Headed to Tapachula, Mexico over the weekend for tourism (*cough, cough, to renew my visa, cough*) now that I have extended my stay in Guatemala till 4 June.
Tiff and Piper also went, but the school they work for provided them with a private bus, and I got wage my way on the jewels of Guatemalan culture (AKA: the chicken buses) to cross the border like a local. On these solo missions, one can't help but feel like the white-bred accountant at the Wu-Tang concert; for the entire journey, I was the only gringa within ear shot (or flea-hopping distance, as it were).
In total, I had to make 4 "connections," which is a daunting task when more than half the time the bus drivers are out to screw you out of money, or change courses, or steer you in the wrong direction. The joy they receive from the latter I imagine rivals the amusement you got when you were little: blindfolding the runt of the neighborhood, spinning him around in circles, and then watching him try to walk a straight line. Luckily I was more or less adopted by a Mexican family who were also headed for the border.
Another great thing about the chicken buses: I get to hear the gospel at least once during each ride. There always seems to be at least one pastor in the mix who received a message from on high, and gets up to start preaching like a baptist the day before the rapture. These prove to be great opportunities for my vocab-building. I can learn the ever-popular phrases like "swallowed up by flames from below" and "bastard children," in case I ever decide I would like to become a raging conservative (which we all know is about as likely as seeing Barry Manilow actually come out the door of the men's restroom).
After I crossed the border, I had to walk a grip to catch a bus to Tapachula. Along this (rather uncomfortable, sweltering hot) trip, I came across a women sitting in her car. When she saw me walking by myself, she yelled out the window:
"What you doing here?"
"Meeting up with some friends. In Tapachula," I said.
"Oh, but you here by you self?"
"Yeah, for the moment." Thanks for reminding me.
Turns out she smuggles cars to the States from Nicaragua and (somehow) finds a way to cough up enough English to live in Sacramento. In the on-going movie that plays in my mind, she would probably be cast in the part of Tumnus (albeit the latina, car-smuggling, much less inviting version).
For those of you who have the dirtier Mexican towns as a point of reference, I'll tell you that they are kind of like Guatemala, just cleaner and less expensive (two things I previously didn't understand to be inversely proportional).
After a night of hanging out with Tiff and Piper in the city, we had to turn around and head back the next morning. This time one of the guys from the trip headed back with me on the chicken bus so I wouldn't have to make the journey alone.
Hopping from bus to bus back to Xela, we met one old gentlemen who insisted on serenading us with all the "Viva Mexico!" songs he could think of. Bless his little heart, he must have been short on his PoliGrip; in between verses he would have to rearrange his teeth, then pick them up off his lap when he finished his song with some hearty, Mexican jajaja laughter.
About an hour outside Xela, I was sitting behind and indigenous woman, who was throwing all her trash outside the window (another unfavorable Guatemalan custom). Most of her unwanted baggage ended up in my hair, or on my face and my lap, including the huge loogie she decided to spit outside the window.
Still wet from that and desperately wanting some mouthwash and a shower, I got home to realize that I had left my keys with Tiff and Piper. In a moment of total determination (read: frustration), I picked apart the glass plates of our 18" x 2.5' wide bathroom window that is 6' off the ground and shimmied my way to a shower. If Kevin had been there to see it, I am quite sure he would have humored me and said, "Guatemalan McGiver she is!"
Way down here you need a reason to move
Feel a fool running your stateside games
Lose your load, leave your mind behind
Jimmy Taylor, truer words have never been spoken.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Saturday, March 17, 2007
The Gauge of Unsafe in Guatemala
Tiff, Piper (other roommate) and I were shopping around Xela today, talking about a future trip that we might be taking to Nicaragua in a few weeks.
Americans who enter Guatemala are given a 3 month travelling visa, so all of us are coming up on the date when we need to cross a border to renew our visa for a few more months of footloose and fancy free living, Central American style.
Tiff informed me that Mexico and Belize are the only countries that honor the exchange for visa renewals, which is a bit of a bummer. I am scheduled to be getting my PADI scuba certification on a Caribbean island off the coast of Honduras in a little over a month, and was hoping that would count as a legitimate border crossing. No dice.
We talked about the possibility of me making it to the island through Belize by way of Livingston, a quaint Jamaican community on the Guatemalan coast.
Laura: ¨Isn´t Livingston kind of unsafe?¨
Tiff: ¨I mean, it´s a little shady.¨
Laura: ¨Like, I am going to get my wallet stolen shady? Or like I am going to get kidnapped and sold into white slavery shady?¨
Piper:¨Mmm, no...more like you just got dropped into Bob Marley´s living room and you need to watch your wallet. That´s all.¨
Americans who enter Guatemala are given a 3 month travelling visa, so all of us are coming up on the date when we need to cross a border to renew our visa for a few more months of footloose and fancy free living, Central American style.
Tiff informed me that Mexico and Belize are the only countries that honor the exchange for visa renewals, which is a bit of a bummer. I am scheduled to be getting my PADI scuba certification on a Caribbean island off the coast of Honduras in a little over a month, and was hoping that would count as a legitimate border crossing. No dice.
We talked about the possibility of me making it to the island through Belize by way of Livingston, a quaint Jamaican community on the Guatemalan coast.
Laura: ¨Isn´t Livingston kind of unsafe?¨
Tiff: ¨I mean, it´s a little shady.¨
Laura: ¨Like, I am going to get my wallet stolen shady? Or like I am going to get kidnapped and sold into white slavery shady?¨
Piper:¨Mmm, no...more like you just got dropped into Bob Marley´s living room and you need to watch your wallet. That´s all.¨
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Lost in Translation
Much like I seem to have fallen into the "adult" category when I was looking the other direction, I also got voted the most qualified to translate Spanish while I was staring off into space.
I have now been elected by the director of the school to translate our weekly conferences on domestic violence (which is more Guatemalan than apple pie is American) and the upcoming political election.
It has the potential to be a very unfortunate situation when my mind still has the potential to jumble words in unfavorable ways when I show signs of exhaustion [insert story of how I tried to say, Yeah, but you know my legs are short and instead said, Yeah, but you know my skins are cut here].
I am more than slightly suspicious of my new suddenly-Spanish-savvy status; before the school paid a translator who had the mad skills of my electronic pocket dictionary, but she up and left for an indefinite period of time. Shortly after, Frederico cornered me with a "Congratulations! You are now ready to translate our conferences!" As it turns out, I am not nearly as ready to translate complex political theories as Celas Maya is ready to not have to pay for a translator anymore.
It might be the scariest thing I've done since Danny dragged me & my surfboard Lucy out into the big waves, but good practice nonetheless.
I have now been elected by the director of the school to translate our weekly conferences on domestic violence (which is more Guatemalan than apple pie is American) and the upcoming political election.
It has the potential to be a very unfortunate situation when my mind still has the potential to jumble words in unfavorable ways when I show signs of exhaustion [insert story of how I tried to say, Yeah, but you know my legs are short and instead said, Yeah, but you know my skins are cut here].
I am more than slightly suspicious of my new suddenly-Spanish-savvy status; before the school paid a translator who had the mad skills of my electronic pocket dictionary, but she up and left for an indefinite period of time. Shortly after, Frederico cornered me with a "Congratulations! You are now ready to translate our conferences!" As it turns out, I am not nearly as ready to translate complex political theories as Celas Maya is ready to not have to pay for a translator anymore.
It might be the scariest thing I've done since Danny dragged me & my surfboard Lucy out into the big waves, but good practice nonetheless.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Don't Cry for Me, Antigua
The truth is, I may never leave you.
There are not words (at least words that I have rumbling around in my head, ready for an unanticipated moment) for how beautiful a city Antigua is.
The city gets somewhat of a bad wrap for being the gringo hub of Guatemala. And indeed, there are a fair contingent of buffed and toned first-worlders frequenting comfy cafes like The Bagel Barn; de-Guating, re-Guating, and stocking up on overpriced (by 3rd world standards) jewelry. It is, by my own estimation, a first-world suburb dropped in the middle of Central America.
Saying that, Antigua seems to be a rare exception in a world of combed over, discovered and re-discovered destinations. When in Rome, I found the locals to be rude and spiteful of extranjeros; in Antigua, I found the locals accommodating - I may even stretch to say friendly - to the foreigners who buzz around the city like viruses in a petri dish. The fact is, the Guatemalans might be the most forgiving people ever.
Kevin and I stopped into a few jewelry stores and the Guatemalan workers automatically initiated a conversation with us in perfect English. That is an impact of the tourism industry that has always made me really sad, so I answered them in Spanish. Regularly they complimented me on my Spanish. Which is even more sad. A girl who has just started studying can be categorized in the "competent" linguistic category (which we all know just ain't true).
Our experience there, much like city, was simply magical. One night after dinner, as we were walking back to our hostel through Central Park, we stumbled upon a free concert with the Guatemalan National Symphony. We visited Casa Santa Domingo, a monastery on Conde Nast's top places to visit in the world, strolled through endless art galleries, and shared our last dinner, by candlelight with live Spanish music, at the most incredible restaurant set in a colonial courtyard on the outskirts of the city.
Coming back to Xela was certainly a slow trek back to the real world - and the third world, while we're at it. On the bus ride back, my money and debit card were stolen, so I had to barter my way back by giving up my earrings. Two months ago I might have found that an odd exchange, but the other day it was - in a word - sustaining. The experience didn't spoil my trip, though, or sour my sentiments. I believe that Antigua may always be among the most magical, mystical places I have visited.
There are not words (at least words that I have rumbling around in my head, ready for an unanticipated moment) for how beautiful a city Antigua is.
The city gets somewhat of a bad wrap for being the gringo hub of Guatemala. And indeed, there are a fair contingent of buffed and toned first-worlders frequenting comfy cafes like The Bagel Barn; de-Guating, re-Guating, and stocking up on overpriced (by 3rd world standards) jewelry. It is, by my own estimation, a first-world suburb dropped in the middle of Central America.
Saying that, Antigua seems to be a rare exception in a world of combed over, discovered and re-discovered destinations. When in Rome, I found the locals to be rude and spiteful of extranjeros; in Antigua, I found the locals accommodating - I may even stretch to say friendly - to the foreigners who buzz around the city like viruses in a petri dish. The fact is, the Guatemalans might be the most forgiving people ever.
Kevin and I stopped into a few jewelry stores and the Guatemalan workers automatically initiated a conversation with us in perfect English. That is an impact of the tourism industry that has always made me really sad, so I answered them in Spanish. Regularly they complimented me on my Spanish. Which is even more sad. A girl who has just started studying can be categorized in the "competent" linguistic category (which we all know just ain't true).
Our experience there, much like city, was simply magical. One night after dinner, as we were walking back to our hostel through Central Park, we stumbled upon a free concert with the Guatemalan National Symphony. We visited Casa Santa Domingo, a monastery on Conde Nast's top places to visit in the world, strolled through endless art galleries, and shared our last dinner, by candlelight with live Spanish music, at the most incredible restaurant set in a colonial courtyard on the outskirts of the city.
Coming back to Xela was certainly a slow trek back to the real world - and the third world, while we're at it. On the bus ride back, my money and debit card were stolen, so I had to barter my way back by giving up my earrings. Two months ago I might have found that an odd exchange, but the other day it was - in a word - sustaining. The experience didn't spoil my trip, though, or sour my sentiments. I believe that Antigua may always be among the most magical, mystical places I have visited.
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