he was still the better part of 400 lbs and it took all my strength to hold his head in place while the other guys tried to gently secure his arms.

Suddenly a guy pulled up in a truck and came running up. "I'm an EMT, let me though." 'Thank God' I thought, now he can take over I thought. "You," he said, pointing to me. "You stay right where you are and keep a hold of his head." As good as it felt to know I had been doing the right thing, it was the last thing I wanted to hear. He then grabbed a pair of scissors and started cutting away the Tim's clothes. Soon after, the fire trucks and ambulance arrived, and I thought for sure that I could relinquish my post, not so much because I was tired anymore, but to be honest I was scared. I was scared I would mess up, break his neck, see him die. I was just plain scared. But, when the fireman got on the scene and the first thing he said was "you," pointing to me, "stay right there."

What happened next was kind of a blur. I think they thought I was an EMT because they started saying thing to me that I didn't understand and they apparently thought I did. "Okay, were going to get under the cap and secure him in a grave-hold, then you gotta C-roll him on your count... got it?" I didn't but nodded anyway. They brought in a neck brace and had me hold the helmet and the brace as the tried to tape it to his head. Then they brought in a stretcher in and set it next to him. Tim did not like being moved and started to shout and squirm and it was becoming increasingly difficult to contain him. We had to move quickly, "OK, on your count, " the fireman said, and all the EMTs (there were four of them now) all looked up at me. I stuttered, 1-2-2-uh-3 and the rolled him on his side, slid the stretcher underneath him and then rolled him back, all the while I tried to hold his head straight. Then he gave another set of coded instructions which apparently meant it was time to lift him and put him on the gurney, then, finally into the ambulance.

No sooner had they closed the doors than I slipped passed the fire crews, police units and caution tape and walked back to my car in the now dark evening sky. Naomi was waiting for me and I gave her a big hug and we got in a drove off. I felt bad for leaving, no doubt they could have used a whiteness to recount what happened, but I needed to get out of there. Away from the blood, burnt flesh, and gas soaked haze. I was shocked by what I had seen. We were half way home before I realized that I was covered in blood and had some how scrapped up my arm pretty bad.

We made it the rest of the way without incident. We made it to our pretty little apartment set on a lake off right off the highway and a two-minute car ride from downtown. We did have our celebratory dinner that night, at a great little pizza spot downtown and it was truly nice to be home at last. But I had a hard time taking it all in, I was still shell-shocked from the incident on the highway. But in the coming days, the shock would fade and the excitement of a new life in a new place would take hold, and maybe even with a bit more a poignancy then it might have been before because I learned two things that day: 1) Never ride a motorcycle on the highway in a t-shirt and 2) life is short and you better enjoy the ride (which is preferably not on a motorcycle on the highway in your t-shirt).

I never found out whether Tim or his girl made it or not, but I like to think that he did. That he and his other riding buddy are out there right now having a beer at a biker bar someplace and laughing about the time they almost kicked the can. Then, they would get into their dual-airbag, traction-controlled Volvos and driving home in complete safely.

Coast to Coast – New Orleans, LA

2009-09-19T10:18:00.000-07:00

I knew, from the outset, that any cross-country road trip would have to include a stop in New Orleans. Not so much because it’s one of the most historied cities in America, nor for the amazing food, music, and parties it has. Not even so much for the support I wanted to give a city still being rebuilt 5 years after Katrina. No, my desire to was for one reason only: cocktails!

As a professional bartender, New Orleans is my Mecca. The birthplace of Peychuad Bitters and the world’s first cocktail: the Sazerac. But more poignant to me then the drinks, were the places where they were first served. Not the tourist trap haunts of Bourbon St. with its sugar-laced Hurricanes served in neon-colored yard glasses, but the REAL New Orleans bar scene. Places like The Napoleon House, Tonique, and The Old Absinthe House. Places where a well-balanced drink was a hand-crafted art revered by both barmen and patron alike, and the walls were as old as the country they inhabited. Yeah, that's why I was here.

Arriving in the late morning, we parked few blocks off Decatur St. in the French Quarter and walked down to the Mississippi river. With narrow stone-lined avenues backed by French townhouses and flowering 2nd story terraces, we could see and feel the cities unique and charming Creole character. As we walked, we could smell fresh bread coming from corner bakeries and and hear the buzz of a big city still stirring to life.

Following the advise of my father, we grabbed a table at Café Du Monte and welcomed ourselves to the Big Easy with an order of their famous beignet and fresh-roast coffee. As mid-day rolled around and the thermostat began to bob around 100 degrees we opted for a lazy stroll through the garden district and an afternoon in the shady recesses of Annunciation Park. After lunching at The Bulldog beer garden we took the rest of the afternoon off and napped back at the hotel.

Come evening, after the temperature had returned to early levels, we ventured back down to the French Quarter and I searched out my hollowed watering holes. We found them; The Carousel Bar, Antoine's, and The Sazerac Bar, with tuxedo wearing barmen, no cocktail menus, and perfectly measured libations. It is where every aspiring bartender should go to get their education.

After a few samplings, I was beginning to wonder if a bar-to-bar-to-bar evening was such a great idea seeing as though we had a 12 hour drive ahead of us the following morning, but, thankfully, I got side-tracked by one of our friends who lived in town.

She insisted on taking us out for a real Cajun meal, just what a man on the brink of sobriety needed, and after a country-size portion of gumbo and jambalaya, I had my second wind and we ventured back out into the lively night. As a volunteer in the recovery effort, our friend was well-informed of all the political and social issues, both past and present, and made for an excellent guide. As we crossed through Washington Square she shot us down an alley and we arrived at the front door of a non-descript music club where one of the most prolific jazz musicians in New Orleans, Kermit Ruffins, was putting on an unpublicized show. We literary walked right in and were standing in the front row. It was a great show.

We could not have asked for a better evening in the Big Easy and since it was our only one, we felt very lucky and considered it a perfect way to end our vacation. We would be on the road again in the morning and come nightfall we would be in Savannah, and at the end of our journey. But we wanted to savor tonight, and we walked a little slower on our way back to our hotel, taking in the sites, the air, the feeling of being a visitor in a new place one more time. Where everything is still fresh, still new, and you want to take it all it because you don’t know when, or if, you’ll ever be back. But like I said before, this is my Mecca, and I think I can make another pilgrimage or two before everything is said and done.

Coast to Coast – Austin, TX

2009-09-03T19:21:00.000-07:00

We had heard, from more than a few sources, that Austin, Texas was a must see on anyone’s southern-bound road trip. People spoke of a vibrant metropolis, replete with young progressive minds, a hopping party scene, and quite possibly the best music scene in the United States. And, as is the case with most movies, restaurants, and blind dates that receive similar hype, it didn't quite live up to expectations.

The city itself was nice enough. Even as the state capital, Austin still managed to avoid most of the pitfalls that come with that title. It was a descent size city, but there were plenty of open space. It was stretched out over a large area but had a navigational freeway system. The downtown had its skyscrapers and state buildings, but it was also set on the banks of a huge river (called the 'town lake'), which ebbed its way through the heart of the city. It also was home to the University of Texas, a school with 50,000 undergrads and its own zip code, so there was plenty of action to be had out on the town both during the day and at night.

And yet, despite all of these attributes, we never really seemed to fall in step with the town. Upon our arrival, we were starving and stopped in at a local Mexican spot that came HIGHLY recommended by one of our friends. After waiting outside in the blistering 103 degree afternoon heat because they wouldn’t allow dogs on there patio, we got our to-go order and found it to be some of the worst food we’ve ever been asked to pay for. After the meal and after our gag reflexes subsisted, we searched for a dog friendly park nearby and found one, Butler Park, right downtown along the river. But, after walking a mile or so to get to the off-leash area were dogs could swim, another Texas Monsoon hit the city and we had to sprint back to our car to avoid the deluge of rain and flooding that ensued*.

In the evening, after the storm broke, we headed back downtown to see the famous mass exodus of bats, apparently in the hundreds of thousands, that flows from under the downtown (bat) bridge at dusk. We were told to get there early to ensure a good seat. We arrived about 25 minutes before sundown to find almost no one there at all, and proceeded to wait until well past dark for the bats that had apparently taken the night off. After and underwhelming dinner, we headed down to East 6th Street, where all the bars, nightclubs, and live music venues are concentrated. But, being a Wednesday night in the middle of summer vacation, there wasn’t a whole lot of shaking going on. Just C-list cover bands and a half dozen people in each of the 300 bars that seemed to stretch on forever. Defeated, we called it an early night, knowing that we would be leaving tomorrow and this would be our only memories of Austin.

The next morning we got out early, but, before leaving, we gave Austin one last chance. Grabbing some iced coffees, as it was already 89 degrees at 8:45am, we headed back to the dog park on the river. We got walked back to the off-leash area and found a huge pack of dogs and owners hanging out by the waters edge. We could barely unhook Zoe’s collar before she was bounding around in the water, chasing stick and balls with the rest of the pack. A light breeze blew in off the water and, for the first time since we’d gotten here, I looked up at the cityscape before me and though to myself ‘hey, it’s kinda nice here.’ And I wondered if I shouldn’t give everything else another go (except the Mexican food), and some of the other things I wanted to see(Like Barton Springs Pool, or The Salt Lick BBQ house). But that would have to wait for another day, cause we had to get back on the road. Next stop: New Orleans!

*On our way back to our hotel in this huge storm that was flooding streets and bringing down trees, we passed by the UT football practice facility and saw hundreds of fans standing out in the rain watching the Longhorns practice. Practice! We’re not talking about a game, we’re talking about practice. Practice! I guess that’s what happens to sports fans in a state capital city without a pro sports team. Oh yeah, and it’s Texas.

Coast to Coast - Santa Fe, NM to Austin, TX

2009-08-24T06:59:00.000-07:00

Needing a bit of a break from the road, the following morning we stuck around Santa Fe, taking Zoe to an off-leash trail head on the outskirts of the city and hiking up a ridge that offered panoramic views of the city and surrounding mountain ranges. We lunched at another patio restaurant, and took that time to plan our next leg of the journey.

It would take us 13 hours to get to Austin, and we knew that we didn't have that in us today. So we decided not to decide. We would just get in the car and drive as far as we felt like and then we would stop where ever we wanted and that would be that. It was kind of invigorating not to have a destination, we could go anywhere, do anything, and we wouldn't be veering off course because we didn't have one.

So, with that spirit in mind, we started the day with a detour to Galisteo, a small (and when I say small, I mean 13 mailboxs total small) town about 20 minutes of the highway from Santa Fe. The 'town' lay on the same plateau as Santa Fe, but far removed from the tree lines of the mountains. Here, it was just rolling open plains of sage brush and red earth.

The center was nothing more than a crossroads of the highway and a church with a few houses clustered around. Scattered residential plots with single homes and large barns where visible along the open horizon. But other than that, there was really nothing else. No stores, no restaurants, that was it. Why did we bother to stop here you ask? It was here, some 27 years ago, in a Tepee on one of these desert plains that Naomi Windblossom Coffman was born. What on earth her mother was doing here at that time I haven't a clue, and when I asked her she responded with "Well, Galisteo was really hip back then!" I don't know if that is the term I would use to describe it, but it was beautiful. Both stoic and timeless, and if you stood at those crossroads for 100 years I doubt much would change in the end of that time except the cars passing through.

After a few snapshots, we were back on the road, settling in to our familiar routine of drive, gas/coffee/switch seats, drive. Although I haven't wanted to say anything about it until now in the fear that I might somehow jinx it, Zoe, our feisty lab who usually whines if she has to be in the car for more than 20 minutes, has been absolutely amazing. When we head out the car in the morning, she jumps right up in the back seat and lies down in between the two front seats so she can get her share of the A/C. When we stop for gas or food, she hops out, relieves herself on any nearby grass and then hopes back up in the car and lies back down for the next leg. We couldn't believe it. And here we thought we were going to have to sedate her 3-4 times a day to get this desired effect. It made the drive that much more enjoyable.

Even with our little detours, we crossed over into Texas by mid-afternoon and were able to slingshot around Carlsbad Caverns by nightfall. The West Texas landscape was a dry deluge of broken limestone gullies and aired brush. It looked a bit like the Arizona desert, only with more vegetation and color. The air felt different too, where Arizona had been a dry heat, here the air was heavy and thick with moisture. We soon found out why.

As the last of the daylight reseeded back into the western sky, a huge pocket of black thunderheads loomed before us. As we drove straight into the storm, the wind began to push the car from one side of the road to the other. Lightening bolts crashed down at almost the exact same time as the ear-ringing thunder cracked through the darkening night sky. Then the rain came.

It was as if we were driving up a river. We slowed to 25 mph and had the windshield wipers going full blast but we still couldn't see past the constant stream of water coating the windshield. Sensing the tension, Zoe was standing, almost on the front dashboard, to figure out what was wrong.

Finally, we passed through the heart of it, and the rain subsided, but the thunder and lighting remained with us as we pulled into the highway outcrop of Sonora to find a hotel for the night, reminding us that nobody messes with Texas.

Coast to Coast - Santa Fe, NM

2009-08-23T08:38:00.000-07:00

Though the temptation to stay in this frying pan of a homestead was almost too much to resist, we were on the road by 8:30 the next morning, Needles quickly fading out of site in our rear view mirror. We had a long drive ahead of us, 600 miles to Santa Fe, and we wanted to get there early enough to enjoy an evening out on the town. Luckily for us the speed limit on 1-40 was 75 (sometimes 80) miles an hour and it was a straight shot to New Mexico. We set the cruise control and popped in another book on tape.

We followed the highway, paralleling the famous Route 66, as it bisected the barren heart of Arizona; a seemingly endless expanse of flat, dry desert. It stretched on for hours, the only signs of life were the occasional cars that passed by or the sparse gas stations that popped up along the way.

Five hours in, we hit the New Mexico State line and the topography began to tansform before us– hills formed beneath us; trees and valleys dotted the horizon; and the earth, once a partched pale gray, was now glowing with an iron-rich red hue. The hills soon turned into mountains as we passed through Albuquerque and began to climb the tail of the southern Rockies.

Santa Fe itself sits atop a 7,200ft plateau but also makes up the basin of three large forested mountain ranges. A bustling metropolis of 75,000, it still manages to retain its wild west meets nomadic Indian outpost feel with strict adobe color and architecture building codes throughout the county and the over-abundance of Indian jewelry, clothing, and trinket shops throughout the city proper.

We pulled into town as the last of the suns rays slipped passed the encompassing mountains and twilight decended on the warm summer's sky. Having been cooped up in the car all day, we decided that we would bring Zoe with us and strolled along the brick-lined sidewalks into town. We heard music up ahead and followed the bluegrass tunes to a small tree-lined central plaza where hundreds of people were sitting around in the grass listening to a live country band on a stage in the center of the park. Children ran around in the fountain, hot food vendors lined the sidewalks, and near-by restaurants all had roof-top balconies filled with tourist and locals watching the show.

This scene seemed like it was a nightly occurrence in this town and Naomi and I were quick to fall in step with Santa Fe's the easy-going ebb and flow. We had a delicious tex-mex dinner in the courtyard of a local restuarant that allowed dogs and sipping maragritas and happy to be in a town where Denny's wasn't your only choice for food, entertiament and social interactions.

Coast to Coast – Photos

2009-08-17T21:01:00.000-07:00

A few photos from the first couple days:

Dog is my co-pilot.

Standing on a corner... somewhere in Arizona.

The look Zoe gives me before she makes a brake for it.

Coast to Coast – The first leg

2009-08-14T15:30:00.000-07:00

Heading south, down the spine of California, along the hot, black tarmac of 1-5, we tried to plan our route. We didn't have a particular destination in mind for the end of the day, only that we wanted to get as far as we could so we could pull into our real destination, Santa Fe, NM, sometime the following afternoon. It was a good plan, but alas it wasn't meant to be.

With a couple hundred before our next turn, we decided to kill a few listless hours with one of the books on tape our friends had given us for the trip. I have listen to books on tape a few times before and I think that, in my case anyway, it is entirely unsafe for highway travel. I get so caught up in the stories that I loose track of where I am and where I intend to go. Apparently, so does Naomi. We weren't even a few minutes into the tape, a James Patterson thriller, before we became so engrossed in the plot of who killed who for what, that we missed our exit, and the next dozen before we realized our error, and spent the better part of 2 hours getting back on track.

Needless to say, we didn't make it as far we would have liked for our first day on the road. In fact, we didn't even make it out of California, stopping instead at a small town right on CA/NV boarder called Needles. Oh yes, Needles.

Nothing more than a collection of mobile homes, a motel 6 and a Denny's, Needles is set in a dust bowl at the tail end of the Death Valley Desert plains where, upon our arrival at 11:30 at night, it was still almost 100 degrees and seemed to be heating up. While checking in, I asked the motel clerk, who looked like she'd seen a needle or two herself, what people did around here for fun. She looked at me as if she wasn't sure what the word fun meant.

"Uh, well," she finally offered, "there's a Denny's down the road, people go there sometimes."

As Bill Bryson as apt to do in this type of situation, I came up wit a couple slogans the town might want to consider in any new tourism ad campaigns :

Needles: because you'll want to prick yourself with one to make sure you still alive... and not in hell.

Needles: you want em', we got em'!

Needles: because Snaketown, Ghostville, or Monsterland doesn't quite invoke enough terror in visiting young children.

Feel free to add your own...

2009-08-11T09:30:00.000-07:00

We got a late start. It was going to be a long day on the road and we had hoped to set out early, but after a huge good-bye bash the night before and an early breakfast with the family, both Naomi and I were a little bushy-eyed and bright-tailed and moving slower than normal. Zoe, our 5 yr old yellow lab perched in the backseat, was the only one that was jumping with anticipation. That didn't help either.

This was it. Our farewell to the Bay Area – for the next three years away. We took it all in as we made our way down the old Maple-lined avenues of North Berkeley toward the freeway; the bright cool morning breeze, the smell of fresh roasted coffee drifting in the air. I was really going to miss this place, and the people in it.

We pulled onto I-580 heading away from the Pacific, our destination: Savannah, Georgia, 3000 miles east along the Atlantic coast. We sat back, set the IPOD to 'song shuffle,' and prepared ourselves for the long journey ahead. The clouds in our head were beginning to lift as we hit I-5 and turned south toward Bakersfield and we started to perk up, even get a little excited, but not nearly as excited as Zoe, who was jumping from window to window in the back seat, she still thought we were taking her to the local beach.

I just can't wait...

2009-08-11T08:34:00.000-07:00

to get on the road again. That’s right blogosphere, the Ramblin Schambelan (a.ka. the road warrior) is back on the asphalt and this time he’s keeping it local with a trip out America’s backdoor. San Francisco, California to Savannah, Georgia in less than a week.

The first leg = Berkeley, CA to Joshua Tree National Park, CA – with the girl and dog in toe, that should be good for a post or two…

La Linea - Mexico/California

2007-06-05T12:51:00.000-07:00

Crosswalking the Line

I spent a few more days in Creel determined not to leave Mexico on a bad note. It paid off. I checked into a different hostel, one where they didn't try to steel from their guests and had another go at the town. It wasn't as bad as I had thought. The people seemed warmer, nicer, and happier. But, then again, even a mortuary might seem more joyful in comparison to the people I encountered in Batopilas.

I took a horseback riding tour of the outlying mesas, sampled some of the local culinary specialties, and hiked up to a mirador at sunset with spectacular views of distant canyons and horizons of jagged mountain peaks. Everything seemed so new, so vivid, like I was seeing them all for the first time. I might have felt this way because I knew it was all coming to an end, and, after almost 8 months, these were going to be my last memories of this trip and of Central America.

Well, they wouldn't be the very last. I still had to actually get to the border, almost 475 miles away, and then, once across, home, another 500 miles. That would be a memory in itself, one I'd rather forget as it took me over 32 hours to get from Creel to the border. Of that, 23 straight hours on one bus. Needless to say, I was exhausted when I finally made it to the line, but felt a renewed sense of energy and excitement as I walked through the pedestrian causeway of immigration and reemerged on the other side standing, for the first time in 233 days, on American soil.

I met up with my good friend Mike Dewan, who lived in Pacific Beach and had a great evening enjoying all things American: Pizza slices, basketball, and Blockbuster Video. Not to mention a hot shower and a clean bed!

The next day I took a train up to Newport Beach, a seaside play ground for the rich and famous just south of Los Angles. If there was ever a town in California that stood in stark contrast to Northern Mexico, Newport was it. The polarized juxtaposition was a bit of a culture shock. Where as before I had been walking down small broken stone streets made up of clay, nondescript buildings, now I strolled down four-lane avenues lined with palm trees and wood shingled beach houses. There were other thing that I noticed, other things strictly Americana, that were a jolt to my senses. Four story beach mansions, million dollars yachts bobbing in the bay, $75,000 sports cars sparkling in supermarket parking lots. And everything was so clean, so whitewashed and proper. Hell, even the local rug factory outlet had a landscaped storefront with Bay trees and a manicured front lawn.

And the people, oh the people. They were a shock in their own right and while I can go on and on about the fakeness and superficiality of southern California versus the honest, down to earth culture of Latinos, I will only say this: Americans have no conception of personal space, and by that I mean other's personal space. Whether your walking down a sidewalk or standing at a bar, people just don't seem to notice (or care maybe) that your alive. They walk/bump/stubble right into you and rarely take the time to apologize. They yell meaningless things to each other across noisy rooms, often times right over your head or even through your ear canals without stopping to think for a second that you might actually like being able to hear and wish to continue to have the ability. Yes, it was a shock indeed.

I met up with half a dozen of my closest high school and college buddies who were in town to celibate our friend Peter's Med school graduation. It's funny, but even after being gone all this time, having only spoken to a few of them a handful of times, I fell right back in step with them like I had only been out of the room a minute to use the head. It was good to be home.

After a memorable homecoming in Newport, I hopped up the cost to Santa Barbara, where my Alma Mader and sister resides. I spent a week in this equally whitewashed, plastic paradise and felt relieved to arrive back in my hometown of Berkeley, which carries some of America's cleanliness and signs of affluence, but also a more down to earth, holistic feel. Where people say excuse me after they bump into you and only yell important, meaningful things through your ear canals.

Yeah it was good to be home. I had been gone just one day shy of 8 months. 242 days. I had been to 8 different countries, visited over 150 different destinations and slept in over 120 beds, beaches, hammocks, and couches. I had visited seven Mayan ruins, fished five different rivers, climbed four volcanoes, and seen two oceans. I got food poisoning four times, was robbed twice, had a job once, and made 6 really good friends. I learned to speak Spanish, scuba dive, salsa dance, catch Mahi Mahi, Poi, and play the guitar. All and all traveled over 12,000 miles, the majority of which on bus, train, boat, and foot. And, managed to spend almost all of my savings in the process.

So now I'm back home and back to where I started, with no obligations, living in my dad's basement and unemployed. It was this exact situation that prompted my epic journey in the first place, but I feel different now, more grounded in myself, my beliefs, and my desires. Excited about what the future holds rather than anxious, eager to take on the world rather then ready to run away from it.

I've satisfied the travel itch... for now. But, as I often tell people, traveling is like a highly addictive drug, once you start, you can't stop and the more you do it, the more you want it. I'm hooked. But, unlike most aaddictive substances that are detrimental to your body, mind, and spirit, this one fulfills them. It brings happiness, education, and enlightenment on a life outside our own and makes you feel more in tune the world that surrounds you. So, the next time your feeling down, tired, or apathetic, hop on a plane, train, or bus with your knapsack and remember that there is a whole world out there to liven up your day and enrich your life.

That all for now, but don't worry, I won't stay put forever, and in no time I'll be back here posting new adventures from the Ramblin Schambelan.

Copper Canyon - Mexico Pt. 2

2007-05-29T13:58:00.000-07:00

Creel to Batopilas

They say that to truly conceptualize the vastness of the Copper Canyon, you need to descend from its highest elevations to its lowest depths. One of the more popular ways of doing this is to take a bus from Creel to Batoplias via an auxiliary road that starts at the top of the Canyon rim and descends more than 6,000 ft to the bottom of a river valley. During this jittery 5 hour ride, you pass through three separate micro-climates, go from temperatures in the low 40s to the high 80s, and get some of the best views of the canyons. It would turn out to be one hell of a ride... in more ways than one.

I boarded the bus at 7:30am. There, I met Dr.Zongo (not his real name), a fellow gringo who lives in the states, but owns land outside of Bato and makes the trip back and forth often. He's a wiry guy of 45, but has the stamina of a 25 year old, and possesses a travel resume that puts the Ramblin's to shame. Just think of the most obscure country at an obscure time and he's probably been there.

We set off, paving our way across black tarmac through mesas of Ponderosa Pines, and scattered Granite boulders. 75Kms later we left the pavement for a single-track dirt road that petered through some more Pine and Juniper before opening up over the side of the Taramauca Canyon rim, offering us our first views of jagged monolithic peaks that fell swiftly to sweeping river canyons and also view of the trepidous decent that awaited us.

We slid down a steep set of dusty switchbacks, the terrain transforming from thick sub-Alpine forests and Granite to sparse desert outcrops of Mesquite, Cacti and lose chalky Sandstone. The air temperature was changing too, rising from a crisp mountain cold to dry desert heat. The bus driver, who must have done this trip a 1,000 times before, didn't bat an eye as he took tight hairpin turns at alarming speeds cusping the sides of the road and sheer 1000ft drop offs.

We fell further into the depths of the canyon, passing through another climate zone, now sub-tropical, Redrock surrounded by wildflowers, mango trees, and a thick stagnant heat. Bato is a small hamlet that stretches down along the river in this valley. It was once a silver mining community in the late 1800s, but now passes as sleepy cowboy town, where the dress code is crocodile boots and white straw cowboy hats. It's also an outpost for the local Raramuri Indians who live in the surrounding hills. After over 400 years of being chased off their land by Spaniards and then the Laditos, have settled in this unwanted and unvisited region. This interesting mix usually makes for a relaxing and engaging time, however, as soon as the Dr. Zongo and I disembarked from the bus, we could both detect a uneasy tension in the air and this place was anything but sleepy.

I should mention here that this area is one of the biggest Cannabis growing regions in Mexico and almost everyone that lives here is connected to it in some way. Even the Raramuri, who wear their traditional multicolored frocks and loincloths and sport baseball caps with big marijuana leafs across the front. And we had just arrived during harvest, a tense time when growers come down from the hills to make deals with buyers from the boarders and outside cops and army patrols are brought in to try and catch transporters.

Even the good doctor, whose been coming here for years, felt uncomfortable. I checked into a local hotel and after a delicious lunch we sampled some other local flavors before heading off to the river. Everything seemed to mellow out after we got out of town, things slowed down, and it became a stress-free afternoon.

After a siesta in the arvo, Dr. Z and I headed down to the bar to grab a couple beers. Fast forward twenty minutes. I'm sitting at a table with a bunch of the biggest growers in the area asking me if I might want to transport some 'items' back to the states for them and a guy from the Juarez Cartel is asking the doc if he wants to 'join the family.' As thrilling as a life in the drug trade might sound, we both declined and made a discreet exit before the beer cans really started to tip and things got really hairy. Cholo's in low riders were cruising the streets and yelling 'Pinche Gringos' as they road past. Great, even in the deep recesses of the Copper Canyon I can't escape it! I went back to my hotel and Dr. Zongo hitch-hiked to his ranch house up in the hills.

Despite the mayhem that was unfolding outside, the land around us peaceful and soothing. I walked back down to the river at sunset, and watch the glow of the evening sun radiate in the cannons; the Redrock cliffs ablaze like embers in a fire, the Sandstone a cool, bone-white luminescence. I watched the twilight shadows of dusk chase the sun from the valley walls as wildflowers peddles sailed by in an evening breeze. I was instantly at peace again.

The following morning I set out, determined to enjoy the day and find the peaceful, welcoming side of the town. It was not to be had, all I found were cold scornful stares, diverted eyes, and closed doors. The place seemed so dead it was like walking through a ghost town. I decided to spent the rest of the day by the river, at least it wouldn't look at me with contempt. Sometime in the mid afternoon, Dr. Z reappeared, having trekked out 6 miles from his ranch during the hottest part of the day. He had figured out why the place seemed so hostel and filled me in.

Apparently, just the week before, a local shopkeeper had been kidnapped on the road leading up to Creel and the whole town was in a state of shock and fear. Kidnappings, so common in Mexico City, are virtually unheard of up here and it had turned the whole community upside down. Now, no one wanted to make deliveries to Bato and it has flooded the area with even more police and military (all during harvest time remember).

That explained it, the colds looks were not of score, but suspicion, the diverted eyes were not malevolent but saddened. Even though I had found the true motive behind the unwelcoming vibe it was unwelcoming all the same, and I caught the morning bus back to Creel the next day; a town that, despite its rough first impressions, seemed warm and welcoming after the dramas in this place.

Copper Canyon - Mexico Pt. 1

2007-05-28T14:04:00.000-07:00

Mazatlan to Creel

The sun had set a half hour ago. Blin hurried to make it back to his hotel room before dark. It's not wise for a gringo to be walking around by himself in this part of town after dark. It draws unwanted attention.

This was not the place he had pictured when he decided to come here, but now he was stuck for the night so he didn't dwell on it. Set on the golden beaches of the Pacific where they meet the calm waters of the Sea of Cortez, Mazatlan sounded like the ideal location for a little R&R; a place where you could sit back, suck down a few brews, and watch the last rays of the sun, burnt orange and red, slip below the horizon like a wildfire in on the prairie. But he was wrong.

Mazatlan is just another dirty town along Mexico's northern keel. It's only expected that after the highlights of Mexico City and Guanajuato, Blin was setting myself up for a let down, and that let down was Northern Mexico. The further he pushed into this hot, dusty plane the further he felt from the cultural heart and soul of Mexico. It seems that the closer one gets to the border, the more one can see its effects on the people. Most of them have lived in the US at one time or another and have brought the worst parts of it back with them: a strong resentment for Americans and, at the same time, a strong desire to emulate them. Young hoodlums dressed like Cholo gangsters cruse the streets blaring rap music and yelling ¨¡pinche gringo!¨ (fucking American!). Yeah, it was time to get off the street.

He awoke early the next morning, packed up his life and, with a monotonous sign, slung his big backpack over his shoulder and grabbed his day pack with his free hand. It is a routine he's done a hundred times before in a hundred different places. It's almost automatic now, like brushing your teeth before you go to bed. He grabbed the early bus to Los Mochis, a lonley country town, set in a dust bowl, 400 Kms north along the west coast of Cortez. He had no intention of staying and as soon as he arrived he hopped on the next bus out of town.

Sometime after 5pm he lands in El Fuerte, another country outcrop that clings to life amid the dry cactus planes of the north. It was a nice enough town, with a shaded zocolo that offered breezy benches in the cooler evening hours. He checked into Hotel San Jose, a real shit hole, with a hose spout for a shower, no toilet seats, and a hole in his door big enough to allow small dogs and large rodents the opportunity to come and go as they pleased. But it was cheap and, with an emancipate bank account, that's all he cared about.

He chose this town because it was the starting point for his journey on the Ferrocarril (Railroad) Chihauhua Pacfico. A stunning piece of engineering achievement, the railway, or Chepe for short, is over 650Km (390 miles) long, crosses 39 bridges and 86 tunnels, climbing from the barren flat lands at sea level to the high plateaus at 2,500 meters (over 8,000ft) and connecting the Pacific Ocean with Mexico's central desert territory.

Making his way out to the station the following morning, Blin brought a ticket on a second class car and climbed aboard. The scenery was incredible. These impressive canyons, seven times the size of the Grand Canyon and in some areas much deeper, were formed sometime in the late Tertiary Age, when northwestern Mexico was in an extreme period of volcanic and tectonic activity. Huge earthquakes and thousands of volcanic eruptions combined to create this vast expanse of craggy mountain tops, high plateaus, and steep river valleys. Chepe, cutting directly through this rugged terrain, was the best way to see it.

He spent most of the trip in the corridors between carriage cars taking in the unobstructed views and feel the crisp sub-alpine air brush past as they climbed further into mountain country. It was early evening before the train finally pulled into Creel, the 'backpacker's' pit stop on the line, with cheap accommodations and do it yourself trips to the deeper recesses of the canyons.

On the surface, Creel seemed a likable place. It sits in a basin surrounded by mesas overlooking the Traahumara valley, cloaked in pine forests and open granite planes. It had a broad main street crowded with old tavern like buildings with low hanging awnings and high walkways; it looked like a moderized town in one of Sergio Leon's Spaghetti Westerns. And a slow-paced rhythm that was easy to fall in step with. He found a cheap hostel on the edge of the plaza, $10 a night for a bed, breakfast, and dinner. He was beginning to like this place, but that was before Creel reared it's ugly head. It seems that, even high up in mountain country, there still exsists the ¨pinche gringo¨ attitude of northern Mexico.

The following day, he rented a bike from a local outfitter, set on taking a tour of the surrounding hills. He stopped first at the super to get some water and fruit for lunch and then back at the hostel to pack up before he head out. He set his bike in the courtyard and went back in his room. He returned a few moments later to find his back brake unhooked and he was unable to reconnect it. Perplexed, he took it back to the shop where the owner told him someone had switched the tire out. That was impossible, he thought, he was only in the store for a moment and the only other place he went was the hostel.

¨Well, there's your answer right there,¨said the owner said.

¨But, they wouldn't have done that,¨Blin protested, ¨Would they?¨

Then he remember that while he was in his room packing, one of the front desk staff had come in as struck up a conversation, a bit strange since he hadn't said a word to him the whole day before and now was leaving the front to come in a chat with him. Not to chat, to distract!

¨Those pinche maricons!¨Blin exclaimed. ¨They're not going to get away with this!¨

He raced back to the hostel, mad as all hell that they would take advantage of one of their guests like that. But, half way back, he realized that if he went in there, guns a-blazing, there was no way he'd get the wheel back. So he decides to be a bit more shiesty.

¨Hey man, I think there's been a mistake,¨ he said as he came back through the front door with the bike. The clerk looked up with a strained blank expression.

¨What seems to be the problem?¨

¨I left my bike out in the courtyard earlier and I think one of your guys must have thought it was one of yours 'cause someone switched the tire out.¨
The clerk gave nothing away. ¨Are you sure it was here? Maybe you left it on the street, that's quiet common on the street.¨

¨No couldn't have been, only been at the bike shop and back here.¨ A lie, but a necessary one.

The clerk tells him to wait while he calls the bike guy on his cell phone. Blin study him as he makes the call, he acts genuinely concerned, he's good, but he doesn't know he's dealing with a master. The guy comes back and again, Blin explains the situation. The guy just shakes his head and says that he didn't see anyone and it must have happened on the street. This guy was good too, obviously they had done this before and knew what to say. Then Blin breaks the farce with one word.

¨Are you sure, maybe there's a new guy who doesn't know the difference between the bikes. You might want to make sure 'cause the guys down at the bike shop are pissed, they want to call the police!¨ There eyes both meet his at the same time, then each others, then back to his. He knows hes got ém.

¨Yeah, really pissed,¨Blin continues, ¨guy wanted to call them right away, but I told him to wait 'cause I wanted to see what happened first.¨At this point the clerk starts looking around anxiously as if maybe they'd been called anyway.

¨But I'm sure it's just a mix up... with the new guy, right?¨

¨Oh, yes¨the clerk chirps, ¨there is a new guy.¨He gives a quick glance to the other guy. ¨Yeeeeah,¨the guys says catching on, ¨The new guy. He's just a kid and doesn't know the bikes that well, let me call him and find out.¨

Ten minutes later, they bring the bike back out with it's original tire and Blin takes off on his ride. It's a great day, peddling through open vistas, through fresh aired pine forests all below an electric blue skyline. He has lunch by a lake overlooking the sweeping summits of the surrounding canyons. The whole while he's got a semi-permeate grin stuck on his face. 'Ha ha,' he thinks, 'you just can't shiest a shiest!'

A lot of - Mexico

2007-05-22T19:50:00.000-07:00

The Condescend Books Blog

So, it's official, I'm homeward bound. I've been slowly plying my way north through Mexico and it only seems logical that I should keep on going until I cross the boarder into sunny Son Diago, where the beer flows like wine and the women flock like... It's been over 8 1/2 months and it just seems to be 'that time.' I don't seem to get as excited about seeing new places, meeting new people, and doing new things as I was a few months ago. Plus, I'm running out of money and that also plays a fairly big role in my decision.

So I've picked up the pace, only stopping a day or two in one place, getting a feel for it and then striking out for my next northern way point. And, in doing so, I'm covering a lot more ground than I can fit into one tidy, weekly blog. So consider this to be the Reader's Digest condensed books version...

OAXACA

After escaping Puerto unscathed, I found myself in Oaxaca city, the capital of the state by the same name. It's a bit of a political hotbed at the moment, with lots of shootouts between police and gorillas. But, the heavily touristed areas are still safe because no one is stupid enough to scare off the money... uh I mean vacationers (no, I mean money).

The city itself is actually quiet nice. Set in the sweeping foothills of the Sierra Madre mountain range, it was once the capital of the Zapotec empire (a rival to the Aztecs to the north), and today is a prosperous city with a leafy zocalo, colonial monuments, ancient ruins, and great markets. I decided the devote most of my time to shopping. I needed new clothes, after 8+ months on the road, I was beginning to look like a vagrant and I wouldn't be surprised if the boarder patrol denied me entry back in to the states with my current rags.

MEXICO CITY

After my shopping spree, I took a deep breath and headed for the capital, de Jefe. With all the stories about violence, gangs, and taxi cab drivers that rob you, I was not really looking forward to spending time in the world's third largest city. It seemed too large, too intimidating, even for a seasoned traveler like myself. I couldn't have been more wrong.

De Jefe is an great city. The downtown area is amazing, with centuries old cathedrals, palaces, and homes it has an archaic air. The rest of the city is well thought out with large promenades littered with rotunda monuments and breeze side walks. A brilliant metro (only 2 pesos per ride) that takes you virtually everywhere you'd want to go, to parks, lakes, museums, ext. Mix that with a lively, work hard/play hard metropolitan populous and you have one of the better capitals I've visited in the world.

I took a bus tour, which I usually am not apt to do but seemed a good way to see the city and it dropped you at all the major cites. But it was a Monday, and all city services (museums, galleries...) were closed so the most exciting thing on the tour was watching a van catch on fire as it drove beside us. Come to think of it, that still would have been the most exciting thing anyway.

I found out that Aviva, one of my friends from high school/college, was living in the city and hooked up with her. I had a very elegant lunch at her grandparents very elegant house (they were pretty well to do) and then was whisked away to celebrate a friend´s birthday at a club in one of the hot spots in the city. A great night, free bottles of booze, a big dance floor, the same bad Latin music that I now know every word to, and, of course, late night tacos (ok, and hot dogs)!

Guanajuato

I Would have loved to have stayed a few more days in de Jefe, but there was still a lot of Mexico left to see, and a lot of ground left to cover. Next stop was the lively city of Guanajuato. Perched in the higher elevations of the Sierra Madre, Guanajuato is built into a mountain side. This marvel of architecture consists of a tunneled maze of streets and highways sunk below a colorful assortment of colorful houses above. Built almost on top of one another, these homes ascend up the mountain side like stadium seating in movie theater and are connected by small cobblestoned alleyways that can, if your not aware of your surroundings, get you hopelessly lost for hours on end. You wouldn't mind though, as these dizzying walkway, reminiscent of those in Florence, Italy, can lead you to secluded parks, hidden cafes, and to great vistas overlooking the city.

It's a thriving city that is also home to one of the biggest colleges in Mexico, Guanejauto University. As is the case with most towns that host 20,000 plus co-eds, it is a lively place with no shortage of watering holes and dance-all-night discotheques. But it also holds some historical significance in that it was the birthplace of the Mexican Revolution and where Hildago and his rebels won there first decisive victory over the Spanish in 1810.

It is also home to the Museo de Mumias (that's right, the museum of mommies). The city cemetery is very small and if you couldn't afford the maintenance fees, your beloved family members were scooped up out of their graves to make way for the more affluent dead. They started doing this in the late 1800s and realized that, due to the dry air, and and mineral content of the soil in this area, the bodies they exhumed were not skeletons, but perfectly preserved mummies. Then, they logically concluded that the best thing to do with them is put them on display in a museum.

It's actually a fascinating place, with over 100 corpses on display, including: the smallest mummy in the world (a 6 month of fetus) and the best preserved mummy in the world (with no holes or blemishes to the skin). I must admit, it is a bit creepy to be walking through a room surrounded by dead bodies behind a thin sheet of glass that look like they belong in a ¨The Night of the Living Dead¨movie. I always held my breath if I had to passed close by one just waiting for a bonny finger to tap me on the shoulder.

This was another town I could have seen myself getting lost in for a few days, but, for the first time in about 8 months, I´m on a deadline and days of wasted idle hours have come and gone. Now it's a race against time (in this case, time is my bank account) to get as much as I can in before I cross back onto Red, White, and Blue soil.

Puerto Escondido - Mexico

2007-05-14T20:03:00.000-07:00

Ready to hit the beach, I took a night bus from San Cristobal to Puerto Escondido, half way up Mexico's Pacific coast. Puerto is a famed surfer spot, legendary for it's pipeline breaks, party scene, and chilled vibes. I guess I must have really wanted to see it because I didn't hesitate to take the direct night bus, and a ziz zagging 13 hour trip to get there.

Normally I steer clear of long over night buses because I can never fall asleep on them and the zig zagging always gives me motion sickness. I was prepared this time however, with my own little nightcap cocktail, Benedryl and Brandy. I thought that would surely do the trick...

I was wrong. Still couldn't get to sleep, but that was probably a good thing in the end because it allowed me to meet Alli, a viberant Aussie from Sydney who was sitting across the isle from me. We got to chatting and I got to know her and her traveling companions. There was Tony, a 6 foot 6 inch real estate agent from north Sydney, who was having a very hard time sleeping as well considering, being packed into a small seat usually meant for a 5 foot 2 inch Mexican, his knee caps were covering most of his face. And then there was his sister Nat, not quiet as big as her bro and sleeping soundly in the next seat. Alli, Tony, and I chatted for a while and, as often happens while when travelers get to talking, we became instant friends and I ended up teaming up with them.

We landed in Puerto a little after 1pm, we were lucky enough to have another three hours tagged onto the journey because of a traffic accident. We checked into the hotel Mayflower, or as it became known afterward, the Australian Embassy. Not kidding, there must have been 35 or 40 people staying there and, of that, 32 or 37 of them here Aussies. I didn't mind though, because, as a rule, Aussies are usually the friendliest, craziest, and coolest people on the backpacking circuit... second only to Northern Californians of course.

We were elated to be there. Puerto sits on a bluff overlooking a cove and boasts a few nice beaches. We wasted no time in throwing on our bikinis and boardies and vamusing a la playa. In all honesty, the beach wasn't all that amazing, small and overcrowded, and the water, murky and with an unavoidable dead fish odor. It seemed to be a little devoided of surfers and would be partiers too. But we didn't care, we were just happy to be off the bus and spent the rest of the afternoon lying in the softening sunlight with intermittent dips in the calm surf.

That night, a team of us headed down to the next beach, Zicatela, where most of the night life was to be found. We had heard that Puerto was a little doggy at night and made sure to stick in a group as we walked the dark side streets along the beach. We stopped in at Bar Fly, supposed to be the hot spot that night. Then I figured out why the party vibe was lacking here. Bar Fly's idea of a party was to play Israeli techno cut with slow blues riffs and a video projection of a nature video with whales matting and dolphins sleeping on the dance floor wall. After a couple drinks and a few more matting montage the girls and I wanted to head home, but Tony, who was talking to a girl, decided he'd stay for a while. He returned home a few hours later and got in his sisters bed, visibly shaken and upset.

Apparently a guy had tried to start a fight with him after we left. They always seem to go after the big guys, some kind of a machismo thing I guess. Anyway, this guy, a local, was with his boys and kept telling Tony to hit him so he'd have a reason to 'kill' him. Nice. Tony, not one to shy away from anything, wasn't stupid enough to actually hit him, but didn't back down either. Just when it seemed like it was going to get ugly, another local named Tarzan (I'm really not making this up) came flying in out of nowhere, took off his shirt, and told the other guy to back off. Apparently, Tarzan has some pull in these parts because the guy made a quick exit.

Everything seemed to be OK after that, until Tony left the bar a half hour later to find the instigator waiting for him outside with a bunch of other thugs. Tarzan was nowhere to be found so Tony did the only sensible thing, he jumped into the back of a van with some other unknown locals and got the hell out of there. Turns out these locals were cool and dropped him off at the hotel without trying to fight him first.

The next couple days past without incident. We took a day trip to an amazing beach an hour south called Mazunte, with a laid-back back-to-earth vibe, brilliantly clear (and clean) water, and good restaurants. We befriended a local barmen and spent the nights drinking acorpion flavored mezcal and dancing in his empty club. And, aside from a mild case of food poisoning-- my third time in my two months in Mexico, while I only got it twice in the other 6 months in all the other countries-- I had a great time. But, there was still a lot of Mexico left to see and I needed to get a move on. So, I booked a ticket on a night bus and said my goodbyes. Kinda of a bummer because now we had a big group, 20 or so people, and it looked like it was going to be an especially big night. I was right, but I'm really glad I didn't stay for it.

Tony wrote me an email the following day explaining the ridiculous night that I was lucky enough to miss. First, everyone got drunk, no surprise there. Then, they went back to Bar Fly, a little bit of a surprise, but I guess they figured with this many people they'd be OK. Then everything went to hell.

Alli, always keen to get down a boggy, was drunk dancing without her shoes on next to a table and bumped into it, knocking over her beer and shattering it on the ground. She then proceeded to dance on the glass with her bare feet, slicing her heel up like provolone. She had to be taken to the hospital.

Then Lee, another Aussie chick from Perth, usually pretty good at holding her liquor, suddenly lost consciousness and couldn't be resuscitated. Someone had slipped a roofie in her drink and one of the other Aussie guys had to carry her home on his shoulders.

Finally, as everything was starting to break up, Tony and Ian, another Aussie, were walking home and stopped in at a bottle shop to get a couple tall cans for the road home. After they paid the clerk, he reached across the counter and opened their beers for them. Not normally done. Then, just as they set foot outside the store, two cops jumped out of the bushes, grabbed them, and threw them in the back of a paddie wagon and drove off into the night. It had been a set up!

They didn't tell them why they were being detained, where they were going, or anything for that matter. They pulled off the main road and drove down a dark ally and stopped the car. They came around the back and pulled both of them out and one started patting them down while the other looked around nervously. Tony and Ian were thoroughly freaked out at this point and didn't know what these cops where planning to do with them. After they had emptied their wallets and searched for any other valuables, they stood around for a moment more, as if they were contemplating something, and then with shake of the head, one of the policemen threw them back into the car and they took them to the police station.

Luckily enough, one of the other Aussies had seen them get grabbed by the 5.0 and went and got Chino, our friendly neighborhood bartender, to go up to the police station to get them out. They still had to pay $100 bail, not including the money the police had already stolen. But, at least they were out, safe and sound, and now they could say they have been in a Mexican jail, both of whom seem proud of that fact.

I'm not sure where I would have fit in had I been there. Doubt I would have been dancing bare foot or have been drugged, so I might have been in the back of that paddie wagon and then I could have said I've been in Mexican jail too. But, to be honest, I think I'm fine with my role as the storyteller. The lesson here is, like most creatures in the ocean, while somethings are pretty and look inviting (Puerto), they can also be dangerous and can get you into a lot of trouble if you're not careful.

Chiapas - Mexico

2007-05-11T15:57:00.000-07:00

After my (mis)adventures in Merida, I got back on the road and headed west, leaving the Yucatan and heading into the neighboring state of Chiapas. In contrast to the modernized Yucatan, Chiapas is a heavily forested region who's inhabitants consist of poor, rural farmers and small Mayan communities. Tucked back in the foothills of this province, lies the secluded Palenque ruins and my reason for coming here.

To be honest I was about ruined out, but I was told that Palenque was not to be missed, for the ruins and for the local counterculture that also takes refuge in this remote area. I took an overnight bus and landed in Palenque town at 5am. There, I ran into a set of french backpackers I had met in... you guessed it, Valladolid (Gay Perri), and together we took a taxi out to El Panchan, a cluster of cabañas, hotels, and restaurants, set back in the jungle a few Kilometers from the ruins.

We were let off at the entrance and walked down a small dirt road, pushing its way through the dense bottle-green jungle, toward the encampment. Day broke as we walked and a tiger stripped sunrise rose above the treeline. Howler Monkeys dangled in the canopy, welcoming us with their morning territorial roars- I don't know if you've ever heard or seen a Howler before, but they are about the size of a large domestic house cat, but capable of producing a howl so loud, that it leads you to believe that a large Tyrannosaurus is lurking just behind it in the trees. It's terrifying when you first hear it. We found a nice set of cabañas on the southern fridge of the 'village,' owned by a chatty old Mexican lady and, after a little siesta to get our whits about us, we made our way to the ruins.

They were refreshingly different. While most Mayan ruins are quiet similar in their structure, built on a large, flat grid around a plaza with a temple at one end, maybe a palace at the other, Palenque breaks the mold. Probably because they couldn't clear and flatten the land needed for the classic design in this mountain bound area, they instead built their towering edifices in small groupings that hugged the hillsides and were plotted in small valley plains. The result is a hidden labyrinth of limestone dwellings, observatories and temples cloaked in shadows, tucked behind rivers, and sunken below mountain ridges. It reminds you of what you used to think ruins looked like when you were a kid, like in Raiders of the Lost Ark. At times, walking the curving paths through the thick, humid jungle that guide you through the park, I felt like I was being transported back to ancient times and half expected to encounter a group of Olmecs hunters or Mayan warriors, or other indigenous groups that used to roam these lands.

That evening, we returned to our cabañas to find our little 'village' alive with people and attractions. Long haired hippies were hawking hemp woven jewelry along the road, skater Mexicans were performing Poi (fire dancing) to rhythmic drum and bass tunes. We ate dinner in one of the nicer restaurants, Italian fare, accompanied by live music and even a clown show (odd, but entertaining). I liked the vibe, even if it was a bit crowded and maybe even a little trendy.

After another day or two checking out other attractions in the area- waterfalls, swimming holes, and caves- the Frenchies and I bused it west to San Cristobal, another tourist hot spot in Chiapas. I was having a good time with my companions, even if there wasn't a whole lot of conversation between us. Of the three, only one spoke English and it was passable at best, and, since I don't speak french, we communicated mostly in Spanish. This was great for practicing the language no doubt, but we couldn't hold in depth, socially and politically stimulating conversations. So, aside from a few comments here and there, they spoke french and I didn't speak at all. I didn't mind though, it was nice not to half to feel compelled to speak all the time.

Anyways, San Cristobal, a small colonial city situated in the higher elevations, it had a cool crisp air and was a welcome change from the the humid jungles to the east. There really wasn't a whole lot to do here, there were waterfalls to explore, we did that. There were lakes to swim in, we swam in them. And there were caves to venture in, and we ventured. But, as nice as it was, one can only take so many amazing lakes, waterfalls, caves... before you get desensitized to it all and it becomes normal and even a little boring. Plus, I was loosing my beach tan and longed for the cool refreshing waters of the Pacific Coast, my next stop along the gringo trail.

Merida - Mexico

2007-05-02T15:22:00.000-07:00

OK, back to the usual travel rants... After a few wasted (both temporal and sobrietal) days in Cancun spent waiting for my sand-filled digital camera to be fixed, I pushed into the Yucatan interior, leaving the touristed beach towns for the more authentic, and less traveled, inland communities. Traveling between the two, there was a noticeable transition, and not just in town aesthetics (transforming from high-rise hotels and four-lane highways to classic Spanish colonial architecture and winding cobble stoned allies) but something deeper, something embedded within the culture itself; a down shift from the howty-towty tourist trap to the slower pace of real community life. A life where cowboys still ride in the streets on horse back, Mayan women still wear their traditional colorful attire, and there are still municipal markets packed with local farmers selling fresh produce and meats.

I made a layover in Vallaolid (a.k.a, Gay Perri) to see the fantastic Mayan ruins of Chichén Itza (pronounced, Chic-ken Pizza.. no, not really), who's high-rising pyramids and astrological observatories are rivaled only by Guatemala's Tikal in terms of grandeur. Then I pressed on to Merida. I'm not sure why I chose Merida, it is, after all, just a big city, the capital of the Yucantan. But, I needed to keep moving and it seemed like the next logical place to visit. Plus, a good friend from college, now a Gap Adventure tour guide, had some time off from work and said he'd meet me there.

With Merida, you either love or hate it right away, and I loved it. Maybe it was just because I needed a change from beach life (never thought I'd say that) but I liked the feel of this sprawling center for arts and education. It had a host of Universities, which in turn, lead to a host of bars, cafes, bookstores, and other youth-oriented services. It had more than a few museums and art galleries and, although I must admit I'm not much for either, they were fantastic, and most of them were free. I spent a very pleasent day simply wandering the leafy side streets, drinking espressos in a brassiere by the Zocolo (town square), and browsing through bookshops and art museums. It was great!

Ben Younkmen, my tour guide friend, arrived a few days later and I pushed aside my intellectual inclinations for the more seedy and debaucherous attractions that the city had to offer. Ben and I, being old lacrosse buddies, fell back into a very similar pattern that we shared when at UCSB, which goes a little something like this: Wake up late, have a bite, think about drinking, start drinking, have lunch, drink some more, then have a break to jump in the pool, start drinking again, play pool or watch movies at his hotel, then start drinking before we go out to drink. Only thing was, I was not in college anymore, or playing lax everyday to burn off the hangovers, so I couldn't really keep up like I used too, while Ben, still fresh from his scholastic youth, didn't seem to have a problem.

I did manage to do a few other things other than drink while we were together, one of which was visiting the nearby underground limestone lagoons, or Cenotes. Being friends with a gap tour guide does have it's advantages and Ben was able to hooked me up with another gap tour group heading out that way and the leader treated me like I was one of his group members. It was like sneaking into Disneyland and getting to play all day for free. I got a knowledgeable guide to take me through the city, get me on the right bus to the right village, get me on a horse-drawn rail car to take us out into the outback, and show me three of the best Centones in the Yucatan, with ladders descending into dark fresh-water caverns with piercing beams of blue sunlight illuminating the interior from cracks in the ceiling. And, all for a group discount. It ended up costing me about $8.50 with the gap group, if I had done it alone it would have cost me well over $30, and that's if I could have done it alone. Thanks for that Ben.

After another night of heavy drinking- where I was supposed to take a night bus to Palenque, but got drunk, decided that Ben and I were going to do it right and faked a sickness to exchange my ticket for the following night, then started drinking more, played pool, drank, ate McDonalds, had gut pains for an hour, drank more, and finished the night at an open-bar disco- I knew it was time to move on. Ben, swamped with work and content to stay in Merida on the cheap, wished me well and I was off on my own again, heading west along the narrow isthmus that straddles the boarder with Guatemala and the Gulf of Mexico for the mountains and the mysterious jungle-clad ruins of Palenque, and I all I could think about was my hang over.

Ramblins - Mexico

2007-04-23T18:30:00.000-07:00

Ok, no real structure to this one, just random thoughts and snippets of stories as they come to me. It`s time I started living up to my blog name...

I went back to Isla Mujeres last week. I think I got a mild case of food poisoning from the club sandwiches at the hostel, but it was still soooo good. I'd do it again.

Almost killed myself the other day. Coming back from Cozumel, I checked myself into a hotel (not ready to get back to the real world after all) and, coming back from a late dinner, found I had left my key in my room. It was past 11pm and the office was closed. There was no guard on duty. So I decided to break in.

Easier said then done. With bars on the hallway windows, and a good lock that broke both my Miami library and expired international student cards, I was having a tough time. But then I remembered I had left the balcony door open. I took the stairs to the roof and found that if I climbed down the side of a drainpipe I could reach the balcony. Not my balcony, but the one next to mine. From there I could jump to mine. But don´t worry, I wasn`t crazy enough to free climb down the side of a four story building, oh no, I knew I just needed something to hold onto while I descended. I found a length of rope in a storage closet, tied it to a roof pillar, and lowered one end over the balcony and I tied the other end around my waist as a fool-proof safe-guard and lowered myself over the side.

Then I looked down... 100 feet to the hard concrete street below and I realized I was crazy and scrambled to pull myself back over the top of the roof before I lost my grip, slipped through my safety net and made a wet spot on the pavement below. I returned to the office, eventually found the owner, and he unlocked my door for me.

Why do people park in driveways and drive on parkways?

Leaving the beaches I decided to visit a more remote inland town, supposed to have more Mayan culture. The town was over run with french people. It`s funny 'cause the rest of the Yucatan has very little, if any 'french pressure.' I realized it was because the travel guide, ¨Lets Go,¨ adored by the French, lists this town as one of Mexico`s highlights, so they all go there. It's amazing how much people rely on guide books for traveling these days. Here we are pretending to be independent travelers and all we do is follow the same lists, written by the same people, in the same books. It's lazy and I hate it. But I stayed for a few days 'cause the Lonely Planet said I should.

Did you know that you can personally reduce your annual carbon dioxide emissions by 500 lbs. just by using warm water instead of hot water in the washer, therefore helping to curb global warming? (www.climatecrisis). Did ya?

I broke my toe playing volleyball the other day. How wimpy is that! I've already come up with a much better story though. It involves cliff diving, a bull shark, and a Ginzu knife. Maybe I'll write a blog about it.

Do you know which animal is responsible for the most human deaths worldwide? The mosquito.

I am tired of everyone complaining about how they don't know what they want to do in life. Who says we're supposed to know to begin with. Isn't it much more fun not knowing, waking up every day with endless possibilities? Imagine waking up knowing, knowing that you were going to have to go to the same boring job day after day for the next thirty years. It'd be like waking up in the 1950s. That is something worth complaining about, dealing with Eisenhower and flat top haircuts. But, at least they had social security when they retired, and they'd had the The Lone Ranger, everyone one loves The Lone Ranger.

But seriously, those days are over, and today the average American has three careers, that's right, three! And that doesn't include your post college past times like waiting tables or stripping. Nope, those are bone-a-fide jobs. So stop worrying about finding the perfect job that you can spend the rest of your life growing to hate, and start doing what everyone is supposed to do in life... enjoy it. Go traveling, tell her/him you love her/him, write a children's book, eat a bucket of Ben and Jerry's ¨Phish Food.¨ Otherwise, it will all be over before you know it, and all you'll have is carpal tunnel and I-O-U social security check.

Ok, that's enough ramblin for one afternoon. I'll be back to true form on the next blog, it's about a shark, cliff diving, and a Ginzu knife.

Tulum to Cozumel- Mexico

2007-04-18T10:17:00.000-07:00

Birthday Beach Parties and Solo Celibrations

Team Isla was comfortably situated in beachfront cabanas along Tulum's sweeping white sand concave shore. A great location, we were only a two-minute walk from the ruins, with its cathedral pyramid, atop a overhanging limestone cliff, visible from our front door. And whatsmore, we were literally a stones throw from the water's edge. It was quite and the long streching beach line aforded us our own little slice of heaven all to ourselves. The best part about it was that it was realatively cheap, we were only paying $7.50 a night for our beachfront accomodations, so what if our walls consisted of lose sticks and our bed were more sand than mattress.

Our time together was coming to an end. In a few days half the group would be pushing on into Belize, the teachers would be heading back to work, and a handful of us didn't know where we were going next (I'm sure you could guess which group I was in). But, we all wanted one last bash before we split up and my 26th birthday, only a few days away, would play the catalyst.

Anne and Hanna took the reins and began planning the whole thing, saying that we would have a birthday dinner on the beach and then party with a bonfire. Girls are so good at planning parties. They left in the early afternoon, taking a cab into town to go shopping, and did not returned until after dark. I wasn't allowed to take part in the set up, but was finally summonsed from by cabana just before 8pm and was lead down to the spot they had set up along the beach.

They had gone all out,. There were balloons tied to palm trees, birthday presents, and even a cake! For dinner they had gotten 5 boxes of pizza and we had a little birthday feast after which we had the cake. But the real desert was the 7 bottles of rum they had bought along and we took them and moved to a more secluded spot down the beach and built our bonfire.

The rest of the night consisted of us partying around the campfire, our group growing bigger as other curious travelers were attracted to the blaze. It was a good time and lasted late into the night, no one wanting to let it end. It didn't even stop when the Mexican police rolled up and made us put the fire out, we still raged on. It was one of the best birthday parties I had had in recent memory and I sat back happily drinking rum out of my birthday coconut, watching the others enjoy the evening. I was going to miss these guys, who, after only two weeks, had become good friends and had go out of their way to give me a great birthday party. I was going to miss the card games, the hours we spent playing Mafia, and most of all the always lively conversations.

So it was with heavy hearts that we parted ways a day later and I struck out on my own again. I decided to head up to Playa del Carmen, only an hours drive up the coast, but with a very different vibe than sleepy Tulum town. It was basically a mix of Cancun's over-extravagance and Isla Mujeres' cuteness. Like Isla, it had a quaint promenade, Fifth Ave., lined with hotels and fancy international food fairs. But, just like Cancun's hotel zone, it stretched on for miles, quickly oversaturated your sences, and lost all its charm. The unending line of cute little restaurants, the countless cozy hotel facades all seemed too planned out, too artificial to pallet and it left you feeling like you were stranded in the world biggest strip mall. I wasn't buying it and left the next day for the nearby island of Cozumel.

It was my birthday and I decided to treat myself. I would have no $30 budget, Today. I wouldn't hold back, I would do as any other tourist would do. If I wanted a steak sandwich that coast $13 dollars, I would have a steak sandwich that coast $13. If I wanted a cup of coffee, to hell with it, I'd have two. If I wanted A/C and TV in my hotel room, by golly it was going to happen. I did all of those things, and threw in a two-tank dive trip out to the world famous reefs just off shore for good messure. It was expensive, but worth it, and what did I care, I was just a vacationing tourist on holiday with no budget and no worries. I had a big diner at a nice restaurant and then took in a movie, The 300, after which, I strolled back to my hotel along the waterfront and fell into a long restful sleep. So, this is what it feels like to be old and have money.

But it was only a fleeting moment, a glimmer lost in time, and, awakening the following morning, I knew it was time to get back to the the real world. A world where I couldn't have three meals a day, couldn't have a second cup of coffee, and couldn't afford a hotel room, with or without A/C. Oh well, I am use to it by now, and maybe prefer it in some strange way. At least everyday is a challenge! So, packing up my bags, stowing my nice polo shirt and shoes, I put my jersey and flip flops back on and returned to the mainland, and reality.

Team Isla - Mexico

2007-04-12T16:01:00.000-07:00

Team Isla

Still feeling a bit down after my family left, I moved into Pac Na, the only youth hostel on Isla Mujeres and a social hub for backpakers. It was here that I met a friendly collection of travelers-most of whom were also flying solo-and immediately felt whole again. They were all fun, outgoing and warm; the type of people you would meet once and instantly feel like you are good friends. We seemed to form an instant bond and became a tight nit group of 10 people from all over the world.

After a week on the island, with a friendship forged with copious amounts of alcohol, this crack squad of international miscreants decided not to split up, solidifying their unity by leaving Isla together-which is no easy feat when you are staying at Pac Na, arguably the best hostel in Central America with cheap beds, a beach bar, volleyball tournaments, and hands down the best club sandwich ever (it has a Facebook Fan club). But we pulled oursleves away and spent the better part of a week traveling down the Yucatan, and becoming what will forever be know as Team Isla. Lets meet the members shall we :

First up we´ll meet Josh (pictured left but not spiddy), aka Big Smoke, a 23 year-old Californian who lives in Pachuca, Mexico and works as a teacher in a local school. Although he seems like he´d make a great teacher, he hates his job and is seriously considering quitting-to move to Isla Mujeres and work at Pac Na, where they give free club sandwiches to their staff. He´s funny as hell, his humor mainly based on candor, and he´s always coming up with jokes on the spot. Jokes like:¨If all you have in life is a VHS copy of Martin Lawrence´s Nothing to Loose, then you truly have, nothing to loose.¨

Then there is his partner in crime, Ryan (right), aka Cloud Sequence, aka Cloud Strings. Equally as funny as his buddy Big Smoke, but in a more slapstick kinda way, Ryan, a Canuck from Edmonton, also lives and teaches in Pachuca. Yet, unlike his counterpart, I can´t understand how anyone could see fit to let him within 100 yards of children let alone let alone give him authority over them. He´s basically one himslef, except on an adult scale. Think of Jim Carey as Fire Mashall Bill and you start to get an idea of what he´s like. He reminds me of a frat house, if you´re looking for a party, day or night, all you have to do is show up at his front door and you´ll find what you´re looking for.

Moving countries now, we come to Anne, aka Giggles from Germany, which is funny enough in own right since Germans are notorious for their lack of humor. But the name was forever immortalized when Ryan told the joke: ¨what are the three shortest books in the world, (beat), books on French hygiene, Italian war heroes, and German humor,¨ at which point Anne got offended saying, ¨that´s not true, that´s not true, we do have a sense of humor!¨ Ah, you can taste the irony. But she was a good sport, always staying up and partying, drinking, and playing card games with the boys.

Next up is the priceless Ivar, aka The Iron Curtain. He´s actually Dutch not Russian and just got the nickname because he collected a huge wall of chips when we all played poker one evening. But since he´s not a soviet, nor in anyway shape or form does he resemble anything about rigid, cold war communism, the name stuck like glue. He is actually one of the sweetest, honest, and amiable people I´ve ever met and he´d like nothing more in life than to sit around a beach bonfire playing his guitar and singing Counting Crows or Breakfast at Tiffany´s. We gave him the ¨Most Amazing Person in the World¨ award, which he excepted with a humble ¨yes, yes it´s true,¨ and then sang a song about it: ¨IIIIII am the most ammmmazing person innnnn the world, yes it´s trrrrrrue...¨

Now then there is Tom, aka Tommy Two Chins, an ex-surfer from the beaches in England (he swears they do exist) who is traveling with his girlfriend through Central America. A bit of a paradox Tom is, he´s very proper in the English sense of the word, saying things like, ¨I am feeling a bit peckish,¨ and ¨I think I´d quite fancy a cup of tea,¨ but doesn´t hesitate to call his girlfriend a ¨stupid bitch¨ when they fuss (joking of course, but still). Moreover, he´s well read, usually skimming through three or four books at a time, and can argue for hours about politics, but, in the same day he´ll play the Lion King´s I Just Can´t Wait to be King over and over on his IPod singing and dancing to every note. He´s the kinda guy that can get on well with anyone. Provided you´re not a drunk Canadian whore who can´t answer a straight question (sorry, inside joke).

Then there is Tom´s girlfriend and fellow Englander Hanna, aka Skanky Bitch. Yeah, I know what you´re thinking, ´pretty rough on the old girl,´ and I might be inclined to agree but, I´ll relay this small tid bit of a conversation and let you decide. Josh and Tom are talking in a bar when Hanna walks up and grabs Josh:
Josh - ¨Uh, Tom, your girlfriend is licking my neck.¨
Tom - Unphased, ¨uh yeah, she does that.¨
She is one of the funnest drunks I know, solely because when she gets drunk she says things like, ¨oh my god, I´m so drunk,¨ and proceeds to pour herself another double rum and coke and take it down like Takeru Kobayashi takes down a ballpark frank.

From Sweden we have Mikael, aka Mikael, Mikael, Motorcycle. Motorcycle is also a bit of a paradox in that he´s probably the most intimidating person you´ll ever see but the friendliest person you´ll ever meet. He is a well built skin head with a permanently affixed menacing scowl and a white supremacist/serial killer style tattoo of a snake running down his back that reminds you of Ed Norton in American History X or Ralph Fines in Red Dragon. But then he smiles at you, the warmest, most welcoming smile you´ll ever see, and you instantly realize that his just a big teddy bear. I still think he´s probably killed four or five people, but all he´d have to do is flash his pearly whites to a jury and he´d be off with community service.

Then, starting our final lap, we come to Jim, aka Jimbereeno. Also a redcoat, I´m convinced he´s either a superhero or a crack fiend because he´s always disappearing for extended periods of time without explanation. He would party with us all night, then disappear before morning, not to be seen for the better part of the day, and then return in the afternoon for lunch or dinner, then disappear again, either to burn a spoon or fly off and save some old lady in a tree or help a cat cross the street. It´s a coin flip for me, either way it´d be cool to say I hung out with a caped avenger or a smack addict.

Finally we have Joel, aka Young Blood. Even though he is only 19 and the youngest in our group, he is definitely the smartest. He´s currently studying biochemistry at Cambridge, and you can tell he´s going to be the type of guy who works with blue lasers or NASA. With a sideshow bob haircut and quiet spoken demeanor you wonder why this teenager is even allowed out of his house let alone set free to roam Central America alone. Then you have a few drinks with him, and he opens up like a tulip in April telling you his extended history with buying, taking, mixing, and, gulp, making, as many drugs as you care to list and then you realize you´re the rookie and not the other way around.

Then there is me, but, I´m not going to do a write up on my behalf because, if you´re still reading this, you must either be a good friend or my mother and there is no need. I´ll only say that my nickname was Scottie Do and Scottie Ne´Pa, both of which I can´t really give you reason for, but I´ve been called wose and it was just nice to have a nickname all the same.

And although words can never do it justice nor fully encapsulate what they truly are, that is a brief summery of our group, who they are, and what they represent. So sleep easy and know where ever there is beer, where ever club sandwiches are to be had, where ever there is a stretch of beach big enough for a fire and 8 bottles of rum, you´ll find, Team Isla.

Isla Mujeres - Mexico

2007-03-31T18:17:00.000-07:00

Flowing with the Tradwinds

A mere stone's throw from the glitz and glamour of Cancun and yet a world away, Isla Mujeres is the alternative to the all-inclusive claustrophobia that chokes the mainland. This narrow, 11km long limestone shelf that rises gently out of the sea, only a couple meters above the water at its highest point, is accessible only by ferry and, to give you an idea of what life is like on the island, the main modes of transportation are scooters and golf carts.

Once billed as the backpacker's alternative to the ritzy Hotel Zone in Cancun, Isla is slowly, but steadily, emerging as another world destination in the Yucatan and it's easy to see why. With its piercing aqua-blue surf gently lapping against soft white sand beaches, people here usually spend the daylight hours dozing in shaded beach chairs and eating fresh caught ceviche in shore front bars. Come nightfall, you'll find everyone strolling down Pramanada Hildago, a pedestrian walkway in the heart of town, lined with French and Italian restaurants, souvenir and cigar shoppes and a healthy supply of watering holes. It's got a little something for everyone.

This little island paradise would play the backdrop for my family reunion with my father and sister, who flew down here for their spring break vacation. After 6 and a half months on the road it was great to see the family again. We would spend the week doing little more than the afore mentioned activities which was a welcome pause for both my father, hobbled from a recently torn meniscus, and my sister, just having finished a hellish week of finals at University. To be honest, I was ready for a break myself and that was exactly what I got.

No more dorm rooms and communal bathrooms, I got to stay in a hotel where the sheets where included with bed! No more scavenging for food, surviving on tuna fish and Snickers, I got to eat real three-course meals. No more watered down beer or generic brad alcohol simpled labeled, 'hard liquor' , we drank imported wines and 100% agave Tequila. Oh, the luxuries of the vacationing class.

On rare occasion we did furllow from our sun baking to do some sight seeing and exploring. We rented a car and took a day trip to Tulum, the Mayan ruin, 3/4 of the way down the Mayan Riviera coastline that is situated on a bluff overlooking a Caribbean sea and the cover photo for most history books about the Mayans. You can literally be standing on a powder white sand beach, toes submerged in warm tropical waters, and be in the ruins at the same time. The Mayans sure knew where to pitch a tent!

On another 'break day' we ventured south along the island to Garrafon, an all-inclusive beach club with manicured gardens, shaded hammock groves and small cabiñas overlooking a coral cove. We had read in our guidebooks that you could choose this all-inclusive option, including all you can eat buffets and an open bar, or simply take a basic package including snorkel gear and use of the facilities. Not wanting to be typical overindulging Americans we decided on the second option but when we arrived however, the front desk receptionist informed us that they were no longer offering the basic option and that we would have to take the full package ($50 each). I guess, they figured this would maximize their profits for each ticket sold. They made a mistake.

Having been duped, we were now motivated to get more than our money's worth and the Schambelans went to work. My dad immediately hit up the bar, ordering two bloody marys. I threw my towel on a chair and ran to the buffet. Having been to Vegas more than a few times, I have mastered the art of buffet dining-I once lived off of MGM's brunch buffet for three days!

I basically start in reverse, eating deserts and cheeses as my starters, then move onto salads and soups. I usually break there and do some Yoga and stomach stretches to loosen up the midsection and make a extended trip to the men's room. Then I move onto the next phase, meats, fish and veggies, and conclude with expandable starches like rice and potatoes. And of course, I always try and slip one more desert if at all possible. Yeah, they made a mistake.

After the buffet, we waddled out of the restaurant and gave our legs, aching under the new burden of 30 extra pounds, repreive taking up beach chairs in seaside cabiña. There we spent the rest of the day. We went for a family snorkel in the afternoon (only to try and burn off calories for our second feast) and made sure our next double orders of Mexican beers and bloody marys where always on the way.

In the late afternoon, as a warm Caribbean sun was setting somewhere over the mainland, we hit up the bar for last minute intoxicants and had a light smorgasbord at the snack bar before being kicked out at closing time. All in all we probably ate enough food to feed a large Mexican family for a week and drank enough alcohol for a small Irish wedding. Yeah, they made a mistake.

It was great to see my family and spend some quality time with people who know and love you for who you are. And, when it came time for them to leave, departing on the midday ferry to catch a flight back to San Francisco, I was overcome with a sudden and unanticipated feeling of loneliness. I wasn't ready to be alone again.

That, coupled with receiving news that a good friend of mine´s father had passed away that same day, further isolating me from the people I love, put me in a weird place and I wasn't sure if I was ready to go on. I contemplated buying a ticket home. But I have decided to stick it out for a little while longer. I think that is just a testament to how much these people mean to me and it's good to know that they will be there when I eventually do make it back to the golden state.

Cancun - Mexico

2007-03-27T11:47:00.000-07:00

I´m Not as Think as You Drunk I Am

Standing in stark contrast to the quiet, lulling hills of the Costa Rican Highland, Cancun, Mexico is like standing on a Los Angeles highway during rush hour; bumper to bumper traffic, horns, yelling, and thousands of people going absolutely nowhere.

The city itself is composed in two parts. The first being the Hotel Zone, a small narrow strip of land not but 200 meters from the mainland, a quagmire of 4 and 5 star hotels stacked on top of each other all vying for the limited beachfront property. Literally miles upon miles of coast line, track housed with huge monoliths like the Royal Caribbean, the Ritz Carlton, and the Hilton. With all the glittering lights and over-extravagance in juxtaposition to its tranquil surroundings it felt like Las Vegas had been relocated to the beach. The second part is Downtown and, while not as much as a consumerist postcard as the Hotel Zone, is itself littered with American fast food chains and Marriotts and Holiday Inns. Kinda hard to feel like you're in another country when everything around you is American.

I arrived during the tail end of the US University spring break chaos. Each year thousands of co-eds descend upon this high rise resort outpost and spend their time off killing any brain cells they might have accumulated during the preceeding school term. It was a sight to behold. Beach parties during the day time, complete with beer bongs and smashing empty cans on foreheads and huge all-you-can-drink disco parties at night. Girls gone wild was filming in the bars and Cassidy was performing at the concert hall the night I went out... Purely for investigative purposes of course.

When I asked about the nightlife at my hostel, consisting mostly of Aussies and Englishmen, they all responded with the same hesitation, saying it was an experience, but ¨there are a lot of Americans.¨ After witnessing the binge drinking, loud-mouthed, attention seeking attitudes that these kids exhibit over and over again I understood what they meant. They didn´t mean the number of Americans, they meant the type, and it´s not that hard to realize why so many internationals tense up at the sight of a large group of Americans. Kinda like a deer caught in headlights, they don´t know whether to turn and run or freeze in the hopes that they won´t be seen.

It wouldn´t have made a difference with the way these college kids were acting and I was embarrassed. But, I also remember that I was once one of those loud-mouthed drunkards picking fights and pretending everywhere I went was at a Frat party. I guess it´s just a part of our youth culture that we grow out of a couple years out of college. Yet, I still saw men in their 30´s and 40´s slamming down meter high glasses of booze and singing old Fraternity songs.

After two days of reliving my college years, I am ready for a change of pace, which was just around the corner, or off the shore, I should say in the form of the much more laid back Isla Mujeres. My dad and sister are flying in this evening and the next day we'll take the morning ferry over and spend the week there. In the mean time, I'll have to ride out the Sig Ep brotherhood songs and and binge drinking debauchery for at least one more night.

The Final Chapter - Costa Rica

2007-03-21T16:33:00.000-07:00

Ok, I gotta warn you, I was reading a lot of Hemingway before I wrote this so it´s not my usual blog style. Like him, I tend to get a little lost in the proes and it goes on for a while. So I won´t be offended if you don´t read the whole thing.

The Young Man and the River

A frigid mountain breeze blew across the valley. In the east, the sun made it´s slow accent above the Talamanca Mountains. As the first rays of light petered down the valley they created a thick sizzling haze as the met the crisp alpine air.

The young man zipped up his nylon jacket and checked to make sure he had everything. Satisfied, he walked up the loose gravel driveway from the Pensón and met up with the old man.

¨Sure is a beautiful day,¨ the young boy said.

¨Yeah, its always like this in the morning,¨ the old man replied. ¨Clouds will come over the pass after lunch, but with any luck, their won´t be any rain.¨

They set out down the road. They walked slowly, the old man´s legs stiff and heavy in the morning chill. The young man was eager to get to the river, but out of respect for the old man, he made sure to keep a slow pace. They descended down the Savegre valley following the winding river along a dirt road. There were no cars. Just a quite lane that linked the spartan collection of houses and Pensóns before it came to an end at the park entrance a few kilometers further down.

The old man was especially slow this morning. He was coughing a lot too. He was always coughing on account of all the cigarettes he smoked. He would go through a pack a day, more if he could get them, which was hard to do here. It would be a least an hour before they got down to the park where the good pools where. But, it was a bright, clear Costa Rican morning, filled with a radiant sun and a fresh forest breeze. It made for a nice walk. The Bellbirds could be heard in the apple orchards.

The young man was happy. He´d been here three days and had already caught over 30 fish. He had spent the last two weeks looking for them, moving from town to town trying to find trophy trout, but there had been nothing to show for it. Every town had been fished out, or the water had been too low to support them.

Then he met the old man in a hostel in Orosi and he had told him about the Rio Savegre, far back in the mountains, on the other side of the 3491 meter high Cerro de la Muerte (mountain of death) and the scores of trout holding in its limitless pools. The young man followed him up here, to the small fruit growing town of San Gerardo de Dota. It wasn´t even really a town, it lacked everything that a town would have, a store, a restaurant, or a bar. Yet, that was its charm and the young boy liked it very much. He would have to leave in the morning to catch a flight in San Jose, but he wasn´t thinking about that now, only of fishing.

They split up when they reached the bottom. The old man preferred to fish the more easily accessible water near the road while the young man walked further down along the broken trail hugging the river bank to less pressured waters where the fish weren´t as skittish.

¨I´ll probably stay near the road today,¨ the old man said before he left. ¨Leg´s bothering me again.¨

¨Ok, I´m heading down toward the waterfall,¨the young man replied. ¨But I´ll be back before the evening rise.¨

He could have stayed back with the old man and still caught a lot of fish. It wouldn´t have mattered this early in the morning, when the fish, docile during the coldness of night, are warmed with the sun and become active again. But in truth, he wanted to fish alone today. He liked being alone here, it was peaceful and he could think. He liked to stare at the olive green mountain tops that towered over the narrow alpine valley, watching the cloud forest sway with the prevailing wind. It was quite too, with no sounds but the gentle rushing of water over granite and the Questals singing in the Pine trees. He could think without interruption.

Now he was thinking of how to fish this stretch of the river. He had tried many different things and each seemed to be equally fruitful. He had used a spinning lure in the deep fast moving pools and that had produced fish. He had used dry flies that he had snipped down so they would sink and floated them in the ripples and tail outs with a bobber and that had enticed a few strikes. When all else failed or he thought there might be a big fish under a bank or in a deep slow moving pocket he would use bait. Either worms he dug up along the trail or yellow cheese rubbed with flower to make it hold the hook, and that would always get him a fish.

He approached his pool. He had spotted it the day before on his way back up from the waterfall, but it was dark then and the old man was waiting for him at the road. He had thought about it all night, trying to visualize the pool in his mind, how the water moved through it and where the fish would be holding. It was hard to remember it clearly because he spotted it from a distance, already behind him down the river and had of only paused for a moment, squinting in the fading evening light to try and see it better.

Now, standing beside it, it was exactly like he remembered. A small cascade cut through a dyke of boulders at its mouth and dropped to a foamy white torrent below. On the southern side, backed by moss covered Evergreens and Ceder trees, a large boulder protruded out into the water and dulled the torrent down creating and a small eddie, water that seamed to be circling in on itself. That fed a deep slow moving pool that sped up again as it tailed out into ripples at its back end. He knew the fish would be holding at the front of the pool just inside the eddie snaping at any small morsels that fed out of the white wash. But he also knew that those were the younger, inexperienced fish with more stamina and moxie and that the bigger, wiser fish. They would be be holding near the tail out, content to sway in the gentle currant and pick and choose what they ate.

He would use his lure and fish from the big rock. He set his backpack down beside a ceder and pulled out his collapsible spinning rod. He had picked it up a few weeks back in a hardware store in Panama and it had quickly become one of his most prized possessions. He quickly assembled its parts and crept along the bank careful not to let his shadow or footsteps alert the fish to his presence. He came to the far side of the rock and set his rod on top and then slowly pulled himself up. From the top he could peer down into the cold, clear water and see the dark shapes swaying like seaweed in the currant. Trout. They all seemed pretty small but he remembered the age old angler´s motto, ´where there´s small fish, there´s big fish.´

He found a spot at the end of the tail out to cast his line without scaring the fish. Having had much time on small rivers with this rod, he knew how to control it and he hit his mark on the first cast. He began his slow retrieve in the back currant and then sped up when he entered the murky purple deepness of the hole. It passed through without a strike but he continued his retrieve, slowing down as he entered the eddie swinging his rod around to the other side and pulling the lure sideways through the rough water. Nothing. He was too shallow, the lure wasn´t able to sink down to the bottom and tap against the rocky bottom. That´s what induced the trout to strike.

He quickly reeled in and added a split shot about a half meter above the lure, it was a bit heavy for this river, but if he sped up his retrieve a bit it might flow nicely through the water. He recast, this time not as accurately as the first and the rig splashed in at the upper end of the ripples and he knew he wasn´t going to get any strikes there. He reeled quickly to the deep part of the pool and then then let the lure sink a bit, jigging it to see if he could raise the predatory instincts of the fish. Again, nothing, but he continued through the pool penetrating the far side of the currant. He got a bite, a fish hitting it hard as it snapped at it. He gave a swift tug on the line trying to set the hook, but there was no weight on the other end and he knew it was gone. It was probably too small to mouth the hook anyway.

He reeled in again. Rather then risk another miscast and scaring off the big fish for good, he decided to change his bait and put on a wet fly. He set up a bubble rig, with the fly about two feet below the bobber and some small split shot to get it down. He would drop it in the current at the top of the pool and let it float down to the tail out, making it look natural long before it reached the big fish. He lowered it into the end of the foam, immediately the bobber dropped below the surface and he gave another quick jerk, this time there was a jerk back and a small juvenile jumped clear of the water trying to shake the hook. The young man kept the line taunt and played the fish out of the fast current and into the shallows.

He came down off the rock and landed the fish in a rocky alcove along the bank. He wet his hands and picked it up out of the water to inspect it. It was a rainbow, a small one at that, only 7 inches. It glistened in the sunlight. Its torso was metallic sliver, its head and back a dark moonstone grey. These colors indicated it was a farm trout. There were several trout raising farms in the area and often times, a few would escape into the river. It was only lightly hooked in the side of its mouth and he pulled it out gently and laid the fish back in the water. After regaining its senses, it lurched forward and darted back into the eddie.

The young man returned to the rock and recast, this time a little beyond the eddie. He had had enough small farm fish , he wanted a Tico Trout. His eyes never strayed as the bobber twirled along in the currant, waiting for any slight twitch or pause that might indicated a fish. He leaned his weight forward on his toes as it entered the tail currant, ready to set the hook if a fish took it. But it just rolled out into the backwash.

He pulled the line in and threw it back, this time a little further toward the opposite bank. He waited for the fly to reach the tail out again and then he held his line causing the fly to cross back across the river in front of the ripples as it rose toward the surface, imitating a nymph rising.

It came quick and hard, he felt the line tighten between his thumb and forefinger and he saw a splash at the bottom of the tail out almost in the backwash. A large fish breached the surface. He didn´t even have to set the hook, the fish had done that for him.

Now it took off in a run up the river. He reeled quickly making sure not to give the fish any slack and a chance to throw the fly. Then the fished jumped again, this time almost right in front of the rock. He saw a rosie pink flash as it re-entered the water and he knew it was a Tico, only the natives had that color. The fish ran all the way to the cascade, cutting through the fast water with ease. Then it reversed directions and made a run down stream. The young man let out some line so it wouldn´t break off, but made sure to keep it tight as well. The fish jumped again and then tried to seek shelter under some underlying brush on the far bank, but the young man turned his rod and, with it, the fish´s direction and brought him back into the deep water.

He jumped off the rock and played the fish back and forth in the pool until he could feel it beginning to tire, not contorting its body every time the young man turned him. Eventually, he guided him into the shallows and came down to meet his prize. He was a fine fish indeed, about 15 inches, not the biggest fish he´d ever caught, but a good size for a Tico. It was similar to the rainbow but with a blood red colored line that ran down its sides that radiated into a soft pink, salmon colored midsection. The rest of the body was a spekeled silver and gray with black and gold dots bridging it´s top section.

He quickly turned the fish upside down, this immediately pacified it, putting it into a trance. This allowed the young man to try and remove the hook without having to fight the fish at the same time. The hook was deep, deeper then it should have been for a fly. He pulled out his needle nose pliers and grabbed a hold of the end of the hook. The fish twitched and squirmed, the feeling of metal in its mouth overpowering its transcendental state. The young man worked quickly, he would have to get it out soon if he wanted to keep the fish alive.

Finally, he was able to get a good hold on the hook and push it out of its crevasse. He quickly turned the fish over and began to push it back and forth in the currant, coaxing it to swim away. It laid motionless and began to tilt back onto its back, belly up. This was not good.

The young man pulled the fish from the water and quickly ran up the bank toward the cascade and the fast moving water. He lowered it in in the currant and allowed the water to pump oxygen rich water through its gills. It began to stir and sway its head back and forth, the young man pulled the fish back from the currant and back into slow moving water, still rocking it back and forth. The fish flexed its gills and laboriously started to pull away. It made a slow decent into the dark recesses of the pool, the young man watched as the last traces of its trail where washed away in the currant.

He sat with his back against the big rock, under the shade of a Almond tree and stared up at the crested peaks of the Talamanc. Heavy clouds were coming in from the north. The old man had been right. But the warm sun was still on his shoulders and he was happy. He listened to the water as it rushed against the granite.

Santa Maria de Dota- Costa Rica

2007-03-14T17:47:00.000-07:00

Blazing a trail out of Panama, we landed in the small roadside community of Uvita, reported to have some of the countries best diving. Peter and I made a day trip out to the nearby Isla de Caño and had great dives which included good visibility and a school of white tip reef sharks. After a small fiesta at the hostel to celebrate our time spent together, Peter left the following day and I made my way to the Continental Divide in search of something that, after almost two and half months in Costa Rica, had still alluded me... trout.

After scouring online websites, my three guidebooks, and countless conversations with locals, I still didn’t have a clear idea of where I was going to find these fish. With all the international attention given to sport fishing, most Ticos have little or no idea about fresh water opportunities. Moreover, anyone who had some pretense of knowledge gave me conflicting information. When I was buying tackle at a local sports shop the owner told me that their was fish to be found in the river just outside town, but then the hotel host told me that a storm had washed all the fish away. A waiter at a restaurant told me to head south and fish the valley rivers pouring out to the Pacific but then his co-worker told me that there were no trout in those waters.

I was getting a little frustrated with all the back and forth BS. Then, when I thought I had lost all hope, a guy at a tourist agency told me of a river in a small town in the highlands, on the other side of the Divide, that held 24-30 inch leviathans lurking in its secluded pocket waters waiting for a fight. That was enough to sell me and I boarded a bus that afternoon for Santa Maria de Dota, a small coffee growing community well off the Intermarcada and not even listed in most guidebooks.

I arrived just before sundown, as an orange and yellow sky backlit the towering peaks of the encompassing mountain range. Not having a guidebook to go on, I set out to try and locate a hotel before it got dark. I found the town to be competley devoid of any tourist enimities, restaurants, internet cafes, and even accomodations. Finally, happening down a side street, I found a hotel but learned that, being the weekend, it was booked. I asked the owner if she knew some place else that might have room but she told me that she was the only accommodation in town.

A feeling of desolation came over me as I tried to survey my options. All the buses had stopped running and if I couldn’t find a place to stay I would either have to take a taxi back to San Jose (3 hours away) of face a chilly night on the streets, both of which I didn’t not want to do. She must have seen the desperation in my face because, as I was leaving, she called out and said I might check across the road at the bar, where the owner sometimes rented out a room in the backyard. With no other option I walked over and entered the bar.

A side note here that I was undoubtedly the only Gringo in town and probably the only one to have set foot within its boarders in months. So, you can imagine the attention I got when I entered a noise bar on a Friday night loaded down with a hug backpack slug over my shoulder and another one hanging from my chest. In a classic moment, everyone turned their head a once to look me up and down and I waited for someone to stop the record player.

With the additional weight of everyone’s eyes upon me, I walked up to the bar and met Ita, the owner. She was a weathered, middle-aged women with short hair and a no nonsense demeanor; the type of women who wore the pants in the relationship if you know what I mean. She was going about 100 miles a minute dolling out drinks to the thirsty mob crowding the bar but still took the time to see what I wanted. I asked her if she had a room and she said she did... but it was already rented out for the evening. My heart sank with this realization but then she paused. She gave me a sideways stare, as if she was sizing me up, and then said that she did have an extra room though it was just a bed and not one she normally rented out. I assured her that wasn’t a problem and would love to have it.

She led me behind the bar and down a hallway to the back of the building which, with a couple of bedrooms and a kitchen, served as the house for her family as well. Leading me down another hallway back toward the bar, we entered an Anteroom that was doubling as a closet and bathroom. In the corner there was a ladder leading up to a loft that had open window frames at either end looking down into the bathroom on one side and the bar´s storage room on the other. ¨Es bueno, no?¨ she asked, and without waiting for a reply climbed up the ladder and started changing the sheets. Pondering for a moment if I should take this room, I realized I didn´t have a choice and climbed up and helped her. When we finished she gave me a quick tour of her home introducing me to her three daughters, her sister and brother, and five nieces and nephews, all of whom were also living in the back of the building. She gave me a warm cup of tea and then disappeared back into the bar.

I returned to my ¨room¨ and tried to settle in, or as best I could in a pulsating room with vibrating floorboards from the bar on the adjacent side of the wall. I was just getting ready to go out and try and find some place that might be serving food when Ita bust back into the room and told me she was heading up the mountain to drop some food off for the indigenous coffee workers and that being a good way to see the area, I should come along. Not wanting to be rude to my host, I agreed and before I knew it, we were grinding up a dirt track in her 4x4 through an endless expanse of coffee groves as the last traces of daylight were consumed by the emerging night sky.

Half way up the mountain we pulled off the road and carried the supplies down a path cut into the steep hillside. With the twilight as our guide, we came to a small group of wooden cabins perched on a plateau overlooking the valley below. Here 20 or so Panamanian Indians lived with their families and worked the coffee plantations during the dry season. Again, Ita played tour guide and showed me how these families worked, cooked, and lived in these remote cramped quarters for four months out of the year, before making their long journey back to Panama. It was an incredible experience.

Back at her place, I sat around the kitchen table with a bunch of her friends who had stopped by to see the Gringo and we tried to have a conversation. I say tried, because none of them spoke a word of English, including Ita, and somewhere along the way she got the impression that I spoke fluent Spanish, which I must admit, I do not. So, I tried to catch as much as I could while they rattled off questions about California and the States and told me stories of their town and country. At one point someone asked me why I had come to Santa Maria and I told them it was to fish for trout in the nearby rivers. They all looked at each other and started to laugh. ¨¿Truchas?¨(Trout) Ita exclaimed, ¨no teniamos truchas en estes rios por muchos años¨(We haven’t had had trout in these rivers for many years), and they all laughed again. I laughed too, to keep from crying.

I tried my luck anyway and found that I didn´t have any, but in the end, I didn’t care about the fish; I would have given up 100 trout tugging on the end of my line for the time I spent with Ita and her family. She took me in and treated me like her son. After a very light nights sleep in my loft/closet/bathroom/storage area, she moved me out to the then vacated, and much more agreeable, cabana in the backyard. She then arranged for me to tag along with her kids when a local farmer took them up to his organic vineyard set in the deep recesses of the mountains. There we wandered through his orchards and lounged away the afternoon by his private hand built swimming pool. She fed me breakfast, lunch and diner everyday and talked to me constantly, even though she knew I was probably only getting half of what she was saying. She went out of her way time and time again to make sure I felt comfortable, full, and at home in her house.

The following day when I was getting ready to leave, I tried to pay her for the accommodations and food, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said that I was an invited guest in her home and needent pay a dime and that I always had a place to stay if I ever came back to Santa Maria and, if everyone else in town is as nice as her, I suspect I will, provided I find my trout stream first.

Boquete - Panama

2007-03-12T10:22:00.000-07:00

It was inevitable that, after a highlight like the San Blas islands, Peter and I were setting ourselves up for a let down. That let down would be Boquete. Once a small coffee farming community set in the deep canyons of Volcan Bazu in Northern Panama, it has now become a hot spot for retired Americans who can afford to buy land there and live off there pensions. Not quite at that point in our lives yet, we wanted to go there because was a good base for climbing the volcano and a good place for trout fishing. You can guess who wanted to do what, but it doesn´t really matter, as both of us would be let down.

The town itself was nice enough, though their didn´t seem to be any real sense of a community or even a pulse of nightlife. However, we were quickly turned off to the place when we found that everyone in town was trying to sell us something. When I inquired in a couple tourist offices about fishing in the area, they all tried to sell me on deep sea charters, when Peter asked about hiking the volcano, they listed a bunch of all-inclusive tour operators.

The best was yet to come however, and it did in the shapely form of a young, attractive Canadian girl who approached us when we were having lunch and struck up a conversation. She told us how she had been in Boquete for a few weeks and, loving it, was planning on staying for a few months. Always relying more on fellow travelers for tips then guidebooks or tourist information centers, I listened intently and asked a lot of questions about the area. She told me she was studying at a nearby Spanish school and that they organized great trips in the area and for a good price. I suggested that we go by the school and see what they had to say, Peter seemed a bit more hesitant but came along in the end.

When we got there, one of the teachers, seeming to be expecting us, jumped on us with tour opportunities. He tried to sell us maps, books, tours, the whole bit. Still not really getting what was happening here, I asked him about fishing, and he told me he had a friend who could, for a price, drive us up to a couple good spots along the river. He said it would be $7 there and $7 back, and I though it would be worth it for the fishing info.

In the car, Peter confessed that he thought the whole thing was a ploy and that the girl was working for the school and they were just trying to suck as much money out of us as they could. Finally, I caught on and when the taxi driver, having not told us anything about fishing, dropped us off in the middle of the road and pointed down someone´s driveway saying, ¨fish, that way,¨ we kindly told him we´d find our own way back and that he didn´t need to pick us up.

A little pissed by this treatment after paying extra for the service, you can imagine how mad I was when it turned out that there were no fucking fish to be found anywhere. I dragged Peter up and down the rivers muddy banks, jumping barbwire fences and scaling rock faces seaching out promising holding pools but, to no avail. To top it all off, I broke my camera scrambling over a rock and was a little less then pleased to say the least.

After my blood pressure dropped back below 300, we headed back down the driveway and caught a cab back to town, which cost us a wopping $1 each. This confirmed our conspiracy theory and permanently soured us to the town. Cutting our losses, we decided to brake camp and make a run for the boarder, and crossed back into Costa Rica looking to get a few more rays of sunshine before Peter had to go home.

San Blas Islands - Panama

2007-03-07T16:19:00.000-08:00

A Kuna Matata in Kuna Yala

After extensive research in our guidebooks as to figure out what our next destination should be, Peter and I decided on the Archipelago de San Blas, a group of secluded Caribbean islands halfway down Panama's eastern coastline. These islands are a few steps off the beaten track and is accessible only by boat or small aircraft. Only being $35 a pop from the Panama City, we booked a flight in Bocas and headed for the capital. After a boat ride and 11 hrs on a bus, we found ourselves in Panama City at 1am and still only half the way there, still needing to catch a puddle jumper at 6am to complete the journey.

Being the shiest that I am, I didn't see the point in spending money on a hotel when we only had a couple idle hours until our flight took off. So, we opted to pull an all-nighter and took up residence in a booth at a 24 hour cafe in the bus terminal. We were tired. We had hoped to sleep on the bus from Bocas, but between the three screaming babies sitting right next to us, and a blaring Jackie Chan movie -which also appeared to be about a baby, who cried in every scene- there was no chance. Now, beyond the point of exhaustion, we passed the time drinking espressos and playing paper football (I won 27-6).

It was a surprise to us then when, a few hours later, as our plane coasted over the atolls and cayes of the San Blas, we were still not tired, but filled with anticipation. Kusping the shallow waters just off the Colon province and mainland Panama, this postcard worthy sprinkling of islands has a history that is equally as impressive as its vistas. Of the 350 plus islands, only 40 are inhabited by the Kuna, a group of indigenous peoples who pride themselves on being the last pure descendants of the Mayan and Inca nations. The San Blas, or Kuna Yala as they call it, won autonomy from Panama back in 1930 after a bloody uprising against the repressive Panamanian police patrolling the area. Still recognized as an independent comercia, Kuna Yala has its own government, police, and currency.

The Kuna are a very proud people and have gone to great lengths to preserve their culture and heritage. Amazingly, they have managed to resist outside intrusion by foreigners (no one can own land in the San Blas unless they are a native born Kuna) and have maintained there simple fish and coconut biased economy that is generously subsidized by tourism.

That would lead us back to, well... us and as Peter and I rolled our bags off the tarmac we were greeted by a horizon dotted with small white sand isletas, all of which about the size of a city block, completely shaded in palm trees and boasting one or two palm thatched cabanas. It was simply gorgeous, it was a cover photo for Travel Magazine.

We found a good hotel on one of the more inhabited islands, and for a set price, we got three squares a day (consisting of fish, fish, and more fish) and two tours to other outlying cayes. This was a great deal and, even though we were certifiable for want of sleep, we couldn´t pass up on the morning tour. So, as soon as we set our bags down, we were swept off to another small island, no bigger then a football field and solely inhabited by one family living in a small hut on it´s windward side. We spent the afternoon hours dozing under palms trees and snorkeling in the clear Caribbean waters. In the late afternoon we returned to our hostel and I finally got some much needed shut eye.

We had heard that it was possible to stay with families on these more rustic islands and the next day, Peter and I hitched a ride on a yacht to one such island located on the outer ring. The ride out there was pure entertainment as the passengers on the boat were a group of Irish and Australian backpackers who decided that they would dress up like pirates for the voyage and drink like them too. When we got on the boat at 10am in the morning they were already hammered and greeted us with hearty ¨Arrrrr mattiees.¨ They seemed the perfect crew for the captain, Hernando, an ageing Columbian born seamen who was a bit of a pirate in his own right, or at least drank like one. He looked like one of those homeless men you see sucking the last drops out of beers cans they find in the trash can, and I wouldn´t put it past him. He seemed to sway about half-conscious and not entirely sure where he is or who is is talking to. It made for a fun-filled ride and we all arrived at our little treasure island in good spirits.

The location was amazing. Again, a small sand swept caye in the middle of the ocean covered from shore to shore in swaying palms and virtually uninhabited. It was right out of Dufoe´s Robinson Crusoe. We met Antonio, the patriarch of the community living here and he agreed to let us stay, saying he would provide us with food and a place to sleep if we didn´t mind donating a few dollars to the community. It was a bargain, as long as you didn´t mind not having running water, electricity, or a toilet. Yeah, the last one was a bit rough, if you had to go, you just took a walk out to the sandbar and hoped there was a currant. They did however, have a Co2 powered refrigerator fully stocked with enough frosty beer to satisfy an entire fleet of pirates. It´s good to know that no matter where you go in the world, cold beer is always a priority over water and light.

We spent a very agreeable two days there, aside from a rather cold night sleeping in hammocks in their drafty thatched cooking hut. I practiced my Spanish while Peter recited his Chow-Lin meridian points in Cantonese. I lounged on the beach while Peter performed Yoga listening to lectures on tape of Chinese medicine. I played soccer with the local kids while peter watched the pet money jerk off in his tree. Ok, ok, I´m going a bit far with that last one, but just like the homeless captain, I wouldn´t put it past him.

Words can´t fully describe how pure and beautiful the San Blas islands really are. It´s like jumping in a time machine and dialing back to a time when Latin America was free of Agloization. I have been a lot of places in my life, all across the globe; from high mountain kingdoms to Hollywood set beaches, and I think I can safely say that Kuna Yala is the post picturesquely beautiful place I´ve ever seen.

Bocas del Toro - Panama

2007-03-04T16:23:00.000-08:00

Returning from our mountain adventures, Simon and I met up with our respective companions in San Jose. Mine was a friend from both high school and college, now finishing up his final year of med school. His name is Peter Gerritz, and quite a character, though words can never fully describe what he really like. In our group of friends he is know as The ´Enforcer´ because he etched that name* in green tape (even though our colors where red and gold) on the back of his football jersey for his first game his freshman year in high school. He is also known as ´Gary´ and teaming up with his college room mate Elan (´Ace´) they form incredible gay duo (here he is in full costume). He is also know as ´the dumbest smart man alive,´ for reasons which will become clearer to you in the following blogs I´m sure, but as for now, suffice to say, he is one of a kind.

Anyway, after and night out on the town with Simon and his friend, the two of headed south toward Panama. We made a stop over in a small Caribbean town called Chauita just north of the Panamanian border and fell in step with it´s laid back alternative vibe, chillin out on the beaches in the afternoon and sipping cervezas in a reggea bar come nightfall. The following morning we rose early and set out on a trek through a national coastal reserve adjacent to the town, where I educated the local animal life on safe sex, before donning our backpacks and hoping a bus to the border.

The crossing was a breeze, particularly since I had done it before with some difficulty and knew how to avoid it this time around. We were in Bocas by early afternoon and waisted no time in booking a dive tour for the following day. It was a full day of activities, starting with a trip to Dolphin Bay, where, as you might surmise, dolphins were to be found. We spotted one pair playing in the shallows but, upon closer inspection it seemed that it wasn´t just a little bumping going on and we were interrupting a little morning sha-bang-bang. But they didn´t seem to mind and kept at it all the while... you know what they say about dolphins.

After that we head out to Coral Caye, which, you guessed it, had a lot of coral on a caye. We made our first dive here and though the visibility wasn´t great and the sea life not amazing, it was a fun dive. Well for me anyway, since it was only my 7th. Peter, an assistant instructor scuba diver, with more than 250 dives under his belt, wasn´t jumping up and down. After that we lunched at a restaurant set out on some mangroves. Well, some of us lunched, willing to pay $9 for a half cooked piece of octopus, the rest of us snacked on crackers I´d brought with me. Afterwards, we made our second dive at Hospital Point, which, need I say, was to be found at the point of an island with a hospital on it. Again, not amazing, though I did see possibly the biggest hermit crab in the world, roughly the size of a large watermelon.

Wiped out from the days activities, Peter and I didn´t feel much like parting, but our dive master, a local Bocaterra, told us there was a Calypso party on a nearby island and it shouldn´t be missed. So, after a feed we took a lancha over to Isla Bastimentos in search of the this local shin-dig. What we found was a very unwelcoming island full of dark allies and shanties and one very unhappening bar. Not wanting to admit defeat quite yet, Peter and I walked around to see if we couldn´t find some hidden street that would lead us to this alleged amazing party. Nothing, just darkness and unfriendly looks. It reminded me a bit of my experiences in Livingston, but this time around I wasn´t alone. We inquired at a local market and the lady behind me in line said she would walk us to the bar, and the store clerk echoed that it would be best if she walked WITH us. Getting the hint, we followed this lady back to the same bar we had just come from and promptly dove on the first boat we saw and made speed back to Bocas.

The following morning, we set out on some rented bikes and made a 13km ride along the belly of the island to the beaches on it´s far southern shores. The ride was amazing, bobbing up and down as the road traversed the hilly lush tropical inlands. Half way along we stopped at a cave, famed as a bat grotto, and took a venture inside. It was absolutely teeming with bats, and I, not one usually frightened by the creatures, was mortified as my flashlight illuminated an entire ceiling alive with the vermin (pictured here). Peter conversely, was in heaven and gasping excitedly as he scampered futher down into the darkness clapping his hands with joy. Bats are his favorite animal. He even used to dress up like one sometimes in college, using mud to draw New Guinian bat markings on his face before he meditated. This of course afforded him another nickname: ´The Fruit Bat.´

After he had communed with his brothers, talking with them and calling each one his ¨precious babies¨ as they shat on his head, we biked the rest of the way to Bocas del Drago, an absolutely stunning beach at the end of the road. We had a brilliant lunch set among the shaded palms on a coral white Caribbean beach and spent the rest of the afternoon trying to break open coconuts and biking along the shoreline. We took a cab back to town, seeing as Peter, a few pounds heavier during med school, almost died during the ride there. I was a little winded too.

That night we met up with some Berkeley high alums, who were living in Bocas town building a vacation home for one of their families. It was good to be around Berkeley people again and for the first time in almost five months, I felt like I was back home chatting it up with old pals in a local bar. But, this feeling was short lived, because the following day Peter and I were off again, headed to Panama city and a flight out to the secluded San Blas Islands.

*He actually etched the name ¨The Barbarian¨on the back of his jersey, but when our college lacrosse coach, after hearing this story from us, was retelling this story to the rest of the team he couldn´t remember the name correctly saying he printed the name ¨The Enforcer.¨ Subsequently, and for the rest of his college carreer, he was always called by that name on the lacrosse field.

Orosi - Costa Rica

2007-02-23T10:10:00.000-08:00

Cooling down in the Highlands

After a month and a half on the beach, sweltering in the humidity and baking in the unabated sunshine, I, needed a break from the hot weather. Therefore, after thumbing through my Moon's Guide to Costa Rica, I decided to head to a small town in the chilly foothills of the Cartago mountain region and Cloudforest.

Orosi is a small village in a river valley by the same name that straddles the Tapatini Cloudforest to the East and Irazu Volcano National Park to its North. Most of the residents in this moist and chilly place are farmers growing coffee and fruits in the fertile hillsides along the river. What drew me to this particular location was it's proximity to San Jose, only an hour or so away by bus, but also it's relative obscurity among mainstream travelers. With no zipline tours or white-water rafting like other Highland destinations, Orosi has been left free of western development. What it did have however, and what drew my interests, was freshwater fishing for trout in its many mountain rivers.

Accompanying me, was a friend I had made in Jaco, a guy named Simon, who seemed, up til this point to have lived the exact same life as me, except in Canada. He's 25, graduating at the same time that I did (he even did a year abroad in sydney, Australia at UNSW, though he was the there the semester after I was). He had recently left his job back home and decided to get a one way ticket to Latin America. He started his trip around the same time as me (actually the day before I did) and was traveling roughly the same route as me too. And, as an added bonus he also had a friend flying in to San Jose at the end of the week and was killing time until they got here. So, when I told him about Orosi, he was game to come along, not so much for the fishing but for the weather. He's a surfer and, during his many hours spent on the water in the sun, had somehow managed to burn his retinas not once, but twice. He figured a couple days in a rainy mountain town might be just the remedy his burning eyes.

It was great, though not exactly what either of us had hoped for. The town itself was a one road hamlet that, though being virtually devoid of nightlife and a social scene was charming and inviting at the same time. We also found that our hostel had a language school with the best prices I had seen seen since Guatemala. The town was also dirt cheap (for Costa Rica). We paid $6.50 for a bed and about 25 cents an hour for Internet.

It also has some great hiking trails. We took trips to a local coffee farm and got a tour by Pepe, a 73 native who had been farming coffee his whole life. We also took another hike along a river to a natural hot springs. I was starting to think that maybe I could spend some time in a place like this, take some Spanish courses, volunteer at a local Finca, that sort of thing. Of course that would all depend on the fishing.

Convincing Simon to accompany me with a purchase of a six pack of tall cans, we woke up at 6am the next morning and took a bus 8km up a washed out dirt track to the small outpost of Purisil, more so a collection of huts than a village, and walked 3km along a pristine river valley near the entrance of Tapatini national park. We came to Kiki, a trout farm along the side of the road, and persuaded the owner to let us borrow some fishing lines to use in the nearby river. He told us there was no Trucha (trout) to be found there, but having heard otherwise, I persisted and he let us have some line and a hook (no rod though).

For the next three hours, Simon and I walked through fields of cow shit and chest high brush drowning bait in a fishless river. Finally, at 11:30am, satisfied that there was nothing else to do, we started drinking. By noon we had almost finished our supply of beer and decided we'd head back to Kiri, catch some trout out of there stocked ponds and eat lunch there.

Trekking back through the cow shit fields proved to be a little more trying after a couple tall cans and we emerged back on the road completely covered from the waist down in a brown clumpy liquid. We washed off in a nearby stream, Simon deciding it would be best for him to to just lye down in the water as to completely soak himself clean while I was satisfied with a quick rinse of the legs after which and we returned to the farm. With a slight bit of hesitation and constant supervision the owner allowed us to fish the ponds where I quickly landed two 13in trout. With a pond about the size of a kiddy pool filled to the brim with hungry farm trout it wasn't even sport. But, that didn't stop us from taking it up to the restaurant and having them cook it up for us as we guzzled down three more beers and a couple shots to celibate our catch.

Not wanting to embark on a drunken stumble all the way back to the bus stop in wet clothes, I cornered a group of young Ticos as they were getting into there car and asked them if we they were going through Orosi. This was a trick question because I well knew that there was only one road out and that had to go to Orosi, I thought myself very clever for this. When they hesitantly nodded I asked if we may then, since they were going that way anyway, get a ride. After they consulted for a few minutes, probably to consider the possibility of Simon or I becoming sick in their car, they put down some plastic and waved us in.

We got back to town and immediately went to the supermarket for more beer, though we both knew we didn't need anymore. We returned to the hostel drinking and playing with the local dogs along the way and promptly passed out in our bunks. That was at 4:30 in the afternoon. We didn't get up again until 7am the following morning.

So, while I can't say that our fishing venture was a big success, we both loved the town and our time there. I am seriously considering going back for a week or two for Spanish school and, yes more fishing, though this time I might bring along a proper fishing rod and leave the tall cans at home.

Jaco - Costa Rica

2007-02-19T18:17:00.000-08:00

So apparently my luck was not as good as I made it out to be in my previous post. I say this because the job that I said I had, the one I so arrogantly boasted about attaining doing virtually nothing, yeah well, it kinda fell through. And, by fell through I mean I never really got it apparently. I called the boat owner, who sounded excited to have me aboard and gave me instructions to call the captain to make arrangements and a schedule. I did as told, but for four days, all I got was his answering machine. Then, when I tried to call the owner back he didn´t answer my calls either. That, coupled with my regrets about agreeing to be a bar manager for a local Mexican restaurant (essentially the same job I fled from back in the States) gave me enough reason to pack up my bag on a Thursday morning and catch the early bus out of town, leaving any an all obligations in my wake. So, finally, after two and a half weeks, I said goodbye to Tamarindo, without much to show for it.

I decided to head back to Jaco, the infamous town chronicled in an earlier blog as a prostitute and drug infested shit hole. You might be asking yourself, why would I, with all the amazing destinations in Costa Rica, select this one, and, it is indeed a good question, but I had my reasons. Playa Herradura, a town just 2km to the north of Jaco is home to the exclusive Marriott resort and Los Suenos, the biggest Marina in Costa Rica. I had received word that most of the countries charter fishing comes out of this dock and it would be the best place to seek employment.

After landing in Jaco in the early afternoon, I checked into the Hostel de Hann which turned out to be a great place. Complete with cheap clean rooms, a communal kitchen set on an outdoor terrace overlooking a small private pool, and FREE INTERNET! This place had all the extras needed for survival in this otherwise sad town. Plus, the people staying here were really cool and I made some friends right away. We all ended up socializing on the terrace after dinner and sampling the bar scene later on that night.

I awoke late the following morning and headed out to Los Suenos on an outbound public bus. This turned to be a mistake, as it took over an hour and a half to reach Herradura (remember, only 2km away) due to frequent stops to pickup (what seemed like) every middle schooler in Central America, as they headed home for lunch. So, close to midday I got off at the resort´s gated entry and walked 1.5km to the Marina.

Now, I am by no means an expert on maritime nor have I seen many Marinas, but Los Suenos has got to be one of the premier fishing destinations in the world if not the universe. Costa Rica is often considered one of the best locations for sportfishing and this seemed to attract the elitists of the sport. Every slip, and there were over 200 of them, was occupied by a boat worth well over a million dollars, some much, much more. An average day trip on one of these vessles cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $1,000. Some of the best and most coveted fishing tournaments are held here each year earning it the reputation as the British Open of sportfishing. In a word, it was serious fishing for serious fishermen. I guess that´s seven words.

So image then, that a groggy-eyed, scruffy faced gringo, lobster-red and soaked in sweat from walking in the midday sun, comes panting up to your 3 million dollar Sunsetter mumbling something about wanting a job though he´s never worked on a boat before and could only do it for a week or so on account of having to meet up with his friend who was flying in to San Jose. Samuel L. Jackson would have a better chance at joining the KKK then I did of cracking in on one of these outfits. The funny thing is, I knew it, but I still persisted because I thought, if anything, it would be good to see what they were looking for and how much they paid. That would be a challenge in itself since the guards, seeing that I was not a person of affluence, wouldn´t even let me down on the dock for the first hour saying I needed to get someone to vouch for me first. Eventually, I was able to use my backpack as collateral and was given a pass and the illustriously opportunity to grace there platforms and talk with some captains.

I did interview on one boat, a 45 foot Yacht called the High Tide out of Incest Alabama or Roadkill South Carlina or some place like that. The captain was nice enough, and was indeed looking for help, but he wanted a deckhand with experience, a six month commitment, and a resume, non of which I could give him.

I stopped in at a charter office on my way out and asked the guy behind the counter if he knew anyway I could get on a boat for a week just to learn how to crew. He laughed in my face and told me that I needed six to eight months on a boat to really learn how to work a fishing boat and that I couldnt' learn anything in a week. He then launched into a pre-rehearsed speech about the idiosyncrasies of ocean fishing and how one has to have a vast amount of knowledge about boats, fish, and the ocean before even asking to be let on a charter. He then informed me that most of the mates at this marina had gone to the maritime academy to get there positions, showing that they were "really dedicated to the art of sportfishing."

I had to hold myself back from laughing as I walked back to the bus stop. I am fly fisherman and indeed believe in the subtle nuances of baiting, hooking, and landing a prise fish, but this guy was trying to turn paint by numbers into a Rembrandt. I coudn't tell if he was serious or if he was just trying to take the piss out of me. I hope it was the later because anyone who thinks that you need a PHD in Aero Science to put a little plastic thing with a hook in the water, drag it behind a boat where ever your GPS tells you to and drink beer until you hear the line snap forward has been out in the Costa Rican sun too long. Yet, then again, I can't knock it to much, seeing as that I have been trying, without much success I might add, to get a job doing just that.

So, with no possibility of employment and nothing tying me to Jaco, I think I´ll leave the hot sunny beaches for a few days and cool off in the chilly highlands and await my friends arrival at the end of the week.

Tamarindo - Costa Rica

2007-02-16T07:01:00.000-08:00

Not originally part of my Costa Rican itinerary -- many independent travelers find it to be an overdeveloped tourist trap -- I opted to go to Tamarindo because a) Patrik, my Swedish surfing companion was looking for good waves and b) I, hearing they had a good stock of fish and sailboats, was looking for a job as a first mate. Additionally, I had visited Tamarindo on a family vacation two years before and wanted to see how it had changed in that time. Boy, had it.

When our dust filled bus rolled out of the foothills to the shoreline of Tamrindo with the last rays of sun disappeared over the horizon, I could see though the shadows and twilight that this was an entirely different place from what I remembered. Where mom and pop shops once lined the road leading into town now stood small mini malls and souvenir shops. Where once stood local restaurants sampling local flavors, now were American food chains like Pizza Hut, Burger King, and TCBY. I could see why backpackers and ecotourists would be turned off by this town´s blatant sell out to American Imperialism. And, along with this influx of conglomerates and high rise condos, crime and prostitution have also infiltrated the town. It leaves you wondering why the locals would allow this to happen.

But its not that simple, and many who live in Tamrindo, natives and transplants alike, are up in arms fighting developers to try and save what little of its previous charm remains. Many Gringos who live here, most of whom for over 20 years, are all part of local boards and community groups trying to stay this over-development. But, I'm afraid to say, they have little chance against the powers of Western money which the Costa Rican government welcomes with open greedy arms.

As a traveler however, Tamarindo is not that bad. There is a steady flow of young parting tourists and plenty of places to get a drink and with deluge of eatetiers, you get an abundence of choices at competitive prices. Plus, with a decent beach, and host of cheap apartment and room rentals, I thought this would be a good place, in spite of all its Americanisms, to settle in for a few weeks and find a job. I had asperations of becoming a deckhand or mate on a local fishing boat for a few weeks. That would prove to be a lot harder then I thought.

I spent the better part of two weeks looking for work without success. I would go down to the 'docks' in the early mornings trying to talk my way onto a boat but, being the middle of the high season, the captains already had there crew and didn't have time to train a new recruit. In town, there was a bunch of restaurants and bars but they couldn't hire you unless you had working papers, a thing unobtainable unless you lived in Costa Rica for two years or married a Tica girl, both of which I was not prepared to do. So, I waited. I sat around on my ass waiting for something to fall into my lap. I'd play in the local poker tournaments (a serious venture here since they send one lucky qualifier to the world seriers of poker every year. I'd fish though I had to pay for it., I'd party with Partik and a big group of friends at the hostel. I basically became a beach bum.

Finally, after two weeks, I had had enough and wanted to leave. But, the night before I was going to take off, I ran into the owner of a local bar. His name was Pablo and I had met him at a poker tournament at his establishment the week before. He had perviously told me he knew a few people who might need help on their boats and he would look into it for me. Not really caring at this point anyway I asked him if he had found anyone. He told me that he hadn't talked with them yet but he had some maintenance work he needed done around the bar, cleaning gutters, scrubbing patios, ext. and I could do it as long as I didn't mind earning Tico wages ($1.50 hr). Hell yes I minded. I didn't want to do hard labor in the hot Costa Rican sun for next to nothing. At the same time, I didn't want to be rude or seem snobby so I agreed to come by the following morning. It turned out to be the best carreer move I made since I'd been there.

Fist of all, it was a suprisingly great feeling to actually be working, forget the fact that it was for less then it cost to write to you now, it was work. Doing something productive and getting paid for it was a feeling I had long since forgotten. I found myself whistling while I fought off Iguanas on his rooftop, humming along with the radio as I scrubbed, and re-scrubbed his sap stained patio. Genuinely happy as I raked up his scorpion and fire ant infested leaves. It was great!

As I was raking the last of the leaves into a bag, he came out and told me that he had just got off the phone with one of his friends who owns a sailboat and he indeed needed an extra hand and I had the job if I wanted it. If I wanted it??! I tried to contain my excitement and said that sounded like it would be cool or whatever and was the happiest guy in the world. To top it off, after work, as a token of my appreciation I washed his car for free!

So the moral of this story is, if you sit around on your ass long enough, something good will eventually fall into your lap!

Malpais - Costa Rica

2007-02-07T17:28:00.000-08:00

I had my reservations about going to Malpais. The Planet describes it as a surfers paradise but nothing special if you don't hang 10. This posed two problems for me. One, I am not much of a surfer and even though I am always willing to give it a try, I couldn't see myself falling in love with it and wanting to do it everyday. Second, I don't much like surfers and surfer towns. In my experiences in California and other places, they tend to be clicky and have an elitist, even snobby, attitude. But, having talked with more than a few people who had been there and loved it, I thought I would give it its fair chance.

Malpais is not like other tourist destinations in that it's not actually a town, but a series of small collected hamlets stretched out along a long dirt road for about 3 or 4 kms. Driving along in a bus, you'd pass by a collection of hostels, a bar, a pulperia (shop) and a few eateries before the road would dwindled off into forest and beach again for a few minutes until you came to the next encampment. But what it lacked in centrally located enmities it made up for with it's accommodations. One in particular.

Tranquillo backpackers is probably the best hostel I've stayed at in all my travels. Only a few years old, the place is brand spanking new with clean bathrooms (co-ed), a huge kitchen, sturdy beds, and a fresh coat of paint that gives you the impression that you're staying at a upper class hotel and not a $12 dorm room hostel. It gets better. They offer free Internet, a big plus for me since I spent a lot of time writing to you guys, free pancake breakfasts every morning, that you make yourself, and boy did I. I'm talking about pancakes as big as a car tire. It also had a pool table, ping pong, and DVD library, all for free! And, the icing on the cake, it every spare corner of the place was lined with hammocks. It had everything you wanted.

Plus, the surfers that I dreaded so much turned out to be some of the coolest, nicest people I've met on my travels thusfar. I made more than a few freinds who I would gladly invite to crash on my coutch in Cali and who extended an invitation for me to do the same if I ever found myself in there neck of the woods. Likewise, the town itself had an non nonse and unpretensious vibe that was evedent from the onset, just look at the restaurant signage.

The only problem was, that is all there was. After spending a week there, surfing or swimming in the mornings, lounging around in hammocks in the afternoons, and socializing over pool, and card games in the evenings, I began to get a little restless. Plus, though I never thought I'd say this, I was beginning to get a little sick and tired of pancakes. So, along a Swedish guy I had befriended there, we decided to move before we got adult onset diabetes from the sugary breakfasts and coconut cocktails.

Montezuma - Costa Rica

2007-02-07T17:00:00.000-08:00

Getting the hell out of Jaco just as fast as I could, I took a bus, a boat, and another bus to Montezuma, a small outpost on the southern most tip of the Nicoya Peninsula billed as a backpacker place with a hippie vibe. After the serene experiences of Jaco I suppose I could have gotten off the bus at a stockyard in the middle of a swamp and it would have been an upgrade, but, standing in the town center, I could tell Montezuma had a vibe I could gel with.

Montezuma is more of a pueblo then an actual town, with a small park as it's epicenter, the bulk of the town is spread out within a few square blocks comprised mostly of restaurants, hotels, and a few small bars. Longhaireed street venders in hemp clothing lined these blocks pawning off there self made jewelry and crafts, always greeting you with a 'buenas' and a smile. It was small and simple, and that was it's charm, not pretending to be to be a big resort destination. It would if it could I suppose, but the steep zig zagging dirt track that leads you here has thwarted any developers plans for building up the area.

Just north of this 'center' there is a small beach that fronts a rocky break and a few backpacker Cabinas and tent sites. I found quarters in a sparse hostel that gave me a room big enough for a twin bed, a fan (on the wall) and, if you held your breath, a person. But it was right on the beach and $10 a night, so I couldn't complain.

Accompanying this welcoming vibe, were welcoming people, and within the first 15 minutes of being there, I had made four friends. A Swiss couple I met getting off the bus, and an American and Israeli when looking for a place to stay. We became a tight group from the start and had most of our meals together and most of our exploring as well.

The Swiss couple and I took a day hike to some nearby waterfalls which were a very impressive sequence of three cascades, one with a 40ft jump if you were feeling adventurous. Then the next day, we all set out to explore the series of beaches along the southern tip of the coast that eventually would lead us to Playa Grande, noted as being the best beach in the area with calm waters and coral colored white sand. We hiked for almost two hours, through forest reserves and along rocky headlands in search of this post card worthy stretch of beach only to find that it was nothing more than a long line of trash covered brown sand that was apparently also a nude beach. And when I say nude beach, I mean gay nude beach seeing as they both seem to be synonymous anyway. We spent the better part of the afternoon shielding our eyes from oily old Italian men with young Tico boys who waved to us (not with there hands) as they strolled by. Not what we were expecting, but an experience to log in our journals anyway.

After a few days in this place, I began to give serious thought to staying on here and finding a job. It seemed to have everything I wanted, a chilled out beach town with a mellow vibe (but not a surfer scene), with some nightlife and other activities if you got board. I asked around a bit and found that there was not real work to be found in town and that most of the boat activities (where I was looking to find employment) came out of Jaco. Well, there went that idea. So, when the Swiss couple said they were moving up to Malpais, a 2 hour bumpy ride up the coast, I decided that would be my next stop too.

Manuel Antonio to Montezuma- Costa Rica

2007-02-03T13:12:00.000-08:00

After the Swiss Miss sisters took there leave of us in Dominical, the Berkeley bunch and I moved camp up north to the resort town of Manuel Antonio, a small plot of restaurants and hotels fronting a picturesque beach and the entrance to a national park by the same name. We got settled in, the Berkeley bunch again opting for a nice hotel on a wind blown bluff overlooking the ocean while I sweated it out in the hot, thick air of a hostel back off the main drag on the fridge of the jungle. After that, we got right to, as Leif so rightly calls it, 'work.'

'Work,' for us consisted of an early day time activity, for instance, a walk through the national park to commune with the white-face monkeys and sloths that lounge and forage through the trees, followed by a lunch --which always ended up being at the same place with the same tired waiter-- and then a good half day on the beach. This was considered the real work, "putting in time at the beach," an it was actually. You had to make sure to get equal distribution of ultraviolet light on all sides and get as much as your skin would allow without burning. This required lots of 30 SPF sunblock -- 40 for the face-- and cool off breaks under an umbrella or in the ocean. I'm not kidding when I say, it this is hard work.

A few day short of a full work week, the Berkeley Bunch had to get back to San Jose and take a plane back to the States and I moved on in search of sunny beaches on the Nicoya Peninsula. It wasn't that many kms away, but the journey would involve a least three buses, a cab, and a slow ferry to get there and, not being pressed for time, I decided to break up the trip and made a stopover in Jaco, midway up the Pacific coast.

Little more than a one road town with an uninspiring beach filled with drug pushers and prostitutes, Jaco is definitely lacking in the charm department. But, being the most access able beach town from San Jose (only 2 hrs away) it is a popular pace and the road is actually a four lane highway flanked by high rise hotels and teeming with old, fat American men on there yearly 'fishing' trip. The fishing, usually consisted of them going to the bar, picking out a working girl, drinking as much as possible and then heading off to there hotels. Occasionally they'll actually go out on a boat, so they have some pictures to show there wives when they get back home. I had the dubious honor of staying in a hostel just next to one such bar and had to pass by it every time I came and went.

On one such occasion, returning to my room after dinner, I turned the corner by the bar and almost stepped on a prostitute who was crouched down in the middle of the street with her (possibly his) mini-skirt rolled up around her/his waist as it urinating. startled, I stutter stepped by him/her barley missing the rather large stream that was flowing toward the gutter and too my amazement, she/he didn't even stop, move, or look away, it just stared back at me as if I had tripped over it's shoe while it was reading the Sunday times on a park bench. Classy place, this Jaco.

The next day, feeling compelled for some reason to move on, I walked over to the bus stop to await the next transport out of town. When I got there, I was welcomed by a young Tico boy who was also waiting for the bus. We chatted in my broken Spanish and I learned that he was a student who had a part time job at a pharmacy in the next town. He was nice, friendly and helpful, telling me where to go and what to see up the coast. We small talked 2 or 3 minutes, all the time needed to exhaust my Spanish vocabulary and then the conversation trailed off.

A few minutes later another kid on a bike pulled up and my young friend ran over to greet him. They started into an excited conversation, one that was moving too quickly for me to follow, and then the kid reached into his pants and pulled out a small but bulky hand gun. Needless to say, this sent a shiver up my spine as I was completely caught off guard. He handed it over to the guy on the bike who inspected it like it was his occupation and then, with a nod of approval, handed it back. Then, with a air of question in his voice he told him something. The kid looked around, first at me (causing me to break out in a cold sweat) and then around for anyone else that might be in the immediate facinity. Before I could begin to think what he was doing to raised the gun, cocked it and, with a ear piecing crack, fired into the bushes behind the bus stop. The shot echoed down the street and I turned around to see what the reaction of the people nearby would be. There was none. No one even broke stride, lifted a eyebrow, or cocked there head. Business as usual in Jaco I guess.

His friend took off and he sat back down, putting his gun back in his belt and shooting me a placating grin. When I asked him why a young student with a job was carrying a gun he again looked at me with a grin. "Es nesesario aqui, amgio, es nesesario," (it's necessary here, my friend, it's necessary). The bus pulled up a few minutes later and I was happy to to say good by to Jaco.

Pasific Coast - Costa Rica

2007-01-19T17:23:00.000-08:00

Having gotten in touch with our inner spirits in the cloud forest, it was time to drink a few and we said bye-bye to the wet and windy Highlands making path for the dry and hot Pacific coast. Leah, a friend we all knew from college, was taking surf lessons with her sister in the centrally located Domincal, and we thought that would be the perfect place to start.

A low key surf town, Domincal is on the up and coming track and land there is being bought up quicker than Microsoft stock in the 80s. The pot-holed dirt track that leads you there is being paved over with asphalt and you know that this town's days as a sleepy little fishing hamlet are numbered. The locals, anticipating this, and have raised the prices to fit those of a resort destination, in spite of the fact that it still lacks all the enmities of such places, such as banks, good food, and, oh yeah, resorts.

This became abundantly clear when we checked into our hotel, supposedly one of the better deals in town. The Planet indicated that they had large cabanas for up to five people with three bedrooms, all with AC, a TV, and kitchen. What the half-conscious hotel receptionist showed us was a dark musty room with temporary walls partitioning it into thirds, two of which were bedrooms, and the third the entryway, "kitchen," and a steel bunk bed thrown in the corner, supposedly making up the third bedroom. There was two bathrooms and two AC's but they were both in the other bedrooms and the receptionist seemed almost offended when we asked for a fan for the third "bedroom." The TV worked, but since they didn't have cable we couldn't watch anything. Oh, and they charged us $70 a night for the privilege of staying with them. Very expensive, even for Costa Rica. Unimpressed with these accommodations, we switched out the next day and, with the girls, moved to another hotel down the street. It wasn't fully built yet and the construction started early in the morning, but it was a welcome reprieve from the casa loco down the road.

We spent 4 days in total in Domincal, mostly on the beach paralleling the town during the daylight hours and in one of the many bars that line the main drag come nightfall. However, the day before we left, Leah, Cynthia (thad be her sister), Eli, and I signed up for a horse back riding/waterfall tour. I was actually not going to go, the price being a bit too steep for my backpacking billfold, but Leah offered to front me the money (which I will pay back!) and I got to tag along. I was glad I did.

We took a taxi to 'Don Titos Horse Tours' and, along with about 20 other tourists checked in at this family run horse ranch. Our guides, the two grandsons of the owner, 21 and 16 year old Eddy and Marcos, though young, were obvious veterans, having done this there whole lives. Knowing every horse, and it's personality and rider preference, they went around asking everyone what there experience was with horses and then matching up with a steed accordingly. The more experienced riders got the younger stronger horses. When Eddy asked me I said I'd ridden "a dozen times," which was, in effect, a complete lie but I wanted a good strong horse and not a lagging nag. What he gave me was a young colt named Cuchulo, or what I came to call him, Culo (asshole). He was young and brash and, knowing I was an inexperience rider who would not take control, decided he was going to lead and I would have to follow. From the moment we started down the trail, zig zaging it's way down the valley wall toward the river below, Culo broke from the line and rushed toward the front.

Horses have a peaking order, the dominate horse get the right of way, and little Cullo did not yet understand this and repeatedly tried to overtake the older dominate horses. These horses would in turn, push, bite, and even hit check Culo sending him to the edge of the trail, (often times a steep drop to the valley floor below) and me to the edge of a heart attack. Eventually, he was able to squeeze past the lead horse and, to my terror, broke into a gallop down the steep rocky maze of criss-crossing trails leaving me to wonder where he thought he was going and where the hell Eddy was. But hey, if it was unsafe they wouldn't let the horses run free right? They know what they're doing... this is Costa Rica! I also noticed that Culo was veering from one side of the path to the other, specifically toward under hug branches so that as we rode past, they would slap me in the face. He was doing it on purpose. It sounds paranoid I know, but the asshole did it every time! I knew what he was doing, he was testing me, taunting me, daring me to take control. He wanted me to. With no other choice, I grabbed the reigns, leaded forward in the saddle, trying to get into the rhythm, and, with a swift heel check to his gut, kicked it up a notch and we tore down the trail. We came to the river, were Culo, not yet having the wisdom to conserve his energy paused, exhausted, for a long drink and was much more docile for the rest of the trip.

After a half hour, we came to the families house, perched up on a bluff overlooking the river valley. It was a small farmhouse converted into a restaurant complete with hammocks, parrots, and a shy, but friendly Toucan. There we had a traditional breakfast before heading on to the waterfalls, which were an amazing set of double falls that offered a refreshing dip and rock jumping. We spent the majority of the day there, returning to the restaurant for a late afternoon lunch and chance to play with the wildlife before heading back. Culo, having found his second wind, and I, my confidence, had a great ride back and sprinted up the hill in a dead run finishing alongside the other lead horses. I think we can say that both Culo and I earned our stripes that day.

La Fortuna & Monteverde - Costa Rica

2007-01-18T17:48:00.000-08:00

We were all tired. It had been a wet, crowded, bumpy bus ride and when we arrived in La Fortuna it was damp and clowdy. We checked into our repective accomodations, the Berkeley bunch staying at the upscale Pura Vida, with air con and cable TV, and me at Gringo Pete's with with 8 person dorms and lockers for your personal effects (keys for the locks were extra). But hey, only $2 a night!

La Fortuna is a base from which you can explore Volcan Arenal, one of CR's most active volcanoes. During my visit here two years perior, we had been rewared with spectacular views and a midnight erruption with large chunks of glowing red volcanic rocks shooting out of the crater like missles afire and exploding on the steeps below. Sounds great huh, but we got none of that this time around. The volcano was hidden in a think showd of mist and fog and apparetnly hadn't been visable in weeks. It was so dense in fact that is was impossible to tell if there was a volcano there at all and Leif and Eli were sceptical.

With no projectile pyrotechnics on display, we consoled ourselves with the other main attraction in La Fortuna: the hot springs. With numerous underground water systems that are superheated by the emerging magma, Fortuna has an expance of day spas with built-in pools along the stream bed and are the perfect temperature for a soothing dip. We spent hours soaking in the relaxing spring water, making sure to hit up the bar for a refreshing cocktail between soaks. As good as this was we realized that that was all we were going to get out of Fortuna, we cut our losses and headed up to Monteverde the next day, taking a jeep, boat, jeep transport to get there.

The town of Monteverde, and the nearby Santa Elena, are perched up in the highland mountains, just below the cloud forest line. Thousands of visitors flock here each year to walk or zipline though this impressive jungle and search for rare species of birds and flora and fauna. Not able to sell everyone on the zipline tour, we opted for a hike through the Santa Elena Cloud Forest Reserve instead. Walking along in the damp mist you felt minuscule compared to the overgrown trees and ferns. Even the shrubs that grew off the tress were massive and you understood that you were staring at centuries of life and were walking on ancient ground. This mysticism was compounded by the mist that encapsulated every part of the forest, from the jungle floor to the tops of the canopies. And, it blew through it in big gusts spraying sheets of condensation over everything (and everyone).

I usually don't take walks, always going for the fast-paced ziplines or supercharge dirt bikes instead, but its always good to stop and smell the fungi from time to time. To take in all the sights and sounds that you would otherwise not bother to see or hear. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to buy a pair of wool socks, and start eating granola everyday, but, at leat for that day, I defiantly felt at one with nature.

San Jose/Highlands - Costa Rica

2007-01-15T15:03:00.000-08:00

SAN JOSE

I got in late in the afternoon on the 3rd and wasted no time in meeting up with Leif and Eli, two high school buddies who had come down for a couple weeks to tour Costa Rica. We caught up over a mediocre dinner and then headed out to the party spot, a collective of discos called El Pueblo. It was worse than the dinner, with a seedy fenced entrance and a group of mostly vacant discotheques blaring non-stop reggae tone for small groups of teenie-boppers. I was stunned, I had been there two years ago with my girlfriend Naomi and it was the place to be, with every bar full, dance floors going crazy and bilar-inas and DJ's leading the festivities. Apparently a lot can change in two years.

And that is the sense I got with San Jose. Where before we could walk the streets at night a feel completely safe, I now heard horror stories about armed robberies and doggy side streets. A friend of mine was walking home to my very hostel with her brother one night when two Ticos pulled a gun on them and demanded money. They were starting to hand it over when one of them hit her brother in the face, not knowing that he was an ex-marine who didn't like to be hit in the face. He then grabbed the guy with the gun and beat the shit out of him while his friend watched in horror. Not to be out done, my friend clocked the other guy, breaking his nose. The assailants ran off and my friends were ok, but that kinda stuff was very rare two years ago and now it seems to becoming more and more common place.

HIGHLANDS

The following day we took a bus out to the Northern Zone to meet up with Leif's mother and sister, also along for the vacation. We met them at a posh hacienda hotel set on the Rio Sardinal river in the foothills of the La Virgen. It was way out of my budget, but I splurged myself and enjoyed a refreshing dip in the pool, a real hot shower (I'd only had about 3 in the past two months), and a full dinner and breakfast buffet.

The following morning, around 8:30am, we took a taxi from our hotel out to the main road and waited for a bus, supposedly arriving any minute, to take us to our next destination, La Fortuna. Then, searching though his bag, Leif asked, "Did anyone bring the Lonely Planet?"
"Damn it," I exclaimed, "I forgot it on my bed."
I had been reading it the night before and left it along with my other book when we checked out in the morning.
"Well, I guess its lost then." Madaline (Leif's mother) signed.
I felt bad. "I can run and get it," I said.
"What if the bus comes while your gone?" Eli asked.
"If it comes take it, there will be another one, I'll just catch up with you there, plus I think I can make it, if I run fast enough." And I set out, running at a brisk pace back down the side road toward the Hotel.

I hadn't realized it on the way out, but it was a hilly road that was a lot longer than I thought. Moreover, it had started to rain and that, coupled with the humidity left me soaked in seconds. I ran on, picking up speed worried now that I would indeed miss the bus. I can tell you that in my three months of traveling I have ran about half a dozen times, usually to the gym and back in Antigua which was about five blocks and at about 65 degrees, now I was in a full sprint in the rain on some muddy road with the temperature at about 85. As I descended to a bridge crossing I was getting light headed and starting to slow down considerably. Still I pushed on, I had to make that bus! I was on the verge of passing out when I heard a truck engine behind me and turned to see a pickup truck bumping down the road. I stopped,, turned about and stood in the middle of the road making the driver come to a skidding halt right in front of me. I came around to the driver's window to find three very perplexed farmers staring back at me.
Forgetting my Spanish, and too winded to speak anyway, I mumbled the words "Nesesito... go ... the Finca... Por... Fa...vor."
They looked at me blankly for a second and then one of them spoke.
"Quieres ir al Finca?"the driver asked.
"Si!" I mouthed back.
"Si, si, es muy cerca, esta al otro lado de-"
I didn't even hear him, I just ran to the back of the truck and threw myself in the truck bed. They all looked back at me, more perplexed then before, then each other, then back at me. I gave them the thumbs up sign and singled for them that I was ready to go on. The driver turned back around and with a slight shake of his head started up the road... about another 25 feet around a bend and to the entrance to the Hotel.
"Oh," I muttered dismounting, "Esta muy cerca."
They all gave me the thumbs up sign with a slight shake of their head and rolled off down the road.

I ran up the dive way and yelled for a taxi as I dashed into the room and grabbed the books. I came back out and jumped into the cab telling him to double time it back to the road. The trip had taken twice as long as I thought it would and I was sure if I hadn't missed them already it would be close. We raced back down the road, and arrived back at the bus stop to find them all still standing there relieved that I had made it back in time. I emerged from the car covered in mud and sweat and had to change on the side of the freeway. But at least I would make the bus which should have arrived by now. We waited, we waited, and we waited. The Hotel had told us 8:45-9:00am, the taxi driver told me 10:00am, then a women waiting along the road told us 11:00am. The bus actually arrived just before noon, right on time according to the bus driver. I couldn't be mad though, at least I hadn't missed it and I got some much needed exercise to boot.

Updates - Panama & Costa Rica

2007-01-15T07:37:00.000-08:00

I´ve seemed to have gotten a little behind in my blog posting so I will try and summarize my past couple of weeks in condensed sections, that are more fill than frill.

COSTA RICA

After our harrowing boarder crossing, Mike and I thought that the Caribbean would be a nice reward. We landed in Puerto Viejo, a surfer town almost touching the southeastern border with Panama. This town makes it claim to fame for having the famous ´Salsa Bravas,´ a off shore reef break that offers spectacular, and dangerous, waves for die-hard surfers. The town itself was a little on the seedy side. Most of the locals are young men who aggressively and unabatedly pursue the foreign girls. I found this out first hand because we met up with our friends Judith and Emily and had to fend off these sleaze balls 24/7. But all was not lost, at our hostel, we met up with some of Mike´s friends who had amassed a huge group of 14 people and it made for a very merry Christmas, complete with a huge potluck, Elmo pinata, and Christmas carrels. I made it an early night and went back to my tent around 4am, Mike stayed up until 9.

The following day, Mike´s group convinced us to come with them down to Panama City for New Years. Wasn´t in the plans and a bit out of the way since I had to be back in San Jose on the 3rd to meet my friends, but if Panama is the place to be, then I couldn´t pass it up.

PANAMA

Mike went ahead with the rest of the group and I traveled with the girls, who were also going to PA to ring in the new year. The border crossing passed without incident and we made our way toward Bocas de Torro, an outcrop of islands just south of the border and a must-see on the Panama backpacking circuit. We almost didn´t get the chance because after being told by a border guide (never to be trusted) that it would cost $5 for a taxi and boat ride to Bocas, he put us in a cab with his buddy cab who, after arriving at the docks, demanded more money saying it was $5 each for the cab and $5 more each for the boat. We refused to pay, not because of the money, but the principle. We got in the boat and sat there while he yelled at us and called the police. Finally he got the dock agent to hold up the boat until we either payed or got off and waited for the federalies. Not wanting to miss that last boat of the afternoon, nor have anything to do with the Panama police, we swallowed our pride and coughed up the cash. The was a lot of activities in Bocas, from surfing and snorkel tours to bike rides and beaches, but I didn´t do any of that because it rained the whole time. We spent the time getting our livers in shape for the new years celebrations that were rapidly approaching, playing drinking games and Martin (a Swedish guy in the group) and I taking Tequila suicide shots. That´s where you snort salt up your nose, squirt lime juice in your eye, then finish with a shot of the worst tequila they have. Sounds awful, and it was, but it was also free!

From there we made our way to Panama City and settled in for our New Years festivities. The group, now more then 20 strong, would have a huge dinner at our hostel, ring in the New Year there, and then head out to the bars, which don't really get crowded until 1am or so anyway. The first part went as planned with a big dinner on the veranda followed by fireworks and champagne to for the ball drop. But after that, it all fell apart. Imagine yourself trying to keep 5 drunk people, all with there own idea of where they want to go, together. Impossible right. Now imagine that there are 19 people and your drunk too. It ended up being just the girls and I walking down to Calle Uruguay, a stretch of real estate with a bunch of bars and discos. It was at this point that we decided that it would be a good idea to try and take shots for every letter in the words 'New Year.' Probably better done at the beginning of the night than at the end. Judith ended up getting really drunk and decided it was a good idea for her to take a walk around town by herself. Emily, not drunk enough to see the wisdom in this, wouldn't let her and they ended up walking around together, leaving me to finish off the New Year's challenge. We finally made it back to the hostel to watch the sun come up and people were starting to file in from there adventures as well. Everyone except Mike, who ended up waking up on a side street somewhere downtown having no idea how he had gotten there. We were convinced that, had she gone off on her own, Judith would have somehow woken up beside him. The next day was spent recuperating, or, in Mike's case, drinking and gambling at the casinos. As for myself, I fell back on my favorite pastime, movies. And, to start the new year off right, we made it a double feature.

COSTA RICA

The following day the girls and I took a long, sticky bus ride back to Costa Rica stopping late in the afternoon at a small roadside town called Palmar Norte. There we treated ourselves by checking into in a nice Cabana hotel with a pool and relaxed after a long travel day. That night we had a farewell dinner as the girls where heading off the Pacific and I was heading up to San Jose to meet up with my friends. It had only been about two weeks since I started traveling with them, but I felt like I had known them forever and it was sad to say goodbye. Now I'm waiting to meet up with my Berkeley companions and explore Costa Rica and see what's changed since my last visit over two years ago.

Boarder Crossing - Nicarauga

2007-01-06T08:33:00.000-08:00

Finding the hiked up prices for the holidays but not the social scene to go with it, Mike and I decided to leave Nicaragua and head off to Costa Rica, where the girls and a bunch of Mike´s friends were planning on being for Christmas. Mike was actually ready to leave well before I was, but waited for me because he didn´t really want to cross the border alone. He didn´t know it at the time, but my company would be little help to the absolute mayhem that awaited us at the border.

We set out at 6:45am, wanting to get an early start and avoid any holiday rush that might come traveling the day before Christmas. We got to the border before 8am and when we got out of the cab, we didn´t see any of the long lines that the Planet had been warning us about and figured that, for once, the book was proving wrong in our favor. Then we turned the corner to walk to the immigration office. Though only 8am, there was a line that ran from the ticket windows, down the length of the building, around the corner down that side, and was spilling out into the street. We quickly took a place in line, somewhere in the middle of the street, and a downpour promptly let loose. We struggled with our bags as we moved the line beneath an awning on now, the third side of the building. We noted that during this mad rush we had lost a fair bit of places in line as people took the opportunity to mistakenly´move up´during the confusion. From then on, the line was at a virtual stand still.

Mike and I passed the hours making markers and predicting when we would reach them. ¨I bet we can make it to the tree (10ft away) in a hour,¨ ¨betcha, we cross that lamp post before ten.¨ Sometimes you need to set small goal to attain the bigger ones. Well, the bigger one was not getting any closer and after hours of standing in the rain I figured it was time to see what was up. I ran up to the ticket booths around the corner and discovered the problem. There was no organized line and it was a virtual free for all. Our line, the one we had been standing in for 2 hours, lead to a single file stream of people that were getting pushed to the wall by all the others, who were just jumping in front and trying to push there way to the window.

Mike and I decided it was not in our best interest to try and cut and waited another hour to cross the corner. By then, the group of cutters had turned into a mob, and no one was moving anywhere. Fights were starting to breakout in the crowd, and the border officials -who, up until now, had been calmly sipping coffee and chatting in behind the ticket window watching the madness- took action. They grabbed one guy and dragged him into the street beating him with there batons. The man, terrified tried to give up, but the police kept hitting him and finally put him in cuffs. This show did little to dissuade the crowd and more pushing and hitting ensued. Mike and I, having been adopted by a group of Nicaraguan´s who felt sorry for us, held our place in line and tried to push forward.

Finally, after four hours, I had had enough, realizing that we may never get through. We had another idea. Tica bus, a first class international bus company was known to take care of all the passport business for there passengers. If we could get on a Tica bus, the could, in theory, handle it and save us the trouble. Problem was that all the Tica buses coming to the border were already full, and, by the time I tried to barter our way on, the passport official had come and gone. Finally, Mike had the bright idea that, instead of trying to get a seat, we could just ask them to take our passports, get them stamped and we would walk across. This would be illegal of course and like most illegal activities at the border, it would cost. But after four plus hours in this shit hole, we were ready to pay any price.

When the next Tica Bus pulled in, I approached the driver. He waited for everyone else to get off the bus and then let only me in to negotiate. $20 a passport and we would have to walk across. Fine by us and we agreed. He handed him the money and the passports and he disappeared behind the crowd. Yes, I was a little nervous about it, since we really couldn´t go to the authorities if he pulled any tricks, but you have to understand how desperate we were to get out of there. He reappeared moments later and said the inspection official would be by later. He then motioned for me to come back on the bus and again we had a private conference, in which he told me that, for a price, he could be persuaded to give us a space on the bus all the way to San Jose. This seemed like a godsend to us and we agreed. Little did we know that, space did not mean seat and when we got our passports back and boarded the bus he told us that we would have to stand in the back and duck down when we crossed the boarder patrol. OK, so now had had our passports illegally stamped and were sneaking across the border. Not wise, but still a better option then the never ending lines at the Nica border.

Once past inspection we had to disembark at the Costa Rican side and go through there migration office. We were preparing ourselves for another mob, but found nothing of the sort. We got out, qued up in a line, separated by partitions, where one officer stood watch and were through in less then 20 minutes. I couldn´t image why the Nicas did do the same. They had the personnel, and we saw the partitions... boxed up in a corner of an office. We were across! But, there is no rest for the weary, and for the next five hours Mike sat in the isle by the bathroom and I sat perched atop a diaper changing shelf at the back of the bus. We didn´t even care, we were just happy to be across. The moral of this story is its amazing what a length of rope and a guy in a uniform can do to create order out of chaos.

Isle de Ometepe - Nicraguara

2006-12-30T13:11:00.000-08:00

Now three strong, Mike, Judith, myself, we did a hope skip and a jump down to the next tourist destionation along Nicaragua's Western streach between Lake Nicoragua and the Pasific, Isle de Ometepe, Nicaragua. We were feeling good about life and enjoying the boat ride over when I heard a familar voice that made the hair on the back of my head stand up. Jane had decided to tag along and was now joining us on the sundeck. I went back inside.

Omotepe is billed as a more rustic and way to expierence true Nicaruagan culture, the small villages scatered between at the bases of the two volcanos that make up the majority of the island offer basic accomodations and little in the way of a social scene. Nontheless, we made our way to the base of Volcan Madera following the Lying Planet´s suggestion to stay at Finca Magdalena -Jane decided to stay there too, brillant- a old farm house turned Hostel set at the base of the Volcano and make the easy day hike to the top of the volcano in the morining. It was at this point that I decided never to take the Planet siriously again.

First the Finca. I have noticed that in many cases, the hostels that are listed as being the best in the planet usually turn out to be the worst. I think this is so because, after getting into ´the book,´these places don´t need to worry about reputation or word of mouth to get a steady stream of buisness. So they kick back, now on easy street (relatively) knowing that no matter what they do, or don´t do, they will always have there rooms filled. Such was the case with the Finca, which offered millitary style cots in misquito friendly open-air storage rooms, and abismal serfice without a smile. The food, written up to be cheap and great, was anything but. I´m not sure if it was a joke, but the cooks somehow managed to undercook the beans, and overcook the rise. Did ya get that, they couldn´t even cook beans and rice, I won´t even talk about the meat or moldy bread. On top of that, they shut down the resturant at 7pm and the bar at 9, though they decided to close it at 8:15 on this particular night. To pass the time, and aviode Jane, who was confessing to the rest of the group that she had once taken three shots and not felt drunk, Mike and I were schooled in the card game ´doublehead´ by two German girls who had joined out group. Finally at 10pm for lack of anything else to do we went to bed, content to get a good night´s rest for the Volcano in the morning.

We met our guides after a horrible breakfast at the Finca and walked to the trailhead, a couple hundred meters behind the hostel. From there it was a 5km hike to the summit where the Planet told us we would be rewarded with a beautiful crater lake and a refeshing swim. Somehow, we knew that this would not be the case. The assent, ususally the easy part for me, was muy pelegroso (very dangerous). You followed a broken trail through the tropical foothills to the steeps of the volcano. From there you have to use trees and rocks to scale up the absurdly muddy path as it zig zaged its way up to the summit. This was particulary hazardous for me, who ruptured a disk only six months before, and every slip or unbalaned step threatened to tweek my back. I am not much of a quiter, but I seriously thought about throwing in the towel on this one.

Then, we made it to the summit, we were ready for our pictoureque lagoon, but, as Mike describes, ¨what we got was a muddy pond, partially obscured by mist and were banned from swimming because of the sulphur content.¨ So, after a breif rest and a quick bite, we were ready to head back down. Again Mike puts it best when he writes, ¨ with all of the visitors up and down it, plus the rain, albeit not much, the trail had become a rather dangerous, very unpleasant mudslide. This coupled with the fact that our guide ran off at speed, leaving us all behind, leaving me to speculate on the differences of meaning in the word guide, as I thought it meant to show someone something, in this case the way out and that that was what I had paid for.¨

And believe it or not he was one of the better ones.

It was worse for me, while my back had been the issue on the way up, now my knees (also an old Lacrosse injury) where begining to give out. I couldn´t control myself as I slipped down the muddy, almost stream like, trail falling several times. All around me people were slipping and falling as well, being carried off down the trail in the stream. Think of the mudslide scene with Micheal Douglas and Kathline Turnner in Romancing the Stone. The guides, who were nice enough to check in on us from time, would simply bystepped the people on the ground and kept walking down the trail.

The end couldn´t come fast enough, and back at the Finca we all sat in exhuasted silance, stunned by what we had just done to oursleves. Even the light-heated Judith, who relishes this type of adventure, said, ¨well, that was not so good.¨ Having had enough of Ometepe´s ´rustic ambiance,´ we hightailed it back to the main town and took a ferry out the next day. Judith was on to San Jose, Costa Rica, Mike and I decieded to give Nicaragua one last go and headed off to the Pasific beach town of San Juan Del Sur, where we hoped to find a lively palce to celibrate Christmas by the sea.

Laguana de Apoyo - Nicaragua

2006-12-30T13:02:00.000-08:00

Note: Mike Friend is a contributing Author to this blog post.

Granada, the three amigos (Mike, Judith, Myself) made a hop skip and a jump over to Laugna de Apoyo, a small lake 30 minutes in the back of a pickup from downtown Granada. Our hostel in Granada talked up the place and booked us into there sister hostel "The Monkey Hut." The Hut was a two story beach house set on right on the lake with basic dorm rooms, a collective kitchen, and a large hardwood veranda overlooking a secluded cove. It also had a small rocky beach with a diving dock and water platform. We spent a few hours sunbathing on the docks and taking a kayak tour of the surrounding coves, polishing it off the afternoon with a siesta in one of the veranda hammocks.

The Hut has a very co-op type feel where there is free collective use of the kayaks and sports equipment and everyone cooks together and is on the honor system for any drink or snacks they take. This sharing system allows you to meet and interact with all the other people staying there and this is what makes staying there so great. It is also what makes it so bad.

For the most part, everyone I have met so far on my travels have been stand up individuals. Even the Brits, who I had a pretty poor opinion of after a couple incidents in Thailand and Australia, were fun easy-going folk and change my views. I can attribute this trend to the fact that Central America is still not a big dot on the international backpacking circuit. Because, while it is establishing itself as a gringo-friendly destination, it isn't as traveled or developed as Europe or Southeast Asia. This means that while the true thrill seekers and adventurous come here in droves, the wankers and main streamers stay to the beaten track. But this brilliant sociological theory of mine came crumbling down when I met a girl from California named Jane.

An 18 year old recent high-school graduate, Jane stands just under five her Peruvian roots give her a stocky wide legged stance that seem to impede her as she walks. Her unkept curly black hair hides most of her flat disproportionately big face and head. Basically she looks like a troll. But, not one to judge on appearances when she engaged me in conversation, I was interested to meet a fellow Californian and get her toughts on Central America. She introduced herself and asked if the peanut butter I was holding in my hand was mine. I confessed that it was and she went on to lecture me about trans fats and how unhealthy it was, and that she grinds her own at home. Interesting I thought.

Then, while eating my Cup O'Noodles with Judith on the veranda, she told me how much sodium I was taking in and that, as a health conscious Californian, she knew better. I told her that I generally like to eat better, but, when traveling, found it to be hard and expensi- "Well, I manage just fine, you should try a little harder," she snapped back, "back home I grow my own veggies." At this point I could tell that she wasn't trying to have a conversation (or couldn't rather), but just wanted to hear herself talk. And, while Judith found her insults hilarious, I didn't and got up and left the table. Mike writes, "Scott was looking weary and disappearing into the dorm room. This turned out to be with good reason as he explained he was trying to "get away from that girl. She gives California a bad name". That girl turned out to be Jane and Scott turned out to be very accurate, although underplaying the exact nature of her annoyingness."

Later on that evening, after dinner, a group of us gathered outside for some drinking games and Jane decided to join in. Mike again writes, "The full extent of Jane´s ignorance started to emerge and she swiftly became one of those people whose very breathing would irritate you. Plus she has the table manners of an animal, lacks any social grace and her naivety is astounding, meaning that she has nothing to offer a conversation, coupled with the fact she doesn´t actually listen anyway. So the evening turned into everyone else conversing and her sat around the table, ignoring the fact she was being ignored and trying to claim some stake in the conversation unsuccessfully." We were happy to take leave of her the next day, heading south to Isla Ometepe, and be done with her... or so we thought.

Granada - Nicaragua

2006-12-28T10:28:00.000-08:00

Having spent twice as long on Utlia as I had expected, and servery cutting into my travel time before I needed to be in Costa Rica to meet my friends, I decided to forgo the rest of Honduras and try and get straight to Nicaragua. With me was Judith, a German girl I had met in Belize and now, having finished her diving on Utlia, wanted to do the same thing.

Getting to the Nicaraguan border wasn´t that bad, crossing it was another matter. As soon as we stopped the collectivo at the immigration station, we were swarmed by money changers and guys with tuk tuks all wanting to ¨help¨us. The surrounded Judith, whose Spanish was much better than mine, and started negotiating fares to take us across the border. One guy went a step further and took our bags from the car and put them on his tuk tuk. We asked him a price, and he quoted us 20 Limperias to take us across. A fare offer, we climbed aboard.

Not twenty feet later, when I asked him what the conversion rate was, he started quoting a different price for the ride. Now he wanted $2 each. Judith, not one for tricks, became furious and told him to stop. He pretended not to hear us and kept on. At this point we both told him to stop and started getting out of the tuk tuk, while it was still rolling down the hill. Not wanting to loose his fare, he agreed to our original price. We made a stop off at the border patrol to get stamped and then road on to the Nicaraguan side, where we had read buses would be waiting to to take you on to other destinations. But the driver, who, when asked about where the buses were, shook his head and saying they were, Pinche (assholes). That very well could be true, but I still wanted to find these assholes and I catch a bus.

I was beginning to get an uneasy feeling about this guy, who now avoided talking to us and was looking around as if to see if anyone was watching. He rolled to a stop in a vacant lot behind a abandoned truck inspection station. Judith asked him where the buses where and he repeated that they were assholes and then demeaned $2 from each of us. I was getting ready to step up and act brave saying we would not pay, but Judith, who saw this coming beat me two the punch. She tore into him, with unabated curtness and unsuppressed imfromality (as Germans can well do), saying that he was a lier and they was no way we were going to pay him anymore then the original price. He stood there looking at us, first her then me, who could only offer a nod as if to say ´yeah, what she said!´Shaking his head he took the Limperas and turned around calling us both Pinche Gringos, and we walked on from there.

After a lot of searching and asking, we found the out of the way hidden bus station where every other tuk tuk driver was dropping and picking up passengers and got our bus. We headed to Leon, a small city in the northwestern province famed for its charming colonial ambiance and distinctive local flair. Plus, I wanted to meet up with Mike, a friend from Guatemala, who had sent word that he was waiting for me there. We stayed there for a total of four hours. Both Judith and I had grand visions of towering colonial cathedrals and, indigenous artwork and clothing shops lining the streets, but found it to be a little uninspiring and dead. I guess when you´ve seen a parque central in every country you go to it losses its luster after a while. We stayed there just long enough to get some lunch and check my email, where I learned that Mike had moved on just that morning to Granada, another colonial city on the coast of lake Nicaragua. Wasting no time we took the next bus.

Granada was great. While it was still another typical Latin American city with a central park and cathedrals, it also possessed a certain vibrance that was laking in Leon. We met up with Mike, at one of the hostels and had a chance to catch up over dinner and drinks. Mike is a 33 year old school teacher from England who I met during a poker tournament in San Pedro, Guatemala. He is young at heart and can party with the best of them and always seems to know whats going on.

The next day, the three of us took in some culture, Judith going to a local village nearby and Mike and I touring some churches and the local museum. Both were underwhelming to say the least but we felt good about ourselves, having exercised our intellectual side. Check that off for a few more months. Meeting up with Judith in the afternoon we made our way down to the lake and took a lancha for a tour of the Isletas. A group of over 360 miniature islands that pepper the lake just off the coast of Granada, the Isletas make up a charming labyrinth of mangroves. Each island, only about 100ft from shore, owned a house, restaurant, or bar with wide verandas overlooking the far eastern shoes of Lake Nicaragua. We found bird sanctuaries and curious spider monkeys that liked to jump from the trees onto your boat and look through your belongings, and finally we found a bar were we stopped for a few beers before heading back to Granada.

Back in town, we met up with Emily, a South Londoner and a friend of Judith´s. Together the four of us set out for a tour of the nightlife, which didn´t disappoint. After a controversial pool game, which the Brits claim to have one on the last shot (who the hell thinks you don´t have to call the 8 ball?) we went to a salsa bar, where, Emily being my experienced teacher, taught me the finer points of the Salsa and Meringue. I can´t say I was graceful, but it was a lot of fun, and I have to add that to the list of things I want to learn before returning to the states.

Again, my time here was cut short because I of my impending rendezvous with my friends in Costa Rica, and also because there was a lot more of Nicaragua that I wanted to see. Next up it was going to the volcanic island of Omotepe, located just off the southern shores of Lake Nicaragua.

Utila - Honduras

2006-12-23T19:01:00.000-08:00

After the previous few days of relative stressfulness, I was searching for a safe haven from bad weather, hustlers, and angry landladies. I found reprieve from all three on the tiny Caribbean island of Utlia. One of three sandy outcrops just off the north coast of Honduras, the Bay Islands have a unique history. Columbus landed there on his fourth and final voyage in 1502 and subsequently wiped out the indigenous populations and the island remained uninhabited for many years. Not much changed until, in the mid 1700s, the British expelled a group of rebel slaves to the islands where they repopulated and established a society that is today known as the Garafuna. It was also a popular hideout of English and Dutch pirates who used it as a home base for robbing Spanish gallons returning home with there treasures.

With a rich and diversified history such as this, in is no wonder that these islands, while still technically Honduran, are in a world of there own. Utlia is considered the cheapest of the three, and is therefore a beacon for backpackers. Beside being a chilled out, English-speaking Caribbean play land for backpackers, Utlia also has the cheapest dive courses in the world; costing around $200 for a four-day Open Water Certification. Although never really one for Scuba before, I felt that this was an opportunity that I couldn't pass up and signed up at one of the islands more reputable shops known for helping nervous first-time divers. And, while this was their biggest selling pitch it would prove to be an moot point, as both my classmates, myself, and my teacher where going to make it a wild and bumpy ride.

Chiara, a 23 year old California girl had just finished her instructor certification and we where her first class-though we didn't learn that until much later in the course. She was friendly, enthusiastic and I felt relatively comfortable putting my life in her hands. Along with myself there were two others in the class: Doran, a 20 something Israeli who could not read or understand English very well -a definite problem when you have to get through a 175 page PADI book in the first two days of the course- and Bill, a 56 year old trucker from Nevada who was as blind as a bat and had trouble hearing. Needless to say that the first part of the course, consisting of reading, classroom videos, quizzes and confined water diving skills, was a bit of a process. Chiara, who you will remember had never taught a class before, had to find a way to teach Doran all the things he was not willing to read in the classroom, and a way to demonstrate underwater skills to Bill who couldn't see two feet in front of his face. As you might surmise, there was a lot of repetition in the early stages and it was taking us twice as long as in normally would. I for one was fine with this because I had been putting off diving for a week due to a head cold and wanted as many extra days as I could muster to try and unclog my ears before entering the open water.

The fateful day finally came where we went out for our first open water dive and lets just stay it was memorable. We all made it into the water just fine and Chiara, working to tread water with an extra weight belt of about 25 lbs was quick to explained our dive plan. We would descend to a small sandbar 30 ft below the surface and work on a few skills before having some free time to explore the surrounding reef. Sounded great in theory. But as we tried to descend both Bill and I could not attain negative buoyancy and floated on the surface. Chiara, obviously fighting to stay up with the extra weight struggled for five minutes trying again and again to properly weight us. All the while we were being carried further and further from the sand patch, and the boat, and he had to struggle to get back to our drop zone. She did her best and again started our slow decent. Then everything went to hell. My left ear would not equalize and before I hit 2 meters I was in a lot of pain. I signaled to Chiara that something was wrong but she didn't see me. She was too busy chasing after Doran, who, apparently not understanding the final exam he had somehow managed to pass, let all the air out of his BCD and was dropping like a stone to the bottom. She managed to catch up with him about 20ft down at which point I couldn't wait any longer and made my way to the surface. Bill, oblivious to the everything that was happening, was turned around in the opposite direction still trying to descend. When Chiara finally surfaced with Doran, who was bleeding from his nose, Bill was floating off in the strong top currant and couldn't hear her yelling for him to return to the group. She had to race over there and toe him back to us, all the while still toting the heavy weight belt in her hands. At this point she made the wise decision to cut the dive and we faught the currant back to the boat defeated.

Doran ran to a corner, now terrified of the thought of diving, and mad that Chiara had not warned him about what happens when you drop four atmospheres in 3 seconds. I couldn't hear anything out of my left ear and was jumping around trying to get the water out with a bottle of water and vinegar. Bill, tripping over fins and weight belts was following Chiara around trying to figure out what happened. Even though time would have permitted it, we decided not to try another dive. I could see the obvious frustration on Chiara's face, whom I felt bad for having had the luck to get the group from hell for her first class. She didn't let it show though, and only gave us positive encouragement. In the end that proved to be her, and our saving grace. She convinced us all to give it another go and two days later we made two successful dives. I got down to 57ft, Doran learned the you only get one pair of sinuses and is best not to crush them, and Bill got a pair of subscription goggles and was able to get down (where you can hear better because sound travels faster underwater). We even saw a huge pod of dolphins on our boat ride back and everything seemed perfect. Two days later, we finished our course and became Open Water divers! Chiara quit the next day.

Aside from many hours spent at the dive shop, Utlia has a great social scene. When you get a group of people from all over the world in one town for something as adventurous as diving, you get a great blend of people. I made some great friends, Russell, Orin, and Bruce, were a group of Brits who singled-handily changed my view on the British. There was always something to do, a trivia night, an all you can eat/drink BBQ at the dive shops, a black belt drinking challenge (where you have to drink six shots in a row; all the levels of the belts. Proud to say I am a black belt). Lots of people come here for their open water and stay for their advanced and dive master, tacking on a couple extra months to their stay because they love the place so much. Unfortunately for me, I didn´t have the time, or the money, for that and after a week, I moved on... to Nicaragua.

Omoa - Honduras

2006-12-22T11:57:00.000-08:00

Happy to leave the Caribbean coast of Guatemala in my wake, I crossed the boarder into Honduras and traveled to the sleepy seaside hamlet of Omoa. Halfway between the boarder and the busseling transportation town of San Pedro Sula, Omoa offers travelers a cleaner, safer way point for a stopover. After consulting my guidebook there seemed to be only one real hostel in the area, Roli´s Place, and I took a tuk tuk there and checked in. I couldn´t understand why my guildbook had called this place, ´the best hostel in Honduras.´ It was just a group of houses clustered around a fenced courtyard. They had also said that the owner, Roli, was a treat to meet, but he had been shot a couple weeks before for his environmental efforts to shut down an oil refinery in the area. He was currently recuperating and his less then inviting wife had taken over the duties of the hostel. She showed me the doom rooms, which looked to be an exact replica of the previous nights accomodations in Rio, with a dark room with bare mattress's and no mosquito netting. My spirits fell as I conceded another sleepless night fighting off mossies when Allan walked in the door.

Allan, an Aussie I had befriended while studying in Antigua, was a funny easy going guy who was always up for a beer. Relieved, I threw my arms around him before he even had a chance to put his bag down. We checked into one of the hostel's much more accommodating doubles. They even had sheets and fans! We waisted no time in walking down the road to a beachfront bar and catching up over a few cold beers.

Returning to the hostel a few hours later I bumped into a Canadian couple I had met in Tikal and a party of sorts ensued. Along with a couple other people in the hostel, and a couple bottles of rum, we all gathered together around a picnic table in the courtyard talking over IPOD music and drinking Cube Libres . Somewhere along the way someone had the bright idea to roll up a joint. A note here, we had seen a lot of fliers and post its up around the hostel warning that drugs and loud noise was not acceptable. But, after hours of loud noise with no complaint we didn´t see anything going awry if we were to burn one down. We were wrong. The landlady came running out with a phone in her had yelling at us in inaudible Spanish. I didn´t get all of it, but I definitely heard ¨no,¨ ¨marijuana,¨ and ¨Policia.¨ We filled in the blanks and apologized saying we would put it out and go elsewhere. She gave us a scowl as we headed out the gate and down the road to the beach.

After a few minutes, Allan decided to go home, slightly high and slightly annoyed by Vince, the Canadian guy with us who decided to tell us how everything was better in Montreal. He took our key, which was needed to open the gate at the entrance to the hostel but Vince told me he had his and the two of us set off for a Discotec down the beach. After about an hour of watching locals shuffling their feet on the periphery of the dance floor to blaring reggaetone, we decided we had taken in enough culture and headed home. Arriving at the gate I waited for Vince to retrieve his key.
¨So, are you going to open up the gate or what, eh,¨ he asked after a beat.
¨Vince man, I thought you said you had your key,¨I replied with unsuppressed annoyance.
¨No man, I said don´t worry, you have your key.¨
¨How would you know if I had my key or--¨
I cut myself off there. I was not going to get drawn into a he said, she said debate with a man who thought that Montreal had the best Cerviche in the world. I looked at my options and came to a logical conclusion. Instead of ringing the bell and waking up the already disagreeable landlady, I would hop the fence and return with the key. I did just that, but, as I came back with the key the landlady was standing there with the phone in her hand yelling at me again for letting in non-guests. Whereas before she was completely warranted in her tirade, this time around I knew she was mistaken and tried to explain it to her in a calm and respectful way. She was having none of it however, and after a few minutes I gave up, ¨Fine, call the damn police,¨ I said and went to the front and let Vince in. I returned to my room to prepare my statement, but, as I suspected the police never came. The rest of the night passed without incident.

In the morning, over breakfast, I recounted the previous nights dramatic conclusion to Allan who thought it was a riot. He didn´t however, find it so funny upon our return to the hostel finding our belongings thrown out into the hallway and our room already cleaned for the next guests. The landlady was standing there, arms crossed, waiting for us to say something, anything. We knew better and quietly packed up our stuff in the hallway and left without a word. I didn´t mind the whole thing, but I felt bad for Allan, who in all truth got kicked out because he was with me. He had planned on staying in Omoa for a few days and now, being barred from the only hostel in town, had to move on. He wasn´t sore about it though and even gave a light-hearted laugh as we parted ways and he walked off down the road. My advice this time around is don´t stay in a hostel where the regular owner has been shot and his irate wife is filling in and don´t rely on a Canadian who thinks Montreal is the cultural, culinary, and ecological capital of the world.

Livingston and Rio Dulce - Guatemala

2006-12-21T15:15:00.000-08:00

GENTEL JACKINGS AND SOGGY BEDS

Slowly making my way down the Caribbean coast toward Honduras, I opted for one last foray into Guatemala and stopped over in the Garafuna port town of Livingston. Now, I had heard mixed reports on the place, some people loved there time there, some people hated it. I would definitely agree with the later take on it; I hated it.

From in instant I stepped off the boat from Belize I did not feel comfortable in this crowded dingy little town. In the 30 meters it took me to walk to the immigration office from the dock, I was offered to buy weed four times. Each time the offer was more aggressive than the last, as the pushers would try and cut you off as you walked. Then, while waiting to get my passport stamped a young Garafuna man started chatting with me.
"Where ya from maan... oh, California... West side... I gotta family in LA..."
His name was Tom, he was about my age and had an inviting smile, which made me wary.
"So, do you smoke weed?"
"I'm from Berkeley, of course I do," I responded without thinking.
"Good! As soon as you done I take you to buy som."
"Oh, that's OK Tom," I answered with detectable hesitancy, "I need to get a hotel room and everything."
"I take ya to a good place mann, reeal cheap," Tom insisted.

At this point I knew there was no getting rid of him and at least I would not get hassled by anyone else if I was walking to my hotel with him. He waited until I had passed through customs and we walekd out together, the immigration official giving me a knowing look, as if to say 'kiss your white ass goodbye.'

True to his word Tom took me to a cheap hostel just down the road and blocked the exit while I checked in and stood in the doorway while I put my stuff in my room.
"First, you go get papers, then I take you to get weed, den we smoke it down at da beach an drink beer."
I noticed that he had strategically placed 'you' before the word buy and 'we' after it and I was beginning to see what was in store for me, and my wallet, in the near future.

We walked back through town and stopped in at a tienda to pick up the necessary supplies. Then we cut down through the residential side of town toward the beach, all the while people giving me knowing looks. We came to a vacant lot, which had walls to all sides and only a narrow whole in a fence to get out. I looked eerie like the set in a Scorsese film that someone would be taken to get executed. I put my hand on my pocket knife and waited for the ambush.
"Give me da money an wait here," he asked, though not really asking.
I did as told and happy figured I would wait for him to leave, cut my losses and get the hell out of there. But, before I could make a break for it he came back around the corner again.
"He don have non here, we go to somwhere else I know." We walked on.

Up until this point, Tom had been very talkative, asking me questions about where I was from and telling me about his life and those of the Garafuna people. It was almost like a guided tour, which I was happy to have since we were descending deeper and deeper into the barrios of Livingston, not a place to walk by yourself. But slowly, knowing that the further and further we walked the less and less he would have to work to keep me with him, the conversations and questions ceased and an uncomfortable silence seeped in.

We cut through another residential section and descended down a dirt path to the beach on the far side of town. He made me wait outside again while he went off to make the score and I passed the time trying to look casual and board instead of nervous and highly alert as packs of local youths passed by me on the beach. Returning about 15 minutes later, Tom produced a few sacks of dirt and took me to a bar down the beach were he ordered a couple beers and rolled up a joint with the papers that I had bought but he had kept. We sat there in silence while he smoked my weed, occasionally offering me a hit and calling over his friends, who appeared to be anyone passing by, for a toke. He ordered more beer and rolled another one and sparked it up. After a polite length of time after the second round I excused myself saying that I was tired and wanted to take a nap before dinner.
"First yous pay for da beer," Tom insisted. I had anticipated this and was ready with my nullifying reply.
"Of course I'm going to pay for the beers Tom, you have been great. You showed me the city, told me about your people, found me a great place to stay and helped me enjoy my afternoon." He seemed stunned by this response. Going with it I put my hand on his shoulder and added, "and when I see you tonight, I'd love to buy you a couple more."
"yeahhh," he said with a convinced nod. "Das right." And with that I made a hasty exit.

Walking down the beach, more groggy then high, I was convinced that Tom's finally words of 'go down the beach and turn right to get back to your room' where in essence throwing me to the wolves. Even the Lonely Planet, which tends to gloss over many of the dangers that places can present can be quoted as saying, "don't walk alone on the beaches in Livingston, they are not safe." I made my way along the beach, flashing my hip knife to all the packs of locals who stopped talking to watch me as I passed by. I actually managed to find the road up to my hotel and, relieved, started up it back toward the center of town. I was about half way up when another guy came up to me and asked me if I wanted to buy weed. I told him that I didn't smoke the stuff and started to walk on.
"Well den," he said stepping in front of me, "give me a dolla for a beer."
Where Tom had only been using me for a free high, a gentle jacking if you will, this character was flat out trying to take my money. I told him that I didn't have any change, he said he would take me to the bank. I told him that I had Belizean dollars and no Guatemalan money and he said he would take me to a place to change cash. Finally I said, that I though I might have some left over money from the boat and reached into my pocket to fish out a couple loose bills.
"A ten will do," he said snatching a bill from my hand, "and remember, if you wan som weed, jus com see lil' Cesar!" Yeah, buddy, you just made a hell of a sales pitch, since you were so warm and friendly I'm defiantly going to try and find you again.

I ran in terror back to my room and shut the door, venturing out only once more a few hours later to make a made dash across the street to a small comedor. I hid behind a wall as I ate a quick dinner and then I streaked back to my room and did not come back out until the next day. That was at 630 pm.

I awoke in the morning to a pouring rain, but I drudged down the street to the dock and got soaked to the bone taking an hour and half long boat ride in an open aired water taxi up the river just to get the hell out of Livingston. I stopped in at a backpacker hostel in the small town of Rio Dulce. Partly due to the horrific day I had had before, and partly due to the fact that the hostel was a shithole, I did not enjoy myself there either. After an atrocious dinner at the hostel restaurant -which ended up giving a guy food poisoning in the bunk next to me- I spent an awful night in a damp
dorm room with twenty other beds and no mosquito netting, having to pay extra in order to attain a sheet to put over the bare soggy mattress. In the morning I made the easy decision to move on to Honduras, finally willing to say goodbye to Guatemala. While my experiences there where not common and many people have had great times in these places and seem truly shocked by the stories I've just told, there are still my experiences. And, if I can pass any advice on to you it would be to not travel in said towns alone and if you must, lie til you are blue in the face and never stop to walking. Otherwise, you can kiss your white ass goodbye.

Caribbean Coast - Belize

2006-12-21T10:14:00.000-08:00

Parting ways with my Tikal companions, I left Guatemala and crossed over into Belize. I was going to a place I have long since wanted to go but had never been before: the Caribbean. It´s something you always hear about when talking to people whom have traveled. ¨I spent a week in the Caymans,¨ ¨my family went on a two week sailing trip off the coast of Venezuela,¨ ¨I caught a huge Marlin on a charter boat in St. Thomas.¨ Always amazing stories of pristine beaches and tranquil seas, a wide verity of rum drinks and thatched hut cabana bars. I felt it was my duty as a world traveler to investigate the legitimacy of these claims.

I made my way to Caye Caulker, a small island 30km from Belize City. It is considered the smaller, backpackers version of Ambergris Caye, a large upscale island just to the north. With only one principle town, consisting of three sandy roads backing a cluster of beachfront hostels, bars, and restaurants, Caye Caulker epitomizes the nation´s motto: ¨Go Slow.¨

Inhabited by a mix of Latin and Garafuna Belizens, the island has blended these two distinct cultures into one chilled out ideology that can be summed up in one word, ¨Mañana¨ (tomorrow). Beside offering a relaxing atmosphere, Caulker also boasts some of the best snorkeling and diving in Belize. Just an hour´s boat ride to the east lies the famous Blue Hole, one of the worlds top diving destinations. Not being a diver myself, I opted for snorkel cruse around the outlying reefs which, to me, seemed equally amazing. In one particular reef, you could jump into the water and find yourself swimming with Stingrays and Nurse sharks. Treading water they would swim up, around and beside you. Truly amazing. That stretch of reef is appropriately called ¨Shark Ray Ally.¨

Needless to say, with an endless supply of beach bars and and steady stream of backpackers, Caye Caulker has a healthy nightlife to pass away the evening hours. My memories of those nights are a little fuzzy (rum, lots of rum), but they consisted mainly of drinking in waterfront hammocks and late night swimming off the docks. I could have stayed there for a month, but I only allowed myself two days, because while it is still cheap by American standards, it can be astronomically expensive compared to the rest of Central America.

So I ventured further south, to another beach town called Placenzia. While not a prime destination like the Caye's, Placenzia does own a nice strech of beach with great reef diving just off shore. This has lead it to be affectionately titled ¨Placenzia, the Caye you can drive to.¨And while it certainly is beautiful, and a fair bit cheaper than Caye Caulker, it didn´t have too much to offer save a canal where you can spot manatees playing in the surf and the Guinness Book´s longest sidewalk in the world. The locals where well enough not to try and market the later attraction. Yet, while simple, Placenzia still had it´s charms and made leaving after a couple of days difficult. But I was burning a whole in my wallet and needed to move on. Plus, I had just made plans to meet up with some friends in Costa Rica after the new year, and that only gave me a month and a half to see both Honduras and Nicaragua, so I wanted to get a move on. But before I could do that, I had to go back into Guatemala, to visit port towns of Livingston and Rio Dulce; Guatemala´s only claim to the Caribbean.

Tikal - Guatemala

2006-12-07T11:44:00.000-08:00

In the densely forested Northeastern department of El Peten, Tikal, one of the biggest collection of ruins of the ancient Mayan civilization lays its claim. Once the capital of the entire Mayan empire -and where George Lucas set his rebel moon base scenes in Star Wars- this vast expanse of temples, game courts and limestone housing complexes is so big that you can´t see it all in one day. But, for all the fuss, this destination doesn´t really live up to the hype. With it´s perfectly manicured lawns, sign posts every couple hundred yards and bus loads of tourists it´s hard to feel like your are exploring ancient ruins and not an amusement park. Getting there was actually more exciting than seeing the park itself.

I left Coban with my new friends, two brothers from California, and a girl from Southern Germany. I was glad to have the company because, in opting for the local buses instead of the direct line, we had to make a lot of transfers on the sides of highways and in... less than ideal, bus terminals. In fact, upon arriving at the last bus station before Tikal, we were bum rushed by a group of taxi drivers wanting to take us to the park entrance. We started talking to one guy, but our previous driver told us he wasn´t very safe and recommended another guy instead. We took his recommdation and, in doing so, enraged the first guy. He started yelling at the second guy. They argued for a minute or so and then the first guy punched our driver in the chest. That did it. Our driver ran to his truck and returned with a machete waving it at the first guy and chased him out of the bus station. He returned and told us to get in to his truck. Not wanting to anger him any further, particularly since he was still holding the machete, we quickly stored our bags and took our seats and drove out of the station.

After a few minutes the diver calmed down and apologized for the whole thing becoming much more friendly. He even joked with us and stopped along the road so we could take pictures of a gorgeous sunset over Lake Izabal. As dusk descended on us, we entered the dense rain forest surrounding Tikal park. We could see many animals foraging alongthe roadside as we entered the park and stopped often to watch them. At open point we came to a halt as a large flock of wide turkeys pecked at some seeds on the opposite lanes shoulder. We snapped some photos as the driver described them to us. We were so mesmerized by the multi-colored plumage of these big birds that we didn´t see the car ripping down the road in the opposite direction. The diver did, and flashed his lights and honked his horn trying to caution the other driver, but he didn´t notice, or didnt´care, and actually started picking up speed. Then with our cameras in hand, the car raced past us and through the flock of turkeys and with a huge cracking sound, caught two birds in its fender and left a puff of feathers in its wake. Stunned, we sat there in our seats as the feathers settled to the ground and the lifeless bodies rolled to a stop 50 meters down the road. the other turkeys also sat there in stunned silence as the car drove on into the night, not breaking once. The driver, also stupefied, decided to drive on and dropped us off at our hotel. The poor guy had a hell of a day and I felt bad for him. I actually thought about walking back to see if I could help the birds, or, if not, cook one up. It was Thanksgiving after all. I guess turkeys arn´t safe anywhere on November 24th.

We spent the next few days exploring the ruins. Arriving early in the morning to watch the sunrise over the temples and listen to the Howler monkeys and macaws as they arose with the dawning sun. We hiked up and down countless limestone staircases, some almost vertical, to get panoramic views of the ruins and surrounding jungle. We returned in the evening for sunset, but the low lying fog prevented us from getting good views. At least the weather was cooler than normal, which usually is baking in the day, and makes for mosquito swarms in the evenings, all of which we managed to avert. All in all it was a little to clean cut for what I would expect from a ruin site, but still it was worth the visit. But, I will always remember the bus terminal machetes and Thanksgiving turkeys before the temples and ball courts.

Samuc Chamey - Guatemala

2006-12-01T09:37:00.000-08:00

The 8th Wonder of the Central American World

Half way between Guatemala’s capital and its boarder with Belize lies the small mountain town of Coban and the national park, Samuc Champey. Located in the mountainous Alta Verapaz province, Samuc Champey was a holy site for the ancient Kekchi Mayans and means, ‘Sacred Water.’ Praised for its picturesque beauty, the park’s main attraction is a natural limestone bridge of lagoons that sits atop an aqua green mountain river as it tumbles down a sub-tropical valley. It has for a long time been one of the Guatemala’s hidden gems, but has recently become a popular tourist destination and a must-see for many who travel into the countries heartland.

I made my way from Guatemala City to Coban, four heart-wrenching hours in the back of minibus along a narrow, winding road that traverses the mountainous interior. For added kicks, our driver, either an escaped mental patient or looking to be committed, decided to play chicken with oncoming traffic by overtaking slower cars through blind corners and small straight-aways. This was usually about the same time a huge logging truck would be coming in the other direction and he'd have to quickly slam on the breaks and verve back into our lane just as the 18-wheeler whizzed past. To top it all off it was pouring rain, adding more hazards and increasing the likelihood of an accident and my impeding heart attack.

By some miracle we survived the trip and made it to Coban by early afternoon. I checked into a local hotel that doubled as a tourist agency and booked a tour for the following day and spent the remainder of the afternoon exploring the city.

A chilly sub-alpine hamlet tucked back in the folds of this jagged countryside, Coban is a transportation hub for the local coffee farmers in surrounding hills. This all sounds quiet nice when you’re reading it in a guidebook, but now, walking its drizzly, colorless side streets, I found it lacking in charm and cultural vibrancy, both of which you come to expect from small mountain towns in Central America. It was as bleak and sullen a migrant town during the Great Depression and after an hour of fruitless wondering I gave up and returned to my hotel. I took an early dinner, after which I decided to call it a night, knowing full well that I wasn't going to be missing anything in the way of excitement out on the town.

Arising at 5am, I was greeted with a warm complimentary breakfast after which I, along with a handful of other tourists, boarded a small tour bus with our guides and made the 2-hour drive to the entrance to the park. Again, we traveled along a rough, curving road but time however, the driver had taken his prescription medication and the ride was much more pleasant. We slowly descended from crisp-aired pine forests and dry mountain plains to humid palm-covered lowlands and moist river valleys, stopping along the way to view the beautiful countryside from amazing vistas. Desolate olive green hills, sprinkled with coffee and cardamom farms, rolled back toward the horizon like ripples in a pond, and you truly got a sense of just how vast the Guatemalan interior actually is.

Just before we reached the park entrance, we pass the Cahabon River, both swift and powerful, it is a hypnotizing shade of emerald green and it cuts a narrow, winding track down the heavily forested valley. Just past the river lies the small riverside town of Lanquin, a quiet community with some lovely riverfront accommodations making it a nice alternative to staying in Coban.

On the other side of the river we arrived at the park, paid our entrance fees ($3) and entered into a thick tropical oasis of ferns, palms, and flowering Cecropia trees. Following our guides, we climbed the steep hillsides of the valley on a series of dirt paths and wooden catwalks and found ourselves at a viewing platform 1,200ft above the river. With this aerial view, we could see a series of seven shallow lagoons set atop a limestone shelf forming an arching bridge across the Cahabon as it disappeared into an unseen underground spillway beneath it. The cascading pools, a brilliant shade of jade green, straddled the river for about half a mile before culminating at the mouth of a large waterfall, below which the Cahabon resurfaced from its submerged passage and continued its southern run down the valley. It was brilliant, so impressive that it was hard to believe that it was a natural wonder and not man made.

We made our way back down to the water’s edge and ate lunch along its shaded shores. Afterward we put on our swim trunks and walked over to the top of the limestone shelf where we could peered down beneath it to where the white water of the river plunged into the blackness of the underground passageway. The Discovery Channel tried to float a camera through this submerged section of the river to see if it might be passable. After four broken cameras and no evidence that it was possible they gave up. We decided not to try our luck either and instead opted for the much more tranquil lagoons.

Armed with our sandals and a sense of adventure, we jumped into the first pool, where the water, as shallow as a swimming pool, was warmed by the midday sun and it felt more like swimming in a tropical sea than an alpine river.

We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the lagoons. Each pool, slightly lower than the previous one, was connected by a series of small cascading waterfalls and marshland. We used these waterfalls as a path to get from pool to pool, traversing down the coarse limestone cascades and jumping off the edge into the next hole. Reaching the second lagoon in this fashion we were able to climb up the side of the rocky valley walls from the riverbank and dive into the deeper pools. On and on we went, sliding down waterfalls and diving from one lagoon to the next in the breezy afternoon sun.

At the end of the seventh pool, where the shelf abruptly gives way to a huge, free-flowing waterfall, our guide was waiting for us with a small rope ladder. Then, two at a time, we descended down the face of the waterfall with the torrent beating down on our backs and came to a limestone plateau twenty feet below. From there, we ducked back behind the cascade and, crawling through a small crack in the rocks, emerged into an underground cavern and the submerged Cohaban River. It was incredible, the cave funneling back into dark recesses of the underground passage with stalactites dropping down from the ceiling and stalagmites protruding up along the riverbank. The sun petered through the cracks in the rocks, reflecting slow hypnotic waves of light off the water and along the cave walls. Aided by this dim light, we were able to feel are way along the edge of the riverbank, careful not to loose our footing and be lost in the torrent, and descend deeper into the cave to which point we were standing in utter darkness and the raging water, reverberating in the ground and echoing off the cavern walls, was so loud, that even your thoughts seemed to drown out its shear power. It was an amazing experience. This part of the tour should be done with a guide and is available only in the dry season when the water is low enough to enter the cave.

In the waning hours of the afternoon, we returned to the bus and drove back up the river valley, stopping at some more limestone caves just outside Lanquin. While not nearly as impressive as the previous limestone cavern, it was nice enough and you could tell someone put some work into it.

Well maintained, with celestial lighting guiding you along, you enter the cave and traverse through the darkness along a slippery metal walkways and cut tracks in the rock. As you descend deeper into the cavern, you are meet by signs along the path inviting you to stare at rock formations that someone (someone with too much time on their hands) has decided resembles something. You stare blankly at a spotlight beamed down on a solitary rock, supposedly meant to resemble something important. I couldn’t make it out to be anything other than a funny looking rock with an accent light, but the signs indicated that they were special: ´The Virgin Mary´, 'An African Elephant,' ´An American Eagle´, ´Elvis.´ Well, maybe not Elvis, but they could have said that and I wouldn’t have know the difference.

As you walk further down through the cave, the air becomes cool and damp and you begin to see bats. Increasing in number the further you descend, at first its just a cluster of them on a cave wall, then more clusters, some squeaking as they flutter past, and before you know it, they are buzzing your head from all sides, flapping within inches of your face before veering off into the darkness. Just when you think you’ve found the back door to Transylvania and lord Dracula himself is going to appear before you, the cave abruptly ends and, with a sigh of relief, you’re able to turn around and scurry back toward the entrance without looking like a scaredy cat to the other, equally terrified, members of your group.

We piled back into the bus, exhausted, but alighted, and headed back to Coban. There, we were greeted by a hot shower and a hearty meal. At dinner, we recounted the day’s events with laughter and remembrance and another group of travelers, overhearing us, asked how it was and if they’d enjoy it. With a smile, I said, ¨it’s worth the trip to Guatemala in itself, and I’m sure you’ll love it... you aren't afraid of bats are you? ¨

Largo Atitlan - Guatemala

2006-11-20T16:23:00.001-08:00

After a little R & R on the quite beaches of El Salvador I was ready to start traveling again, and I knew exactly where I wanted to start; Largo Atitlan. Another "tourist hot spot" in Guatemala´s northern highlands, it´s famed for it´s picturesque beauty and quaint little pueblos that dot the lake side. I was really looking forward to this adventure and, being one of the cheapest places in Central America, so was my much depleted bank account. I took a mid morning shuttle bus from Antigua and was standing on Atitlan´s shores before lunch.

It has been said by some that Largo de Atitlan is the most stunningly beautiful lake in the entire world. Now, I haven´t seen every lake in the world, but I have seen a few, and this one is up there for sure. Almost perfectly round in its circumference, this vast, 128sq km, expanse of water actually fills a caldera of a long extinct volcano. Its volcanic origins make Atitlan the deepest lake in Central America (its deepest points have never been measured) and gives its waters an entrancing dark blue surface covering a seemingly black undercurrant a few feet below. A haunting void that literary pull you, both visually and physically, into its depths. This has lead many people, including the ancient Mayan civilizations that first settled on these shores, to attributed mystical and spirituals powers to these mysterious waters.

The land surrounding the lake, a dark shade of lush green undergrowth, rises steeply to the towering summits of the three volcanoes that guard Atitlan´s shores. A sparse collection of Mayan villages preside along the lakeside, which in 1955, became a national park to protect this sacred, and economically viable, area. Since then, locals have built it up as a tourist destination and most towns have a host of restaurants, hotles, and bars that cater to travelers. Despite this influx, many Mayans, mostly Tz'utujil and Kaqchikel, still live and work here.

I arrived in Panachel, a noisy tourist hub where buses drop of the hoards of day trippers to snap photos and buy "authentic" Mayan trinkets at many of the street market stalls. Not ready to fill my backpack up with nick nacks quite yet I made my way to the dock and waited to take a boat to San Pedro, a much more relaxed town across the lake. On the boat over I met an Aussie named, Daz. This was his fourth trip to the lake and he was not sure if he was going to leave.
"Your not sure that you are going to leave?" I asked not bothering to hind the surprise in my voice. He didn´t even look back at me, his eye transfixed on the open water.
"You´ll understand when you get there mate."

Old Daz was right. San Pedro is a little bit of everything. It as its famous hippie scene. Reminiscent, intentionally so I think, of Berkeley´s Telegraph Ave, in the 60s; spacey people walking around doning hemp only clothes and beads rolled into their long matted hair. It has its young party scene; with clubs playing a blend of European techno and salsa biased R & B, partiers are supplemented with a seemly endless supply of coke, acid, speed (which some dealers will also call coke), and Ecstasy as they party early into the morning. And then it has something for everyone in between.

A lot of the people I met where travelers, like myself, who had come up for a weekend and just stayed. There was Juan, a Frenchmen who arrived for a week long trip around the lake. He´s been here for three years now, owns a message school and spends most of the time playing with his two year old. There was Jill, an American who came to climb the volcano. She now owns a local bar and plans to open a hotel soon. And so the stories went. "I came up for the weekend... and I just stayed." It was amazing, and a little scary. What was possessing these people, most of whom had other plans, tickets home, ect. to stay. Perhaps there was something in the mysterious water after all...

After a week of exploration; a cross dressing Guatemalan BBQ in the small hamlet of Santa Cruz; a kayaking and cliff jumping expedition in the spiritualist town of San Marcos; clubing back in San Pedro, I was ready to head home. But, I ended up staying longer than I had expected as well.

I was going to go home on Sunday, but after a long night of parting on Saturday I couldn´t be bothered with a bumpy boat ride and a winding bus trip back to Antigua. What the hell, my room was only Q15 ($2) a night anyway, I would stay another night and go back on Monday. Then on Monday, a friend told me there was a poker game at one of the bars. It had been months since I played in my usual weekly game back home, I couldn´t pass that up. I would go back on Tuesday. I was ready to go on Tuesday and even bought a bus ticket. I went down to the docks ready to say goodbye to Lake Atitlan... but the boatmen was not. I sat there on the docks for hours waiting for a boat back to Panachel, but there was not enough people to make it work it for him to fire up the moder and waste his precious gasoline boating me back for a $1. I could see what was happening here. It was the Lake, it was pulling me in, into its dark depths with its booze, cheap deals, and Texas hold ´em tournaments. Suddenly, in a flash, I had vision of the future; I was walking down the street barefoot and wearing white Capri pants made out of hemp, with long matted hair covering my face and dancing to music with earphones that weren´t even plugged in to anything. Uh, I grew up in Berkeley and I´ve seen enough of that to know that I dont want to be that guy. I made pact with myself. I was leaving the next day, even if I had to walk back to Antigua.

Luckily for me I didn´t have to. The next day the boatman was feeling generous and fired up his engine. As we pulled away from the dock I held my breath, waiting. Waiting for something to happen; for him to turn back around deciding it wasn´t worth it after all, the engine to die, a huge earthquake to open up a crack in the caldera below and sallow us in a worlpool. Anything that the lake might do to keep me there. But it didn´t, and I was allowed to leave. But, just before I boarded the bus back to Antigua, I took a look back at the inviting waters, the warm hills, and the magic that is Lake Atitlan and I could here it whisper something to me. "You´ll be back." I supressed a smile as I shook my head and boarded the bus. I knew, sooner or later, it would be right.

Playa Tunco - El Salvador

2006-11-13T12:13:00.000-08:00

After a few weeks of relative stagnancy in Antigua, I was ready to get out and hit the ol´trail. David Beclis, a fellow traveler I had befriended on my trip to Volcan Pacaya, said he was heading south to El Salvador´s Pacific beaches for a few days to learn how to surf. David was a 24 year old law student from Birmingham who, deciding not to pursue a career in law, was now traveling through Latin America for six months before moving to New Zealand to look for work. He was reserved and polite, as Englishman are though to be, but he also liked to let loose and party at the same time. I liked him from the start and decided to join him on his trip.

We set out early in the morning, taking a shuttle into Guatemala city where we transferred to a lager Pullman. About a half hour out of the city the bus broke down along the side of the highway. Luckily for us, it broke down right next to a pineapple stand so we were able to eat piña fruit sticks while we watched the driver turned mechanic pull out every wire and tube in the engine trying to find the problem. After two hours of fruit sticks it looked like our adventurous ¨mechanics¨ (over the course of the two hours five or six other men had appeared out of the hills or in pick up trucks and were now also pulling out engine parts) where going to be stumped until one man, converged in engine grease and motor oil, emerged from somewhere inside the engine compartment holding up a slit tube. We waited another 45 minutes for a new tube from Guatemala city and then we were on the road again.

Crossing the board into El Salvador is a lenghty and tedious process. We were made to deboard the bus, present our passports to an exit official, then get back on the bus, present them to another agent on board and then get off again to open up our luggage for an inspector. This was typical for El Salvador which is said to have the most uncorrupted, scrupulous law-enforcement in Central America.

We made it to San Salvador by nightfall and after checking in to a hostel in the Bohemian university area of town, set out for dinner and nightlife entertainment. I was excited. I was hungry and had read about a delicious El Salvadorian dish called Papusas, which is stuffed tortillas filled with cheese, spices and vegetables or meat. I couldn´t wait to try it. We set out, wandering the side-streets, which, thankfully, were frequently patrolled by foot police, until we found the ¨main¨street with all the bars and restaurants. We took a table at El Tres Diablos, supposedly the best bar in town, but which failed to have any type of nightlife or any papusas on the menu. I settle for a steak sandwich and we called it an early night, content on saving our energy for the weekend crowds at the beach.

The next day we took locals buses to La Liberdad, a shabby little port city that is a hub to get to all the other beaches. After reading up on all the beaches in our lonely planet we deiced on Playa Zonte, a black sand cove with a decent off shore break and a good selection of accommodations. It was after we arrived in Playa Zonte that we learned that our two year old lonely planet was severely out of date. If Zonte was ever a happening beach town, it had long since died and someone had done everything in there power to cover up its tracks. There were a few accommodations hugging the rocky beach, which was bisected by a river, and no kind of surf shops or tourist centre. We took a moldy double room at Casa de Frita, and waited for the crowds to arrive for the weekend festivities. There were no crowds and no festivities. We waited around until 8pm and decided to try one of the other hostels on the other side of the river, but the hostel clerk said that the river was high and dangerous to cross and that the main highway- the only other way to get to the other side of the beach- was not safe to walk at night. Defeated we sunk back into our chairs and played chess. But, after a few minutes we both looked at each other.
¨The hell with it man, lets have a go at those other spots cross river,¨ David said.
¨Hell yes,¨ I replied and we set off down the beach with our flashlights.
The river looked more like a stream and looked passable aided by the illumination from the full moon. We walked the banks looking for the best place to cross and realized that there was no way to know how deep it was until we actually got in. We waded out a couple of feet before the currant, going both directions because of the incoming tide, almost made me loose my balance on the slippery rocks converging the bottom. I stayed myself, walked on a staggered line down stream, holding my camera above my head in case an ill-placed step sent me into the torrent. Every step was a painful laborous effort because you would kick up loose rocks trying to find your footing which then, caught in the currant, came smashing back into your ankles. It took us about 20 minutes, but we finally emerged, water logged and bleeding, on the other side of the river. We limped up to nearest hostel only to find a few groups of surfers and locals chilling in hammocks and talking quietly. We pulled up some chairs and ordered a couple Gallo beers and waited to see what developed. After about an hour it was clear that this was as wide as the party was going to get, but we stayed and order another beer each building up our liquid currange before hobleling back to the river to go home.

The next day we went out on a scouting mission and found a better beach with more restaurants, more bars, better waves, and more people, and amazing sunsets over a rocky outcrop just off shore. Playa Tunco was just a 10 minute drive down the road and we moved here in the afternoon taking a room overlooking the beach. About 20 Peace Corers were in town on leave which seemed to double the tourist population and the nights turned out to be pretty lively and fun. Everyone else in town, local or tourist, seemed to be a surfer and it gave the town a laid back ¨manaña¨attitude. The main activities seemed to be surfing, eating, and siestas in hammocks. David and I did our best to fit in. We spent the next three days here, chilling out in hammocks by the beach. One day we were meant to take a suffering lesson, but David got food poisoning the day before and we called it off. After the weekend crowds departed the town transformed back into a sleepy little surfing village and we decide it was time to move on, back to San Salvador. I was looking forward to this because, despite having great food, non of the restaurants on the beach seemed to offer papusas.

Back in San Salvador, we decided to check out of the the many malls that the capital has to offer. Despite is small size and recent civil war history, El Salvador has Central America´s strongest economy and best minimum wage (though that statistic is misleading as roughly have the countries population doesn´t have a ¨qualifying¨ job). But you couldn´t help but notice the affluencey. BMWs and Lexus cars in the street. Armani and Prada stores in the malls. Everyone one wore western clothes and looked very European, a consequence of years of genocidal inhalation of indigenous populations. It was a stark contrast to Guatemala´s highlands which are inhabited by many different Mayan tribes.

That evening I set out determined to find a papusaria. I dragged David around town for the better part of an hour, walking up and down side streets and asking everyone where I could find one. Finally, after running out of streets to search, I gave up, deflated and sulking. In the morning I said goodbye to my traveling companion and took the 5am bus back to Guatemala still sour that I had spent almost an week in El Salvador and didn´t get to try there famous papusas. This time the bus didn´t break down, but it still took almost an hour to get through the custom at the boarder. Sitting there on the bus waiting to be let across some venders came aboard selling different items. Newspapers, candies, and... PAPUSAS! I almost jumped out of my seat and quickly ordered three different flavors, my mouth watering in anticipation. They were a little on the bland side.

Antigua - Guatemala

2006-11-08T12:27:00.000-08:00

I disembarked from the bus in a dark rainy haze. It was almost 10pm and I had no idea where I was. I rubbed my bloodshot eyes as I flipped through the soggy pages of my lonely planet guide trying to orient myself on the seemingly endless parade of cobblestone streets and Spanish colonial houses. I had just arrived in Antigua, where I would be spending the next couple weeks studying Spanish and acclimating to Latin America. I found a place to stay in a small posada on a side street and got some much needed sleep after my long journey from the states.

In the morning I took a stroll to get my bearings and figure out why all the guidebooks had listed this place as a "must see" when in Guatemala. It didn't take long to figure it out. Enclaved by three huge volcanoes on all sides, Antigua is in a world unto itself. It boasts a populous of over 42,000- and that's not including the smaller pueblos that are scattered in the surround mountains- but has a small town feel where the only horns you hear are people honking to say hello to their friends. An hour's drive from Guatemala City, it is an inviting reprieve from the fume-choked air and unenviting side streets of the capital. Antigua itself was once the capital of the entire Central American Colonial Empire and the capital of Guatemala, but after several devastating earthquakes it was abandoned for today's present sight in the valley below. Suddenly a sleepy little mountain town, it transformed into a bohemian center for local art and clothing.

Having all these attributes, Antigua quickly became an international destination when tourism to Guatemala picked up in the 40s and 50s. Through the 30 + years of increasing tourism, Antigua has lost almost all of its originality save the streets and architecture, but it's still a wonderful place to visit.

Everything seems to stem out from the central park, the town's center. From there you can find street after street with travel agencies, internet cafes, budget hotels, and a surprising array of international cuisine. With all the enmities that a traveler could want it's not hard to see why many who travel through here end up staying longer than they planned. This also may explain why it has a seemingly endless supply of language schools.

After a typical Latin breakfast I set out to find a language school, intent on brushing up on my rusty high school Spanish. With almost 200 to choose from I had no idea where to start. I didn't have a specific idea of what I wanted but I wanted to avoid a large school, typically owned by American and Canadian companies, which seemed to lack the personal touch you get with local run businesses. I also wanted to do a home stay with a local family where I would be the only student, thinking this would be a good way to make me speak Spanish. Both turned out to be a bad idea.

I chose a small establishment "Antigua Language School" and a host family though them. Now everyone told me that it doesn't matter what school you go to but what teacher you get. That was not true for me. My teacher was fine, but the owner, Marcos, reminded me of a used car salesman at the end of the month desperately trying to make his quota. He'd tell you anything to keep you in the room. "I know the perfect teacher for you" he told me when I signed up. He changed my teacher twice. "Come by in the afternoons, we have plenty of activities." I came by often but he was never there. "I have the perfect family for you, great room, great food." He changed my family the morning I was to move in. The family itself was ok, a small private room and three meals a day with the family. The mother, Maria Elana, was nice enough and talked to me when she had time to sit down but the two teenage kids who lived there ignored my presence and I spent most meals in silence. I couldn't blame them though. How would you feel if you had a new person in your house ever couple weeks who didn't speak your language? It would get old.

After a week there, I decided to switch. I went with one of the larger schools, Ixchel, and switched families, this time one with other students as well. It was much better. The host mother, Angelica, was a gem. She made great meals and ate and talked with us. The other students, a French women, a Jamaican, and a fellow American where all really nice and eager to speak Spanish. We all got on well and our meals typically lasted an hour and a half to two hours as we chatted away in Spanish about everything and nothing. I spent another week and half there, staying on at the house for an extra couple days after school was done because it was so pleasant.

Having spent a little over three weeks in Antigua, I feel as if I have come to know the abandoned mountain village turned tourist Mecca pretty well. I've done a lot in that time. I hiked a volcano and learned to dance salsa. I joined a gym. I spent a weekend in a nearby beach town eating cerviche and drinking cervezas. I visited pueblos for ritual Mayan/Christian ceremonies for the cigarette and rum god. I went to a kite flying festival in a graveyard for Dia de los Muertos. I made good friends with locals and internationals, and some enemies, with a guy who grabbed my crotch and said "Te querro," I want you (gay men seem to have an affinity toward me in Latin America). I have history here. It was like when I lived in Sydney for six months, I have come to know the bartenders and streets by name, I know where the best places to get a good cheap meal, I know the best place to go on a Tuesday night out on the town. I feel as though I've lived here. But here is not Guatemala, not really. It reminds me a bit of Fantasy Island in Pinocchio, where little children (foreigners) run around in a play land with no rules and no grown ups. It's time to leave this play land and move on... to another.

Volcan Pacaya - Guatemala

2006-10-23T15:43:00.000-07:00

Looming 2552 meters over the south end of Guatemala City, Volcan Pacaya is a popular weekend excursion because it is the only active volcano in the region. A mere 20 minutes from the city (which can quickly become 2 hours during rush hour), one can take a shuttle bus or hitch a ride halfway up the mountain to the small sub-alpine village of San Fransisco. There you'll need to buy an entrance pass (25Q = $3) and can hire a guild to take you up to the summit. In past years, the guilds were for protection from thieves, but, with the creation of Guatemalan Tourist Police Force, crimes in these touristed areas have dropped off significantly. Still, it is highly recommend that you hire a guild because, though you may not face emanate danger from would-be bandits, without the guilds you would get hopelessly lost in the labyrinth of trails and paths that zig-zag up and down the mountain slopes.

We arrived in the late afternoon and, escorted by our guild Pedro, we started our accent. The first part of the trek is the hardest. You slowly climb a sleep broken concrete trail through dense tropical forests while trying to avoid being trampled by passing horses, or as the locals trying to coax you into there saddles call them, taxis). After about a half km we came to a plateau that offered great views of other dormant volcanoes and the small Alpine Pacaya lake. Pacaya, by the way, is the name of a local fruit that grows on the lush hillsides of the volcano.

From the plateau, we navigated our way up the poorly marked trails another 2 km to the cone of the summit, frequently stopping along the way to catch our breath while Pedro pointed out local flora and Fauna. As night descended, we accented the final pitch through the tree line an out into the open volcanic rock fields. We were still a good distance away from the top but we could already see the red glow on the western slope. We marched on in eager anticipation and, coming to the end of the dirt path, preceded slowly on the unstable volcanic boulders. I could see the lava clearly, a neon orange and red river that flowed slowly, but unabatedly, to the depths below. If that weren't enough of a site, I noticed in the distance, that people seemed to be right on the banks of the flows taking pictures and throwing rocks into the magma. Those people got to be crazy, I thought, getting that close to lava, why, at any point the flows could shift and- "Vamanos muchacos," Pedro yelled and started up toward the flows. I waited to see if anyone else ìn the group was crazy enough to follow, but, to my surprise, no one blinked an eye, they just fell into line behind him. So I jumped off the cliff too.

As we drew nearer, we could feel the intense heat that the lava produced as it ate through rocks, trees, and tundra. We passed several rock piles on either side that were actually on fire. That's right, rocks...on fire... That equals, hot as hell. It was pitch dark now and I used my pathetic little pen light to aid me as I stumbled up the volcanic rocks. Twice I lost my balance and had to use my hands to break my fall, and both times my hands fell on hot, steaming rocks that burned the skin. Now I understood why the guild book said not to wear sneakers... the hot rocks burn off the rubber soles. I, of course, opted not to heed the warning. Finally, we made it to the banks of the flow. To my surprise it was not a hostel, foreboding place. It was actually quite peaceful, as the steady trickle of lava slowly broke apart the surrounding rocks and shrubs. Then it hit me, I was standing in a vortex, devoid of time, lava is ageless, ageless as the world itself, and I was witnessing it 10ft in front of my face.

We stated up there for an hour, entranced by the glowing warmth of mother nature. Our decent, now in complete darkness, actually required more energy then the trek up because you had to constantly watch the ground in front of you as to not trip on a root or rock and go tumbling down into a ravine. By the time we got back to San Francisco we were exhausted, but still jumping with excitment from what we had just witnessed. It was all we could talk about on the way back. "Oh man, my shoes are done," an American said. "I felt that I was to almost burn in flames," echoed a German. It went on like that all the way back to town. By the time I got home, then almost midnight, I didn't even have the energy to take a much needed shower. But, lying there in bed, I still couldn't sleep glowing with amazment for what I had just seen.

Miami - Florida

2006-10-14T12:02:00.000-07:00

I'm not one for omens or signs, I tend to take things as they come and treat each situation as it's own individual moment. However, if the way this trip started is any indication of what might be yet to come... I might be coming home a lot sooner than I had anticipated.

WEDNESDAY MORNING

I was awake before my alarm went off. I couldn't sleep, not with all the anxiety and excitement that I now felt about my impending trip. The morning was a blur, saying goodbye to my family, the ride to the airport, boarding the plane, all of it just seemed to pass by as if I were having a flashback to some distant memory. It wasn't until the plane's wheels left the ground that it began to sink in- I was leaving for a long time.
The flight over was fine, I slept most of the way, aided by American Airline's version of Lunesta, The Devil Wears Prada, and arrived in Miami with an hour and a half to make my connection to Guatemala city.
I walked the half mile concourse that connected the terminals F to A and went to check in at for my flight at TACA airlines. Now, I had read that sometimes, these ticket agents would give you a hard time if they thought you were a hippy traveler trying to go to Guatemala to find your spirit or something, so I did my best to look professional- I wore a buttoned down shirt and tucked it in, I combed my hair, and even shaved! But, from the moment I approached to counter it was clear that I was in trouble.
Liz Hernandez was a stocky middle-aged women with contempt written all over her face. She was less than impressed that I was checking in only an hour before my international flight even though she saw that I had a connection that just landed. She was even less impressed when I told her that I did not have an onward travel ticket and was dismissive when I presented my travel-worn passport. With a thinly vailed smile she denied me right there on the spot and said I would loose my seat on that flight and my ticket. She took some delight in relaying this information to me and was waiting for me to explode. I paused and took a look at my options: 1) Go off on her and her superior and have her red-flag my passport or something and probably never see the outside of a Miami jail cell, let alone Central America. 2) Play it cool and try to work something out. I opted for door #2 and told her I'd talk to United (the affiliated airline I had issued the ticket through) and see what could be done. For the first time, she seemed impressed by me. I waited around for 45 minutes for my bag to be dragged off the tarmac, Then proceeded to walk the half mile corridor back to terminal F where United was located. When I finally arrived, I was told that the passport looked good but that they could do nothing.

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

I walked back to terminal A (that's 1.5 miles if your counting) and talked to another TACA agent who also said the passport looked good and that he would have let me board but that his supervisor, another heavy-set, middle-aged women who saw her chance to get back at 'Whitie' had overruled him. He suggested I try the Boarder Patrol Office, which they had in the airport, located, conveniently, back in Terminal F. Two miles. The Patrol Officer said that he would have accepted it as well but it's up to the airline. Back to TACA to relay the Patrol officer's approval. Getting close to 3 miles now.
At this point, Liz, probably feeling guilty for having me run a track meet with two large backpacks in a dress shirt and slacks, decided to take pity on me... or maybe she was just getting board with my persistence. She gave me the number of a US Passport office in Miami and booked me on a flight the following day (no extra charge). She said that I needed an appointment but that if I showed them the plane ticket they would issue me a rush order and a new passport. I called in, but there were no appointments until Friday afternoon. I was getting tired. I need to find a hotel for the night, Liz told me that there was a list located on level one... in Terminal F... as in 'FUCK' all this walking!
I waited outside for a shuttle and was coaxed into the Miami Princess Motel van, with offers of a cheap room. The driver, seeing the frustration in my face offered me a cigarette which I immediately took and lit up (I don't smoke mind you). As we drove out of the airport I told him my story. After a moment he said, "man, you really could use a drink." Without hesitation he veered off the freeway and down the off ramp into a back parking lot of an open-air Tapas bar, the type of place that had 'locals only' written in invisible writing all over the walls. It was with S-A though and we walked right up to the bar and he ordered me TWO Dominican beers. The driver, Antonio, was a middle-aged Peruvian who dreamed of opening his own hotel in Miami and whom, like me, loved to travel. He seemed generally interested in me and very friendly for a hotel diver. We sat there drinking Presidentes and smoking Dunhills until the sun set and then drove to the motel.

WEDNESDAY EVENING

At this point, I was exhausted and in need of a shower and food. I went up to my room and collapsed on the bed. I didn't even have a chance to go to the bathroom before Antonio walked through my door, "Hey man, come with me, I want to show you something," he said. The last thing I wanted to do was get up, but I didn't' want to be rude, especially since he had been so nice to me earlier. I rolled out of bed and followed him as he took me to a separate section of the motel. "This, my friend, is what I want my hotel rooms to look like," he said as he opened the door to a huge deluxe suite. It was decorated in Japanese-style, it had a circular bed and a huge LCD TV and a stereo system. "Come, I will show you," he said as he slapped me on the back and walked into the room. It had a built-in Japanese bridge over a small plant garden to a Jacuzzi. Uh? I looked around, there were wine glasses next to a bar, silk bedsheets under a huge ceiling mirror. Uhh! This was sex suit, they probably rented it by the hour! Antonio went to the TV and flipped it on to hard-core porn. Uhhh! He walked up to me, and put his hand on my hip and he passed by me to get to the Jacuzzi, and turn on the waterfall next to it. Oh, yeah there was a waterfall too. He glanced back at me an then the TV, "He is big yes!" "Uh, I guess." "I am big too!"! "Uhhhhh-huh." I was starting to see the big picture now. "How big are you?" "Uh, you know Antonio, I think I left the stove on in my room I gotta go," I mumbled as I made my way to the door. I didn't really say that, I don't know what I said, but I just had to get out of there. He gave me his number and told me to call him that night although I told him that I was very tired and had to get up early the next day to go to the passport office.
I slept lightly that night, with the deadbolt on and a chair in front of the door. I didn't know if and when he would come a knocking and he didn't have to knock at all, he had the master key!

THURSDAY

Surviving the night without incident, I went downtown early the next morning to the passport office. They let me in without an apointment because I had a ticket for that day- thank you Liz! Five hours later, and with a bunch of bureaucratic BS I was issued a new passport. After a brief stop at the local library to use the Internet to book and print a seat on a bus leaving Flores, Guatemala for Belize City (my onward ticket), I returned to the airport. It was still four hours before my flight, but I still feared that I wouldn't make it with all the hoops there were still likely to make me jump through. I was almost right. Even though I got a better agent and my passport was flawless, she said the bus ticket was not enough. I need proof a return flight to the US or they wouldn't let me on. I was about to choose door #1 when I remembered that I still had a credit with United for trip to Spain that I had to cancel during the summer (Thanks Sis). a brisk mile later I had my boarding pass.
I was sitting at the gate when, Ellena, another TACA (or as my father calls them CACA) agent who had been witness to my perils over the last two days approached me. My stomach went into my throat. What now? I thought of making a run for the gate, if I could just get on the plane, then maybe they would let me say. Sweat beaded down my face as she stopped in front of me. "I just wanted to wish you a nice flight." I let out a huge sigh of relief and grabbed her in a big bear hug and thanked her. I told her she needed to take a picture so that I would always remember TACA airlines. Yeah it was a lie, I couldn't wait to forget them, but I was finally going to Central America, I would land in Guatemala in less than three hours! My anxiety was gone, all that remained was my excitement.

The Incredible Journey Begins!

2006-10-13T14:07:00.000-07:00

Hello All!

Welcome to my blog, the Ramblin Schambelan. I'll be using this site to keep an account of my life as I travel throughout Latin America. For those of you who don't know, I am a 25 year old college grad who, after two years as a bar manager in my hometown of Berkeley, CA, quit the service industry but am still not ready for a 'real' job. The alternative seemed pretty clear to me; a one-way ticket to unknown places for an unforeseen length of time. The pretense for my trip is to learn how to speak Spanish, but I think it's a much deeper quest for more than just an education in a foreign language. It's to learn about life, other than the one I'm used to, and, more importantly, to learn more about myself. Yeah I know, pretty corny, a path to understanding myself, but hey, I need to validate this crazy ambition somehow, OK? So BACK OFF!

Anywayz, I encourage you too check in from time to time for updates and stories as I won't be sending out any more "Garytales" via email (unless it's really good and I am convinced that you're not checking here.

The Incredible Journey Begins!

Easy Going...

Scott

Thailand- The South

2006-10-05T16:14:00.000-07:00

Situated in the lower southern Gulf of Thailand is Ko Samui and Ko Pha-Ngan. Samui, a much bigger island, has an international airport and is a jump off point for the other islands in the area. This is where we flew in and caught a ferry to the much smaller island of Ko Pha-Ngan. Internationally notorious for it's Full Moon Party (billed to be the biggest beach party in the world), Pha-Ngan is a must see for any young backpacker traveling through Thailand. The Southeastern tip of the island is home to Hat Rin where all the partying takes place and the rest of the island is mostly undeveloped jungle and beaches. As nice as that sounds, we were going directly to the dirty little beach town of Hat Rin for what was said to be the biggest Full Moon Party of the year, estimating about 12,000 people. It was not to be however as a large storm pelted the Gulf making the usually wave-less bay and torrent of white water and rip tides. The day we arrived we went down to the beach just as they were pulling four people from the water who had been sucked out by the rips. We stood in horror as they tried to revive one girl who had been unconscious since they pulled her from the water. She did not wake up. Her and another girl died right there on the beach and three others had to be rushed to the local hospital. Needless-to-say, after seeing something like that, the mood afterward was very somber, no one really ready to go out and party. The following day was gloomy and beach was again hit with unrelenting high water, they local police closed off the beach and the full moon party was officially cancelled, although everyone just ended up walking around on the streets near the beach. We hung around the next day, again overcast and waited until it was time to leave. If you looked up the world 'bust' in the dictionary, this would be the explanation. No parties and no sunshine on a tropical island, and was raining everywhere.

But Jim Croche once sang, "Tomorrow is going to be a better day," and he was right! We took the ferry back to Ko Samui and boarded plane, never looking back. We arrived in Puket an hour later renewed and excited. We were going to Ko Pi Pi, which is one of the most spectacular islands in the Andaman Sea. About an hour's ferry ride from Puket will land you on Ko Pi Pi Don, a 'H' shaped island that is really two smaller islands joined by a sandbar isthmus. You may remember the name because when the 2004 Tsunami struck South East Asia, this was one of the worst places to be hit, 3rd on the body count list. But it was making speedy recovery and although the evidence of the disaster was still evident (toppled bungalows, uprooted palms) the community was rebuilding.

We arrived to calm waters and a cloudless sky. Not wasting anytime, we jumped on a longtail taxi boat and headed out to Ko Pi Pi Leh, a smaller undeveloped island just 5km to the south. We stooped in Maya bay, famous for its spectacular beach and snorkeling and more famous for the location of the 1999 film, The Beach. This may be the most beautiful place I have ever seen. Sheer limestone cliffs that disappear in the brightest blue water in the world. Coral reef that you can almost reach out and touch from crystal white sand beaches. And the water, aside from being in the mid 70's, was so peaceful. I could have spent the entire trip here. But we only had three days. We made the most of it though. Spending at least 6-8 hours on the beach everyday in cloudless sunshine and eating fresh caught seafood at night under the stars. As we boarded the ferry back to Puket we all cracked a smile as the rain clouds rolled in, knowing that our timing could not have been more perfect. It was perfect.

I'm on my way home now, eager to get back in time to spend the holidays with the family and friends. But not eager to leave this place. It's diverse landscape, friendly people, and ridiculously low cost of living would tempt many people to stay long past their originally planed departure date. I'm not worried though, I’m sure I can convince a couple of you to come back with me.

Scott

Thailand- Chaing Mia

2006-10-05T16:04:00.000-07:00

Far to the north, nestled between the boarding countries of Myanmar (Burma) and Laos, lies the Thailand province of Chiang Mai. Originally the capital of Thailand, Chiang Mai is now the second largest city next to Bangkok. However, the topography here is nothing like its sister city to the south. Looking out of your window as you fly in to Chiang Mai international, you can see a vast expanse of rolling hills, dense forests, and farmland. There mere fact that you can see the ground from the air is a huge difference from the methane-chocked air that surrounds Bangkok.

We landed early in the morning and proceeded directly to our guesthouse where we met our guild and headed out on our three-day jungle trek. Two hours in the back of a pickup landed us in the outskirts of the Chiang Dao province and in tribal country. Life out here is very different from that of the city. Set far back in mountain country, this province is comprised mostly of small groups of villages where local tribes depend on farming for trade and sustenance. They live in simple bamboo huts and have no electricity or running water. If it weren't for the occasional motorbike and jeep tracks you might think you where back in the 17th century.

We set out on foot into the dense jungle ahead. After several hours of traversing muddy mountain passes and descending into thick river valleys, we found ourselves at our first camp. A small village set beside a mountain stream about 4km from the nearest road. Jay, our young and energetic guild, is a member of the tribe in this area, he has put us up at his parents house, which they have converted into a traveler accommodation complete with a bunk house with mats, throw pillows and mosquito nets, a dining area, and a camp fire. Jay went straight to work preparing a three-course meal for us. It was amazing; I however, was unable to enjoy it very much because I had contracted food poisoning earlier that day (don't eat too much from street vendors). But after 15 hours of sleep I felt much better and well rested for the next day's adventure: Elephants.

After a "technical" morning trek and eating a traditional Thai lunch out of a banana leaf bowl, we met up with our transport, three Asian Elephants. We had seen a bunch of them on the trail, but now, being up next to one, you begin to understand the incredible strength of these animals. The "handlers," a couple of teenagers more interested in starting fires with the local tree sap then taking care of us, had the elephants get on their knees as we climbed up onto a outboard seat strapped to the their back. Brian and I got on one and it immediately got up and starting heading up a hill. Needless-to-say we were a little unsettled, and decidedly more so when the hill turned into a cliff. The elephant, with the handler sitting on her head slowly, but methodically, ascended the cliff with little hesitation while Brian and I held on the chair, and each other, for dear life. These animals were amazing. They would be walking along and see a tree blocking their path and, instead of taking a side step in either direction to avoid the obstruction, they would simply reach down with their trucks and destroy the fallen tree and walk over the sticks it left behind. And, while amazed, I couldn't help but feel bad for these animals. They are beaten, tided up, and mistreated their entire lives so that foreigners like us can take an hour-long ride on their backs.

The next day we hiked to a rafting camp where we boarded traditional bamboo rafts consisting of nothing more than large bamboo shoots and dried banana leafs as rope. We floated down the slow moving river/waste runoff cesspool. There were no rapids and the only action came when Gary attacked the other boat and fell in the water, which he proceeded to swim in for the rest of the float. Even without white water we still managed to destroy both our boats in water wars before we pulled up at the other camp. We sat out on a terrace enjoying an ice-cold beer while Gary washed the parasites from his body before heading back to Chiang Mai. Our plane for the Gulf leaves the following morning and we have to make it to the night markets before we hit the hay.

It was short but very sweet and I would recommend that anyone traveling in South East Asia make a trip up to this area. And be sure to give yourself a couple extra days, because I know I missed out on a lot of other stuff that Chiang Mai has to offer. But I'm not worried, I'll be back. Sooner or later.

TTFN

Scott

Thailand- Ko Semet

2006-10-05T15:54:00.000-07:00

7km off of Southern Thailand's East Coast lies the island of Ko Samet. About 6kms wide and no more than 1km wide, this cozy little hamlet is a popular weekend spot for Bangkokians and foreigners alike and, after one glance, it’s not hard to see why.

Encompassing the entire lenght of the east side of the island and separated only by small jetties of boulders, the beaches here are lined with crystal white sand sloping gently into a beautiful turquoise sea. Nitta trees hug the back of the beach, which shades an endless string of beachfront bars and cafes. A bluff sit a few yards back from the tree line and this is where you find an exhausting supply of guesthouses and budget hotels.

While this all might seem a bit crowded, and it is, you can escape to more secluded beaches as you traverse south down the island. You can rent motorbikes from any shop and, with only a few minutes ride down a dirt road, will find yourself completely alone. This road leads you through a jungle-like interior to the southern and more remote part of the island. We made day trips to these less traveled places; snorkeling in coral coves, eating at resort restaurants at the water's edge, and hiking to panoramic vistas. After a full days exploration, you can head back to town in time to partake in the night life, which consists of happy hours at all the bars, buckets (literally a bucket with rice whiskey, red bull {the real stuff}, and coke), and beach fire shows where locals twirl kerosene-soaked flaming Bo staffs to a mix of American Pop and European House music.

Located only 150km from Bangkok, Ko Samet is close enough to make it an easy weekend getaway but far enough to make it a expeirence unto its self.

TTFN

-Scott

Thailand- Bangkok

2006-10-05T10:08:00.000-07:00

Hello and greetings from Thailand.

I've been here for just under a week now but I still feel as though I just stepped off the plane. Bangkok, with its dizzying array of taxi's, Tuk-Tuks, and traffic jams can make even the most seasoned of travels a little intimidated. It's inhabitants, 7.5 million strong, are always moving with its highways and skytrains, its boat ferries and subways, someone is always going somewhere. The city does not sleep. You can walk out of your hostel at any time day or night and find a crowd of people, tourists and locals, milling about. Furthermore, I have never seen a place with more stuff: Trinkets, cars, clothes, food, shops. Every street seems to be flooded with traffic and proprietors. You can't walk five feet without being approached by a salesman trying to sell you a tailored suit or a nock off North Face backpack. On every corner there are Tuk-Tuk drivers (small motorbike taxi's) trying to take you to Patpong for their infamous Ping-Pong and sex shows. Yeah, I have to admit I was a little intimidated. But, not wanting to waist any time, I dove right in.

I met up with my Australian friend near Ko Shan Rd. a Mecca of sorts for traveling backpackers. Lined with restaurants and shops this half-mile stretch has something for everyone. Whether you're looking for a quite veranda to get a traditional Thai massage or a techno-pumping nightclub boasting cheap drinks, you'll find it in this area. Most of the "guest houses" you'll find here are basic but affordable. I think we paid $180 Baht a night for our little nook (that's about $4 USD for the both of us). Food is even cheaper, and much more rewarding. Don't expect to pay more than $10 for a nice two-course meal with beer and bottled water included. You can also find some great bargains in the open-air weekend markets if you can stomach walking around in the sweltering heat with about 50,000 other treasure seekers.

Just across the highway from Ko Shan is the famous Bangkok Palace. We wandered over there to try and take a tour but it was closed for the King’s birthday. Now, while we wouldn't consider president’s day anything special, the king's birthday for the Thai people is a reason for celebration. Considered the 'Father of Thailand' the king is revered among ALL Thai people. And in reverence for their king they take off work on this day to pay homage to their royalty, by getting really, really drunk. As we walked though the place square we were engulfed in a sea of happy inebriated locals, about 750,000 of them. It was fun to watch but after a while we noticed we where the only farangs (whities) around, and, after a while, they noticed too. Some of the teenagers told us in Thai that it might be a good idea if we left. I don't speak Thai and I don't think those were the words they used, but we read between the lines. We went back to a friend’s house in downtown and watched the fireworks from her rooftop. The pyrotechnics went on long into the night, as did they parting.

We've taken a trip down to Ko Samet, a small island just off the east coast. It's a welcome reprieve from the big city bustle of Bangkok and we are inclined to say here for a few days and relax before we meet up with the rest of my friends arriving in Bangkok over the weekend. From there we'll travel north to Chang Mai and explore the jungle's up there.

That's all for now.

TTFN

-Scott

Costa Rica- The Nicoya Peninsula

2006-10-03T18:51:00.000-07:00

Entering into our third and final phase of our Costa Rican vacation we set course for the Nicoya Peninsula. Located in the northwestern part of the country, the peninsula takes up almost half of Costa Rica's west coast. Running south from Nicaragua, it is dotted with beautiful unscathed beaches and untouched rainforest. This was our highly anticipated finally and we couldn't wait to get there. As it turns out, that would be a problem.

As we pulled out of the Tabacon Resort, the threatening rain clouds let loose their furry... and it was a hell of a lot of furry. Torrential rains, and booming thunder and lightning accompanied us for the entire journey which took the better part of six hours. Rain seemed to be coming from all directions... down, up, left and right. Although we were in the car with the windows shut for almost the entire time, we still managed to feel like we were getting wet and a dampness surrounded us the whole way.

As if that were not enough to give a motorist an unsettling feeling, we had to deal with the roads. Oh, those magnificent Costa Rican roads. The road leading out of La Fortuna was a shuffling mix of sink holed concrete and washboard dirt that gave you the impression you were riding a roller coaster, except this ride never seemed to end. After an hour and a half of entertainment, we made it to the state highway, if one was feeling humorous enough to call it that, a highway. What could be mistaken for a private driveway that had been paved in the 50's- 1850's- this heavily ridden and heavily neglected stretch of singled-laned road was in worse shape than the access road we had taken to get to it. Its downright dangerous 80km/hr speed limit was enough to, with one ill-faded twist or turn, send your automobile tumbling into a ravine. This "highway" stretched all the way to the coast. We were in for a long trip, and on top of that we had to dealwith drivers. Oh, I forgot to mention the divers.

As if that were not enough to give a motorist a completely ratted feeling, we had to deal with the drivers! Easy confused with escaped mental patents feeling their captors by way of a high speed chase, these drivers are the craziest people I have ever seen. It didn't matter if they had one or five cars- or six wheeler trucks- in front of them, they would swing out into oncoming traffic and attempt to pass them before, after, and during blind turns. Several times we witnessed these demented motorists bolt out into the left lane, get half way passed the motorcade of cars and have to slam on the breaks
and- almost in reverse- jump back behind the line to elude and oncoming car which had just overtaken four school buses, dodging pot holes and washouts, in a hairpin turn while trying not to hit the bikers. Oh yeah, there were bikers too. But as my sister said after my dad complained about these driver's incessant need to beat the traffic, "if you gotta go, you gotta go!" But that's not to say that you didn't need to pass, you NEEDED to pass. Otherwise you'd get stuck behind some farmer on his backhoe going 15km an hour, because he wanted to take the scenic route home. Or even better, you might come up on a school bus that stooped on the road so the children could get on or off. Did you hear me! STOPPED on the middle of the damn highway. Oh did I mention that we were also in the middle of a torrential rain storm? Crazy.

We managed to escape with our lives, and landed in Tamarindo in the early evening. It was still raining, but we knew right from the start, it was worth the drive. We pulled up to our ocean front villa just in time to watch the sun set in the red sky as the last of the rain drizzled down on us. I walked down the the water's edge. The air was warm and the water was warmer... we knew it was worth the drive.

The next day was gorgeous. Bright blue skies, with a gentle breeze. We explored the town of Tamarindo. A sleepy little fishing village turned surfer Mecca hugged the north side of one the many Pacific bays along the cost. It was in the throws of multinational development. Every peace of land was being bought up by developers and probably every construction crew in the country was working on something within town limits. The town is bordered by two estuaries on the north and southend. Our villa was at the southern end and when ever we wanted to escape the crowds, all we had do is cross over the estuary to the next beach, Playa Langosta. Which unlike it's noise cousin Tamarindo, was completely deserted of development, houses, or people. However, despite Tamarindo's looming influx of commercialism, the town still retained it's sleepy charm. We fell in stride and for the next five days did little else then sit on the beach and cool off in our pool during the day, and drink fresh fruit Pina Coladas at sunset and venture into town for dinner at night. Naomi and I went on snorkeling/sunset cruse one day, but, because of the recent rains, didn't end up getting in the water because of the red tide. We did however, on our return, run into two humpback whales playing in the surf and sailed along side them all the way back to Tamarindo as they performed water breaching back flips and tail splashes in perfect synchrony. Amazing.

I'm home now, which is a good thing. I missed my dog, and as I found out, my work missed me. But I would have loved a few more sunny days to explore the many other secrets that Costa Rica has to offer. I'm not too worried though, I'll be back, I'm sure of that.

TTFN