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Two
- Guatemala Revisited
01.06.95
Flores
In
the morning, we buy mangos, bananas, and bread. Margie
and Mark hug Chris good-bye as he is driving back to
Austin. Poor kid, what can you do? The three of us catch
a bus to the Guatemala border. My plan of the moment
is to travel with Mark and Margie and head down to Costa
Rica. They are excited to go to Tikal, while I plan
to stay in Flores, a city on an island a couple hours
from Tikal. We ride the bus to the border and run into
Ross, captain of the Reggae Muffin. He's going down
to a market not far from Antigua to purchase some goods
to sell back on Caulker. We ignore the van drivers who
will not transport us for a reasonable price. We wait
and catch the bus to Flores for $8US. Ross jumps off
at the airport to catch a flight to Guatemala City.
We off the bus near Flores. We catch a cab for the remainder
of the distance to Flores. Ceiba trees and tropical
fauna, ribbed cars and horses, and dust scroll by the
little brown cab while our arms burn red in the heat.
Rain is needed bad as the hills continue to burn in
Belize and Guatemala.
I
settle into a hotel in Flores and store Mark and Margie's
gear as they leave for Tikal. I explore the tiny island
made of cobblestone roads, a cathedral, and a basketball
court at the top of its hill. The lake is all about
and young boyz swim in the shallows.
Gotta
stay on budget from here on out, ~$15 - $18 a day. Dinner
is guacamole and chips and two Gallos at El Toucan.
Dessert is watching the light fade into the lake, the
red flamenco flowers in bloom, and a thatched hut sitting
on an island in the distance. Blue and yellow canoes
with wood roofs unload tourists onto Flores. A large
toucan with clipped wings has free reign of the restaurant.
He squawks and jumps about and eyes the customers. Ross
Creek comes and sits with me in El Toucan. He couldn't
catch a flight to Antigua. He doesn't believe the plane
was sold out, he believes it's prejudice against the
Belize. We talk music and about the crack users on Caulker.
People throw away their lives for crack. Ross doesn't
understand. "It's not like marijuana, ya know." Ross
is a very mellow man and he shares some Lucky Strikes
with me as I'm out. Flores is quiet with only the sound
of children playing basketball on the hill top court.
I wonder back to my hotel and read some of Kundera's
Immortality. I walk out for a Sprite and have
a beer instead. The book gets me to wondering. Do we
live for our egos? For our image which is all too mortal?
Denying our mortality and living as if we're immortal?
To these fleeting thoughts I return to the hotel for
sleep.
Flashes
and Characters
Expatriates
stick together in all lands. The role of Good Samaritan
is rarely broken. Help and knowledge sources are in
great demand. Too not help someone is to risk your own
ruin down the road.
Mark
stands 6' 1" tall, strong and lean with brownish/red
hair. He is pale with a few freckles and hazel eyes.
He brought scissors so Margie can clip his hair on the
travel.
Margie
is light brown hair with small curls, often kept tied
back, blue eyes with a tight figure. She reminds me
of a girl from Colorado, Karen Chantler. Margie was
raised Catholic. She wants to see cathedrals and stay
in every Central American country during this travel.
02.06.95
Thoughts
and Stories from Tikal
On
the hill courtyard in Flores, I read Kundera in the
morning. I'm thinking of the detail of life the author
has considered. The study of language he has chosen,
to the extent he has felt the need to create new words
to describe types of chance and human sentiment. Makes
me rethink the existence between physical and mental
being, the portrait each of us portray and to what end.
I go to El Toucan and order an appetizer and a Sprite.
A couple Guatemalan men harass the toucan. The toucan
snaps its big hollow beak on their fingers to no avail.
The men howl and egg the bird on. I buy a pack of Luckies
and watch cars and trucks trail in dust on the rock
road connecting Flores to St. Helena. I go back to the
hotel just past noon and Mark and Margie have returned
with stories of camping on Temple IV and rainstorms
in the jungle. A rain, something I have not witnessed
in Central America yet. They bribed the guards and slept
in the temple entryway to stay warm. Exhausted, they
get lunch and we siesta and discuss catching the bus
to Guatemala City this evening.
Through
Fire and Brimstone
The
bus ride from Flores to Guatemala City is notorious.
There have been deaths from bus crashes and from bandito
robbing. The ride lasts over 12 hours and winds along
on the bumpiest of dirt roads known to man. Realizing
this, we catch the "first rate" bus that is a few dollars
more and similar to a greyhound. The school bus option
frightened my buttocks as it could prevent one from
walking for days. Waiting, I meet Robert from Oregon
who now lives in New Orleans. He has a mop of red-brown
hair that could be easily turned into dreadlocks and
a huge droopy sombrero with beads attached to the rim.
We sit next to each other on the bus and talk music
and life as the bus winds along dirt mud roads, as a
sprinkle begins to come from the night. The road is
rough. Rock, fauna, and cliffs line the trek. Sometime
in the middle of the night, a truck sideswipes us. The
drivers nearly brawl and we drive back to a town we
passed 20 minutes ago to report the incident. Needless
to say, this puts us back a few, but hey, we ain't dead
yet. We nod in and out of sleep. Our butts are sore
and our necks are cramped. We arrive on a concrete road
into Guatemala City shortly after watching the red sunrise
over green hills. Thank you smooth road for being built.
03.06.95
Camped
in Antigua
In
Antigua, we visit Don Luisa's for food. We retire to
our shabby hotel and Robert stokes us with some beers.
We drink on the hotel roof littered a blind black dog
and his crap. Crumbling churches in white, beige, and
yellow stand on the city skyline. Volcan Fuego is covered
with a cloud among the sunrays.
We
tour Antigua, viewing the churches and architecture.
Swallows fly and chip along a high cathedral ceiling.
We end-up in a cafe and drink Muzo and Gallo beers.
Rain tenders upon the cobblestone streets through the
barred window view. We go for chocolate and stroll back
to the hotel in a sprinkle. I bump into Simon at the
hotel who I last saw in Tikal over two weeks ago. She
tells me that she caught on work at Tikal managing the
Jaguar Inn thanks to her family friend. She speaks of
spending some time in Antigua, possibly returning to
London for a short spell, and then back to Tikal to
work. Her friend Floss has gone to El Salvador to visit
her Jesuit preacher friend and then will return to Britain.
We part with smiles.
Getting
Cleaned-up for the Big Nap
Sparks
and smoke shoot from the shower over my head and this
sends fear jolting through my veins. Electrocuted in
a dirty shower in Antigua would be such a stupid way
to go. I take Margie's earlier advice and go to the
other shower. Showerheads loaded with electric coils
to heat the water, how silly to die that way. Robert
sleeps and the sound of a discotheque bounces against
the hotel walls. Someone is playing the bongos while
people talk in the courtyard, and a boy's cry echoes
in the night. Oh Antigua.
Prayers
in the Cathedral
Watching
the beauty of the church, sitting with fingers interlocked
next to Robert. Margie & Mark sit across the way,
and Margie leans forward on the knee board with her
hands together and eyes closed. I look ahead at the
alter dressed in white and red with flowers everywhere.
I pray to God to keep men's arms open to others', those
different. I hope that I can communicate those differences
clearly, to others and myself in my life. I hope God
is not angry that we're buzzed.
Kabang
Rain
cleanses the cobblestone at 4:30AM. Kabang, thunder
and our laughter echo false nightmares of a volcanic
eruption and earthquake.
04.06.95
To
Market in Chichicastenago
This
Morning in Antigua is underneath a crystal blue sky.
All the volcans surrounding the city are visible to
their peaks, a first. Fuego stands out in all its magnificence
dressed in only a single wisping cloud beneath its sawed
off top. We jump a bus northwest to Chichicastenago.
The ride winds through pine covered hills. A small village
showcases children playing an organized game of soccer
as we drive pass. A cornfield lies behind them and cows
graze to the left. We exchange buses twice to get to
Chichi. We meet Charlotte from London during the switch.
Blond hair and green hazel eyes, her looks are plain
but cute. Her Spanish is excellent and this is a help.
We make it to Chichi by 10:30AM, and two young boyz
direct us to Posada Beten. It's 20 quetzals apiece,
clean, and situated on the town edge perched on a hill.
The hotel possesses a great view of the city and surrounding
hills. Cattle stand underneath sheet metal tops into
the valley, and some farming is done part way up the
hills before the pines takeover. We go to the market.
It drips in colors: reds, blues, browns, and silvers.
Haggling of all sorts causes a din. We eat a chicken,
rice and cucumber dinner with a soda for 8 quetzals
in the market. We walk into a huge white cathedral built
around a dark wood interior. Women burn candles inside,
and two ladies burn incense at the church entrance.
The children are beautiful with tan skin and dark hair
dressed in vibrant reds, blues, and whites. The cobblestone
streets also hold drunks and homeless. A man with bruises
and scabs on his face lies curled up unconscious on
the busy sidewalk.
Charlotte
and I haggle for our last possessions around 4:00 PM
as the market packs up. Men, women, and children use
head straps to tote bags and boxes on their backs. Slowly
but surely, the market clears out.
Ross
the Photographer
Back
at the Posada, we spend time talking to Ross, the photographer
from Boston who has been living Costa Rica the past
six months. Ross is in his forties, balding with a gray
beard. He photographs humans and flowers. Robert is
quite intent on Ross's discussions of photography, his
dream. Mark and I move Ross onto Costa Rica, our future
destination. He describes a peninsula and his chosen
residence in Montezuma. Ross likes to talk and discusses
monkeys eating bananas off his porch, nude bathers at
the waterfalls, the devil discotheque, and the young
lady pickpockets in San Jose. The girls work in pairs.
One greets you and grabs you between the thighs while
the other lifts your wallet. Ross talks on of Panajachel
and the villages in Guatemala. One hundred and fifty
pound man can carry two hundred and fifty pounds up
the mountainside. A band strapped across his head, the
weight balances on his back.
Rooftops
We
eat dinner in town overlooking the "square" drinking
a couple Mozas. We retreat after dinner along the dark
cobblestone streets to the hotel rooftop. We sit on
a concrete water barrel watching the clouds, the crescent
moon, the occasional flickering of lights in the hills,
and the town in a wonderful panorama. A pack of dogs
is driven off frequently across the way, barks setting
off the night. Robert tells stories of New Orleans working
as a bike deliveryman, and then there is the Creole,
the French derived laws, drinking laws (18 to buy, 21
to drink), the corrupt police force, bigotry, and the
checker box of rich and poor in the Garden District.
Robert tells us of the crack house across from where
he lives and the time someone was murdered on his street.
Nine
Lives
Mark
has 1,000 stories worth hearing. He's been shot by Chinese
gang members in Houston, fallen off a 40 foot cliff
directly onto his chin, had a gun pulled on him at the
Dave Matthew's concert in Dallas, and saved his brother
from a college house fire last February (his brother
suffered second degree burns). His father is a missionary
and a writer in South America who he rarely sees. His
mother is the strong one of the family. She raised five
children and runs a construction company in Houston.
This is just the tip of the iceberg into Mark. The night
is cooling and we wear jackets. Our laughter carries
into the darkness broken only by dog barks. Slowly,
we all disappear into the rooms and sleep away everlasting
times.
05.06.95
To
the Lake
We
gather for a breakfast of pancakes, and then catch the
11AM bus direct to Panajachel. In Chichi, the town is
cleared out, but drunks and homeless continue to sleep
on the sidewalks in the stark morning light. The bus
ride to Pana winds down through the mountains. Sun and
clouds and a cool breeze wiggle through the bus window
views. Pine trees line the road. At Solola, the bus
is filled past capacity: arms, legs and torsos everywhere.
We reach Panajachel and Lake Atitlan reflects in magnificence.
If we could just get off the bus - it takes a good 10
minutes to disembark all the passengers. We make it
off and the bus employee throws us our packs from off
the roof of the bus. We walk through Panajachel and
find the Casa Lindo (Ross's suggestion). It meets our
needs, clean and cheap, and we settle in. Robert and
Charlotte go scouting, while Mark, Margie, and I decide
to walk down the market streets to the lake to find
food. Mountains and volcanoes rise up in a coat of green
conifers, towering above the town to wispy white clouds.
The sun squints through the clouds. A lake breeze comes
off the water in small waves. The lake is vast and clear
and across the bay in each direction the mountains serve
as walls to Atitlan. We eat cheeseburgers and fries
at El Pescado overlooking the lake. We finish and leave
satisfied. I go and figure bus schedules at INGUAT for
Costa Rica and then return to the lake to read and wade
in her waters, sweet Lake Atitlan.
As
I read, a senora fully dressed in magic blues and reds
sits beside me and tries to sell me shirts and other
clothes. I tell her I don't want them, that I have no
money. Still she persists. She just sits by me, silent
for a time, while I continue to read in an observed
guilt. Sunrays poke through clouds in long tube light
into the waters and splash along the rows of mountains
to the north. I simply gaze, and slowly, ever so, wander
back to Casa Lindo.
Last
Night Together
At
Casa Lindo, I walk onto the roof and view the mountains
to the west, the local soccer game to the east. The
soccer game is a pick-up game of 20-on-20 played on
a hard dirt field. Mark has met a man named Fred and
they join me on the roof. Fred and Mark are enjoying
the afternoon behind sunglasses. Mark and I decide to
take a walk along the city Avenidos and check out the
evening festivities. We stop in a market and buy bread,
peanut butter, cigs, and Papa Gallo beers. We open the
big beers and walk through the streets, as men enjoying
good cervasez should. We surprise Margie with supplies
for rum and cokes, and then Mark runs off with Fred
to see the town. Margie and I make peanut butter sandwiches
and talk about travel relationships, Austin, and whatever
else enters her mind. Robert and Charlotte return from
a hike in the hills. We burn a candle in the room, and
I sit on a wood stool in the doorway chain-smoking cigarettes.
A gentle rain falls through the Lime trees in the hotel
garden. Mark and Fred have been gone for hours, so I
stay with Margie to keep her company. We tell Charlotte
stories of scuba diving and the States to pass the time.
Three hours later, Mark and Fred return. We go to the
roof, smoke, and tell football stories. I exaggerate
the Germantown experience. I'm zoo'ed from the beers.
Mark and I are the last to call it night. We say good-bye
and have tentative plans to meet on the Osa Peninsula
in Costa Rica. If not, we tell each other that we'll
see each other back in the States; maybe I'll come through
Austin with a band? These are good folk. I will miss
them as I leave tomorrow alone.
Three
- Costa Rican Journey
06.06.95
Going
it Alone
I
wake at 5:15AM in order to get a jump on the day. A
long journey ahead and just focused on arriving in San
Jose, Costa Rica on the 8th. I run out to the street
and wait on the bus, which seems to have arrived early.
I stand outside and put in my contacts. The bus takes
off while I put in my last contact. Shit! This can't
be happening. I just told the driver I needed a ride.
My panic subsides as they explain to me the bus circles
back after picking up passengers down by the lake. So
with my heart just settling back into a normal rhythm,
I catch the bus out of Panajachel bound for Guatemala
City. The initial road is rough and dirt, but the view
of tranquil Lake Atitlan as we rise into the mountains
is nothing short of spectacular. Not a ripple to spoil
her complexion. Glass water and volcano peaks tower
to the heavens. We wind further up into the hills onto
a highway, and the paradise of Panajachel is erased
from sight. It's a relatively smooth ride now and I
fight sleep realizing I only caught 3-4 hours last night.
We
arrive into loud and smoky Guatemala City and I have
no idea where I am. No gringo's on the bus or on the
streets to ask for help. I am truly alone now in the
city without a good understanding of the language. I
resort to my Lonely Planet Guide map and locate
the Tica Bus terminal where I hope to catch a bus to
San Jose. Not knowing where the bus dropped me off,
I ask a lady in broken Spanish, "Donde es moi? Donde
es 3a Avenida?" (Where am I, where is 3rd avenue?) She
tries to direct me, but I'm totally confused and uncertain
by what she tells me. Walking in the direction I believe
is south; a kind Guatemalan gives me better directions.
I walk many blocks in the morning heat around Parque
Central and find the Tica Bus. I charter a ticket with
travelers’ checks, as they do not accept credit cards.
After a two-hour wait, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,
and a Lucky Strike, we board the bus and get on our
way. A fatherly Nicaraguan tries to talk to me with
some success. We do basic communications - I'm from
the US, he is from Managua. I believe he intends to
have me stay with him at his home for the night when
we arrive there tomorrow evening. Free digs would be
nice, and it appears that having a US houseguest is
an honor.
South
of Guatemala City, the hills tower and we wind along
through more jungle terrain. There are no evergreens
in this area. I doze and sit in solitude. The bus is
air-conditioned and I am cold. The El Salvador border
puts me on guard. I have to pay $10US - my last US bills
- and fill out extra forms that no other passenger must
do. Perhaps it is because I am the only gringo on the
bus. They let me through with little trouble so into
El Salvador the bus drives and the countryside begins
to slither by. Large mountains and volcanoes covered
in green, shanties of the worst kind, on occasion a
nice casa on a hillside, so is El Salvador. Near San
Salvador, our stop for the night, the hills change cover
in a noticeably different fauna. A tree built of white-gray
bark blooms into a top of green. It is the common vegetation
in this area. We enter the city during rush hour. A
tall black, glass building stands full of broken windows.
Buses zoom the streets everywhere. Drivers honk their
horns continuously. I have not seen any gringo's since
I left Panajachel, and still they do not appear. We
park at the Tica terminal in El Salvador, which is connected
to a hotel. I pay the equivalent of $16US for a room
and this hurts my wallet. The unfriendly surroundings
are oppressive, at least in this part of the city. I
hermit in my room and look forward to moving on. So
much for San Salvador.
07.06.95
An
Angel to Watch Over Me
I'm
awake at 4:15AM and ready for the next leg of the journey.
It's a day to travel in three countries: El Salvador,
Honduras, and Nicaragua. We enter into the El Salvador
countryside painted in hills and rivers. The houses
we see are constructed of brick with sheet metal roofs.
We cross a sizable river on a wooden bridge. To my left,
I study a concrete bridge remnant. What is left of the
design suggests it was quite a magnificent bridge before
its destruction. I wonder whether it was blown apart
in the revolution, or perhaps an earthquake shook it
to pieces. The bus motors on passing a crossroads where
old men in straw hats sit on the roots of an enormous
tree. The tree branches out horizontally and then pushes
to the sky. The bus stops and the driver lets us off
for breakfast around 8AM. Here I meet Idalia. She hails
from El Salvador, but she has lived in the States and
Costa Rica. Her English is okay, and we talk about her
work in "tourismo." Idalia had been working in Costa
Rica and now she is going back to decide if she wants
to stay on in Costa Rica, or return to her family in
El Salvador. I ask about the borders and if more cash
is needed. Idalia informs me Nicaragua is expensive
- up to $30 US - but Honduras is cheap. This news is
troublesome to me because I possess only travelers’
checks, credit cards, and 5 Salvadorian colons. I smoke
one of the last two Lucky Strikes and then re-board
the bus.
Near
the El Salvador/Honduras border, a bus employee gathers
passports and duties from the passengers. I'm 5 colons
(about $1 US) short of affording the El Salvador exit
duty. Idalia comes to my aid, and pays for my exit.
Entering Honduras, I owe the equivalent of $2 US. There
is no place to cash travelers checks here, and Idalia
spots me the money again. I make light of the situation
with her, but I could have easily been left at the border,
stuck for days or worse. We transfer buses in Honduras,
and two women gringos join us on the bus. The first
gringos I've seen since Panajachel. The girls sit many
seats away and we never talk, but I feel a comfort in
some way. The hills in Honduras grow into green mountains
and fade away as we come to Nicaragua. The border charge
for Idalia is only $1US, but it is $9US for me, the
American. The "changers" will not give me US or Costa
Rican money for my travelers checks, only Nicaragua
currency. Idalia offers to cover my expenses again,
and I accept. I tell her not to worry; I will pay her
back once I can fairly change a check. Meanwhile, all
around the bus, and the border for that matter, changers
bark at travelers, kids yell to sell food and drink,
and children beg for food and money. We unload our bags
from the bus and carry them through customs and back
again. I smoke the last half cigarette I have and keep
my distance from the begging children.
We
ride into the flats of Nicaragua and I doze. A few hours
outside of Managua, a large volcano shoots up into the
clouds and a smaller one shows itself completely. Rain
comes and goes in small amounts. I've lived on six peanut
butter and bread meals in a row and I'm adjusting to
hunger. We near Managua, and the lake comes into view.
The smaller volcano is an island surrounded by the lake.
Idalia tells me there are fish here, and only here,
that exist from prehistoric times. Not surprised, I
expect to see duck bill dinosaurs wading in the shallows
lounging safely out of reach from a T-rex.
We
arrive in Managua and Idalia organizes the woman from
Costa Rica and myself to stay with a Managuan at her
hospejado. This will save us some money and comes with
meals. Idalia, who calls me Robert since she can't pronounce
Stuart, speaks for me and tells her that I need to cash
travelers’ checks. The young lady drives us to a bank
where Idalia helps me change checks for US dollars.
I felt relieved, finally saved. Idalia has saved me,
an angel taking mercy on a green, solitary American.
The
young Managuan woman chauffeurs us through town speaking
in Spanish. The earthquake in '72 flattened the center
of town and it has remained so. Many trees sprout amongst
the building and houses and we arrive at her house.
We unload and notice the features of the home. There
is a dog, a hammock, and some rocking chairs. The roof
is sheet metal and she has a concrete courtyard and
a parrot. The roof does not cover the shower, but it
is not needed. The house is tightly fenced in from the
street.
Our
hostess takes us for a drive to show us the sights of
the town. She provides documentary sound bites in Spanish:
pointing out the last remains of the city center, locations
where the ten and fourteen year old prostitutes do their
business, the theater and its crystal chandelier, the
lake where people wash their clothes and teenagers do
their thing in dark window cars. We drive past shanty
after shanty. The poor state of the nation is overwhelming.
Note
1: Stole the pen from the bank. This is an American
custom and necessary evil that must be done at all costs.
Note
2: A man on the Tica bus offered to put me up in his
casa in Managua. He became a figure to avoid. I had
daydreamed along the countryside of him proudly presenting
me to his family and allowing me to date his daughter.
Did he have a daughter? This is not of relevance. The
fact is Idalia had taken precedence by taking me under
her wing and getting me across borders. I owed her companionship,
and I was glad to go with her to Maria Hose's house
and ignore the old man.
Back
at the house, I make friends with the dog and sit in
the rocking chair. Our hostess rustles up some beans
and rice, tortillas, and squash with peppers and Parmesan.
Kool-aid in a Snow-White Burger King glass is served
and I drink it praying the water and ice are pura. The
biggest gamble I've taken with water this journey, but
my great hunger made me put all common sense aside.
Finishing up the last morsels, my body is in shock to
receive a real meal. Light rain falls off and on, and
intermittently, lightening slices the sky. The hostess
pulls her car within the gate. The girls talk in Spanish
about beauty, and it is not just having blond hair and
blue eyes. I try and understand what is being communicated
and nod in agreement. I retire to the rocking chair
and hope we catch the bus tomorrow. Spanish TV rings
in the background mingling with Idalia's Costa Rican
talk. The hostess speaks on the phone and neighborhood
noises of kids and adults warble in the night.
08.06.95
The
Sun Rises in Managua.... Sets in San Jose
Last
night buzzed with whistles, rain, and flashlights against
the windows until sleep came. We awake to Maria Hose
making coffee and a roll. She drives us to the Tica.
We wait as the sun rises in Managua. The bus shuttles
into the crowded countryside road. A poor country rich
in natural beauty is brilliant in the morning sun. We
drive along lake Nicaragua. The clouds cover the high
rising volcanoes across the lake. A brown smoldering
air lies in a small circle in the middle of the vast
lake. Lago Nicaragua is the largest lake in Central
America. Idalia was incorrect in saying Lago Managua
held the prehistoric fish, in truth it is Lago Nicaragua.
Cows graze on the green, green grass before the lake.
Customs
is situated at the end of the lake. The wait at the
Costa Rican customs is long. An US/Nicaraguan buys me
a Miller High Life while we wait. We talk about the
US and Nicaragua to kill time. Signs and the Lonely
Planet indicate that Costa Rica requires visitors
to carry around $200 cash upon entry. The money requirement
is meant to show custom officials that the visitor has
money to exit the country. They let me in with nearly
a glance. Considering I have nowhere near $200 on me,
this is a good thing.
We
drive off into Costa Rica's lush countryside. Large
mountains stand in the east, but in solo formation.
Clouds gather and the green becomes dense with all kinds
of trees and velvety long grass. A fog envelops us as
we ascend into a mountain range. Rain begins to nip
the tin bus ceiling. It's the wet season, the winter
of Costa Rica in the middle of June. Off to the right
of the bus, through the clouds, the Pacific shows in-between
the trees. Houses we pass are well kept, no shanties,
but a wealthy country. Crops grow on the sides of hills.
As we near San Jose, billboards and traffic build. A
cosmopolitan city arises from the land. We arrive in
San Jose and are dropped at the Tica bus station. I
say good-bye to Idalia and the Costa Rican woman and
say I'll write. I walk with assurance to find the Tico
Lindo. I feel at home on the streets as if in New York
or Chicago. After a few blocks, I find the Tico Lindo.
The Lindo is next to the Emerald jazz bar. The brown
doors are inconspicuous and hide this cheap place made
for us gringos. I am given a solo room. It is the size
of a closet. Other travelers’ thoughts are scribbled
on the wall. I lay down my pack and head back to the
city to call my folks. After a brief chat to assure
them all is well, I go to a McDonald's. It seems the
normal thing to do in a city. After, I return to the
hotel to wash. In the hotel, an uncovered space where
rain falls freely leads the way past the washer and
bathroom to the showers. I take a cold shower and relax.
Chille's
Cafe
Roaming
for companionship, I walk about the drizzle streets
of San Jose until I happen across Chille's Cafe. I order
an Imperial. I receive the beer and rice, meat, and
chip serving for dinner. I listen to a group speak in
Spanish. I smoke a cigarette and go back, alone.
09.06.95
Planning
Travel
Early
rise and I get a cup of Joe and Huevos Rancheros at
the Hotel de Costa Rica. The hotel sits next to the
old theater house. Locals offer me hammocks, The New
York Times, and whistles. I venture off to get a $200
cash advance from Banco de San Jose. It's still before
9AM and I'm thinking I can get my airline ticket changed
for a later return to the States and be off for Manuel
Antonio this morning. Things aren't as easy as they
seem. Continental Airlines has moved their offices to
Pava, a suburb of sorts, and I must taxi out there.
Here I learn I cannot change my ticket. I must leave
from Belize on the date desired or wait over ten days
to not be charged some ridiculous sum of money. So now
I must go to Tica Airlines and buy a ticket from San
Jose to Belize. I taxi back to San Jose to the Paseo
and purchase a $227 flight from San Jose to Belize.
To top it all off, it is a 5AM flight. To put it simply,
this sucks. I backpack up to the Coca Cola bus terminal
and find the bus amongst a swarm of people. I meet a
Kiwi and a Norwegian and she sells me her ticket on
the bus so she can ride with the Kiwi on a different
line. An exchange Kiwi student, he's off to catch some
surf and escape for the weekend. I catch the bus and
I'm seated in the front section with the locals. The
gringos are always in the back. A mother holds a sleeping
daughter in her lap next to me. The little hand bounces
off my chest as we go over bumps. The drive s-curves
through the tropical mountains and mist. Rain falls
on and off, and we pass over the peak and wind down
the mountains viewing the sea. We come to Jaco on the
coast. The road varies between pavement with potholes
and dirt, quite different from the well-paved roads
through the mountains. One-lane bridges force one direction
to stop as the other funnels across.
We
travel into Quepos and many people unload including
the annoying Costa Rican grandmother across the aisle.
Eating and talking in a booming voice the entire trip,
waving at her grandchild behind me, throwing Coke cans
and other trash out the window, holding the child and
persecuting it with rapid machine gun fire kisses, the
loudest kisses I've ever heard. The little child had
pierced ears and took overwhelming affection fairly
well considering they would not let her sleep. The child
and family are so very different from the unassuming
mother and child riding next to me.
Tom
and Jerry
The
bus stops down the road and all the gringos exit the
bus in front of a villa near Manuel Antonio. Believing
this the last stop, I too, get off. The villa looks
nice and expensive, so I shoulder my backpack and begin
walking down the road toward Manuel Antonio reading
my Lonely Planet for hotel locations. Nearing
the Raminez Cabinas, three guys in a 4-wheel drive with
a surfboard atop ask me for lodging advice. I tell them
of a few $8-$15 places recommended in my Lonely Planet
and next thing I know I'm riding in the truck. Tom,
an old working friend of Jerry's, is driving. Jerry
has brought his son, Chris down from South Carolina
to Costa Rica as a high school graduation present. We
go into Hotel Arbelaros and find a four bed, two-bedroom
place with a view of the ocean. Rock islands wade out
to sea, green palms and leaves wave in the breeze, and
rainbow colored birds’ caw. Yes, this is quite simply
a paradise. The room goes for $85 a night and Jerry
tells me to pitch in whatever I can. Tom and I go down
to the restaurant by the beach to buy some cervasez.
We drink 'em down and walk back up to the room to begin
on bourbon and ice. Jerry is takin' it easy on account
of a sour stomach. This does not stop Jerry from having
regular cigarettes. Tom and Jerry smoke a cigarette
a minute, I'm guessing each puts away over two packs
a day. I run out of Marlboro's and bum Delta's from
Jerry. The sun dims blush through the clouds and night
falls around 6PM. Tom has managed to get loaded and
has become quite loud. He tells me about his five kids
and two divorces, the move from North Dakota to South
Carolina, where he, Jerry, and Chris now live. He says
Jerry's a ladies' man and works for his wife's father
in the nursing home business. Jerry pulls in $25K a
month and is careful not to get caught alley catin'
around. Tom's in the hospital business too, but is not
so well to do. I take it all with a grain salt knowing
that drunkin' words tend to grow numbers and stories
beyond the facts.
Tom
falls down the stairs as we go to the beach restaurant
for dinner. It's a particularly hard fall, but Chris
and I cannot hold our laughter. Tom is quite fortunate
and suffers no serious injuries. Unfortunately, we drank
too long on the patio and missed the restaurant's dinner
hours which end at 7PM. Jerry drives us off to find
some dinner. We wind up at a real fancy-smancy place.
I quickly get in the mood for a solid dinner and order
a tuna steak and an Imperial beer. Tom passes on food
and orders one Jack and Coke after another. Tom grows
louder and louder and Jerry must spend time trying to
control Tom's buzz. Two older gentlemen Jerry and Tom
met on the plane are seated at a table near us and they
join us for a while. These gents are from Florida, homosexual,
and live next to the 77-year-old Ted Williams. They
speak fondly of Ted and are still on an adrenaline high
from the white water rafting trip they took today through
class 4.5 rapids. They are here in Costa Rica to purchase
some property. Tom manages not to be too offensive during
the conversation and we make our way out of the restaurant
with no harm done.
Back
at the Arbelaros, Chris and I go for a hike around the
beach. A full moon glows between the clouds. Crabs litter
the beach. We come across a swarm of crabs consuming
a mango and move on. Chris tells me stories of Charleston
and the 7:2 girl to boy ratio at the college he will
be attending this fall. That great stage in life when
you know everything is going to be great and nothing
can go wrong. We make it back to the hotel, take one
last look at the gorgeous night, and call it day.
10.06.95
Manuel
Antonio: Tropical Forest along the Beach
I
rise around 7AM and have some coffee Tom's prepared.
We move down to the beach restaurant for food. Iguanas
sit on the roof while I wolf down my ham, cheese, and
lettuce sandwich with coffee. I go over to the beach
and watch Chris try to catch some waves, but the ocean
isn't really rolling this morning and he is unsuccessful.
The South Carolinians are unsure if they are staying
on another night so I bid them farewell and backpack
down near the Manuel Antonio Park entrance and check
into the Casa Lindo. It is only 900 colons, a couple
dollars, per night. My gray shirt is soaked through
from the humidity and heat by the time I unload my backpack
in my room. I'm already dirty so I load my daypack and
hike into the National Park a few minutes away. There
are tourists here, but the hiking is okay and does provide
areas of escape from the people. Little white-faced
monkeys feed, and a slow beige sloth hangs from limbs
moving in a listless slow motion. A raccoon like critter
climbs up a tree and feeds on tropical fruits. I walk
up to the cliff vista and the beauty takes my breath
away: cliffs drop-off to ocean, rocks jutting out to
sea, and coastline as far as the eye can see lined with
white beaches and deep green.
Propositions
in the Park
I
trek around and find some remote beaches and meet a
man from San Jose. He shows me a more remote beach and
we talk for a couple minutes. He seems like a good sort.
He takes a swim in the buff. Not wanting to get my shorts
wet, I do the same. Returning to shore, I can't help
but notice the man is fighting an erection. This puts
the fear into me. A man exiting the water should suffer
shrinkage, not enlargement. I put some shorts on while
he talks. He tells me he is a masseuse in San Jose and
offers me a massage on the house so to speak. The fear
is intense now, but I manage to calmly say, no thanks.
I put on the rest of my clothes mentioning I do not
want to get sunburned. I gather the rest of my belongings
and leave him to see the rest of the park. I strike
the thought of this being some sort of proposition and
double time it back to the trail. I spot another sloth
on my return to the main beach. The hike has been one
full of monkeys, three sloths, a couple raccoon like
fellows, and lizards every other step. A woman I passed
earlier on the trail points out a Basilisk lizard on
the beach. Over three feet long, I snap a photo and
go to relax in the safety of numbers on the main beach.
Later, I notice the San Jose masseuse carrying a child
on the beach. I keep my distance.
Party
in Quepos
Back
at the Casa Linda, I meet my neighbor Steve. He's got
wily brown hair, muscular, wears silver wire rim glasses,
and has a scare down his back from a car accident when
he was 18. He is now 29 and is finishing his bachelor
degree at New Mexico. We hit it off and go out to meet
Nicole, a friend of his from Spanish class in San Jose.
She is staying at a much better lodge called the Pisces
with her friends Emily, Brandy, Barron, and Marge. We
plan to go out later to Mambo's, but start at the Soda
Marlin to get a bite. Alex, a Costa Rican the girls
met the night before, joins us. Alex teaches us Spanish
curse words and performs a trick with matches. In return,
we let him bum cigarettes and beers. Alex goes with
us to Mambo's. He feigns a sprained ankle as we walk
down the stairs to the bar. To appease him, some of
the girls get ice from the bartender to put on his ankle.
I leave with Nicole to meet a friend of hers, Heidi,
who I coincidentally had met in the park earlier in
the day. Steve joins us and we go to the bar area by
a pool. Here, Barron, Marge, Emily, Brandy, and a couple
white water rafting guides have a table. Alex limps
down by Steve and tries to squeeze him for a couple
hundred colons. He refuses. We get rid of Alex as he
has more than worn out his welcome with us.
Our
group leaves Mambo's in taxis to go into Quepos to the
discotheque. Emily and I decide we do not want to pay
the 300 colons cover charge, so we walk across a bridge
and river and stumble into a place called Nuevo Boca.
It's relaxing next to the river. Emily is fit with small
breasts. She wears her brown hair pulled back and is
clothed in a white t-shirt and jeans. I feed her questions
and let her entertain me with her talk. Emily is from
Longview, Texas. She wants to become a primate specialist
of which there are only 30 in the world. If she is not
accepted into the program, she is thinking she will
try archeology. Emily is fascinated with travel, and
she pries into my travels. She thinks I have accomplished
a lot, but given I have six years on her; I believe
she will do more. I am quite pleased spending time with
her. We meet a blues harpist from Canada who claims
he brought live blues to Costa Rica. He spins tales
of playing with Buddy Guy and others, and plans to head
up to tour the States with Buddy. Our blues man is adorned
in a red Kiwanis style hat from which his white hair
falls down. He feeds me a couple pieces of tuna marinated
in ginger. It's outstanding. Emily will not join us
in the feast, as she is a true vegetarian.
We
finally part the Nuevo Boca and go back to the disco
to find the others. At this late hour, there is no cover.
We locate the group quickly. Brandy, 23 years old and
engaged, is missing. The suspected culprit is a 17-year-old
white water rapids guide. Given her blue eyes, long
curly brown hair, I can't blame the boy for trying.
We give up trying to find her around 2AM and taxi back
to the Pisces. Steve and I leave Nicole and Emily and
walk back in the warm night to the Costa Linda.
11.06.95
Papillion
I
awake with a sore throat and hangover and tell myself
the last two cigarettes in my possession will be my
last. Steve and I go to the Soda Marlin for breakfast
where Nicole joins us. We decide to go to the park,
but we do not want to pay the park entrance fee. We
wade across the waterway that blocks the park entrance
and climb up the jungled rocks off to our right. We
bushwhack through the jungle until we reach the beach.
Unfortunately, the guardhouse is situated so they can
easily spot us. Nicole decides just to walk by the guard
post and pay if need be as the woman's entrance fee
is much less than the 2400 colons a man must pay. Steve
and I head back into the bush and circle up and about
a fallen tree that lays part way in the ocean. We wade
behind it and into the ocean shallows. We swim out and
in past the guard post. We've made our great escape,
our Papillion. We go to the main Manuel Antonio beach
and catch up with Nicole. We drift in the calm waters
and enjoy the comfort of the ocean brushing off the
sweat and dirt from our hike.
Circus
in the Reserve
Eight
to ten white face monkeys make their way through the
tree towards the people. They come near and 30 some
people are up snapping photos like Japanese tourists
in Time Square. Signs are posted throughout the park
that read, "Do Not Feed the Monkeys." When this rule
is broken, the monkeys get excited by the easy food
and can become aggressive. In these situations, the
monkeys have attacked young children. Regardless of
the signs, people try and touch the monkeys’ baby-like
hands. A few of the more aggressive monkeys scamper
down and steal bananas from the tourists. They steal
from containers and food lying on towels. It's a three-ringed
circus and I'm put out by the whole affair. Slowly,
we will take the wild out of the monkey and create begging
scavengers. The three of us leave the zoo behind. We
wade through the park entrance at high tide holding
our backpacks above our heads as the water reaches to
our chests. The water smells of sewage as tributaries
obviously dump into these waters. We go back and ready
ourselves to leave Manuel Antonio. I'm tired of the
touristy area and must go somewhere else.
The
Road to Dominical
Steve
and I backpack up to the Pisces to see the girls and
get phone numbers so I can meet up with them on my return
to San Jose. Emily wants to make sure we talk in San
Jose, as she would like to discuss more travel ideas.
Life is good through sunglasses. I make fun of Brandy's
hickey and soon everyone is giving her shit. She's an
easy target given she's engaged and fooling around with
a 17-year-old. Brandy laughs with us and down plays
the affair. Behind her blue eyes it is easy to tell
she's ashamed of it all. I tell her she's alright (glad
she's not my girl). Unfortunately, Steve and I have
managed to miss the bus to Quepos and we decide to hitch.
We say good-bye and begin hiking the steep road. We
are picked-up quickly by some Americans who are looking
for a place to stay. Passing a soccer game, we nearly
have them pull over to try and get in the game, but
we think better of it and travel into Quepos. We say
farewell to our lift and go to find the bus station.
Steve begins practicing his Spanish with a 40-year-old
local. He's laughin' and enjoyin' the hell out of himself.
Steve says the ride and conversation has made his day.
I figure it's not a good time to quit smoking and I
buy a pack of Luckies. In thinking about my next destination,
I decide to go to a more off the beaten track city of
Dominical. It is a small city and is considered a surfer's
paradise. Steve helps me get on the right bus, and I
promise to see him in San Jose. On the bus, I meet Ross
in the back seat. He is 23, six foot five, and rides
with his surfboard laid along the seat. Ross has come
to Costa to surf the coast. He's returning to Dominical
after surfing down on the Osa. He'd rented a car to
get down there and suffered two flat tires. We ride
and read our books ignoring the locals having fun with
us. We arrive in Dominical two and half hours later
at dusk. We go to the San Clemente to eat dinner and
watch a little of the Houston/Orlando NBA game. Ross
talks about teaching me how to surf tomorrow morning.
It all sounds good to me. I'm psyched to try surfing.
I run into Tom and Jerry from Manuel Antonio and say
hello for a few before heading off with Ross. We find
an air-conditioned place on the water at the Cabinas
Nayarit for 3000 colons. I wash off the dirt from the
road and discuss with Ross world politics, authors,
women, and war. Ross spends extra time re-telling his
previous night spent with tica girl in Jaco. Although
they didn't speak each other's language, she did buy
him beers. She was clean with beautiful skin, and Ross
quickly succumbed to her.
12.06.95
Surfing
We
wake to cloudy skies around 8:30AM and go to San Clemente's
for breakfast. I have some awesome banana pancakes and
watch CNN. I take in all the world information and am
surprised that I have not missed the western world at
all. After breakfast, Ross and I hike to find a nearby
waterfall. We walk along the dirt, rock road, and rain
falls harder and harder as we go. The rain drops in
sheets roaring off the tree fronds. We give up looking
given the storm. Brown water runs in rivulets beside
the road as we walk back to town.
In
town, I rent a board from Mike; the owner of San Clemente's,
and Ross gives me my first surfing lesson - waxing the
board. We paddle past the break, and he instructs me
on catching the power of the wave and riding it. He
recommends riding a few without standing, like a boogie
boarder. I body surf a few in, I get rolled by another
wave, try to stand, and watch. Ten to fifteen surfers
line the waters, and I can see the excitement of surfing:
beautiful surroundings with your friends, sitting in
warm waters, and catching the ocean's power. We stay
out in the surf for a couple hours, and I develop some
board rash across my chest. On the way out, I cut my
toe, but this does not deter me from wanting to go some
more.
I
take a break and sit writing in my journal after finishing
Kundera's Immortality. Surfers ride waves against
the gray sky background. A tico boy points out dolphins
to me in Spanish, and I watch dorsal fins rise and dip
along the sea's horizon. Although Ross has returned
to the hotel, I decide to paddle out and try to surf
some more waves. Mist sits in pockets among the green
mountains along the coast. Pelicans glide inches off
the ocean waters. Fifteen to twenty surfers sit in a
line past the break. I join the group on the far north
side. A riptide carries me out further than I want.
I struggle for twenty minutes paddling back to the break.
I'm tired but wanting to catch a big wave. A strong
swell rises, paddling with the rise I begin to stand
and ride. I lose my balance and am thrown underwater.
I'm tossed around under water in tight circles like
I'm in an industrial powered washing machine. I float
up to the surface and pull the board back to me by the
cord that's tied to my ankle. I catch the after break
and ride the ocean into the shore. Exhausted, I call
it a first and go back to shower.
Central
America Good-bye
For
dinner at San Clemente's, Ross and I do it right, a
bucket of Imperials and fresh Mahi Mahi with rice and
veggies. It's seasoned in rosemary and the like. Mui
Buenos. We buy another six-pack after dinner and go
over to a house where a bunch of Floridians stay. It's
both Jason's and my last night in Dominical. Jason is
a big boogie boarder, keeps his hair the same length,
and is 21. There are four guys who have rented this
house for a month for $400. They're playing the card
game called asshole and we join. I win the game of asshole
and become king. It's good to be king; you get to boss
people around for beers and what not. We quit the game
after a few more rounds and talk music and ethnic problems.
Mostly we talk music. Pink Floyd's "Echo" plays in the
background as Ross recounts concerts of the Cro Mags
and Suicidal Tendencies. Around 1AM we stroll out to
the beach. Here is where I will say good-bye to the
ocean and the journey through Costa Rica. From here,
it is all travel back to the United States. The moon
hides behind palm fronds to our left and the light shines
bright as dawn. A mist hangs along the shore. Out over
the ocean to our right, a black storm moves at a snails
pace, nearly imperceptible, towards us. Lightening flashes
in the distance and the contrast between stars and moon
behind to our left and the storm to our front right
is everything to me now. Ross and a guy called Petey
leave me as I finish a cigarette. I'm intently watching
the incoming storm when a surfer named Kent joins me.
He's been riding the biggest hallucinogenic trip of
his life and he is still scatterbrained. I talk to him
for a few, and then I leave him to go pack up my things
for the morning. I must be up early to catch the 7AM
bus to San Isidro to catch the connection to San Jose.
Ross is still awake listening to tunes. We talk as I
gather my belongings. Ross has lived in Taiwan, Ontario,
and now Southern California. He is thinking about teaching
for a living. We end the night talkin' women and finally
turn down for the night around 2:30AM. My mind is active,
so I think about old and new girlfriends: Melissa, Caroline,
and Charmion. I roll throughout the night and never
fall into any sort of sleep.
13.06.95
Sick
and Traveling to San Jose
I
take a shower and say "huerto luego" to Ross. I meet
Jason and we backpack to the bus stop. My throat is
throbbing and I'm exhausted. I vow off cigarettes and
buy a coke to get change for a $20 in US. On the bus,
I try to catch some shuteye, but I keep watching the
scenes of the winding mountain countryside. This fellow
Jeff is traveling with us too, and helps us find the
connecting bus in San Isidero. The rain falls in torrents
on the second leg of our trip and I pass into sleep.
We arrive to a cloudy San Jose and check into the Tica
Lindo. Nothings changed in the past week, it is still
a loud, hole in the wall. We get out of the hotel and
go scout around to find Jeff and Jason token gifts for
their friends. Walking around, two cops frisk us for
guns or something. Realizing we are no threat, they
quickly let us on our way. A big rain holes us up at
the Hotel Costa Rica. Finally, we give up on the weather
and high tail it back to the Tica Linda. We rest in
our musty, thin, white walled room. Jeff and a buddy
of his, Matt, give us a visit. Matt lights a cigarette
and talks incessantly about Costa Rica and him trying
to hold out for three more weeks. I find Matt extremely
annoying so I daydream wishing I had some more time
in this wonderful country. I sprawl out and finally
Jeff and Matt leave. Jason and I get some sleep until
7PM. It is still raining, more than five hours straight
now. I'm groggy and getting more sick by the minute.
I figure I shouldn't call Steve and Nicole even though
I want to see Emily. Jason gets me motivated to eat,
and we hit a local soda. We eat fast and go back to
the hotel. We pack up our backpacks knowing full well
we will rise at 4AM to catch a taxi to the airport.
Our stay here is ending and I am ready to get out of
San Jose. Band sounds of trumpets and bongos echo through
the Tica Linda from the Empress bar next store. I put
my earplugs in place and fall into unconsciousness.
14.06.96
Five
Countries, Airplanes, and a Car Ride to Home
I
awake at 4AM knowing full well that a wretched, hassle
filled travel lay ahead: by air Costa Rica to El Salvador,
El Salvador to Honduras, Honduras to Belize, Belize
to Houston, Houston to Indy, and then by car, Indy to
Bloomington. To add to the misery, I have to deal with
a full-blown cold. There is no one at the register when
we leave. Figuring the innkeeper values his sleep more
than our colons; we walk out without paying and catch
a taxi to the airport. These saved dollars are crucial
as the taxi costs me 2850 colons and I only have 3400
left. In the airport, we sit about and rest and talk
to a Brit in his early 20's who lives on Cayman Island.
Before long, my plane is boarding and I shake hands
good-bye to Jason, nod to the Brit, and I'm out of there
and onto Taca Airlines. A group of high school missionaries
are on the plane and are rather talkative. I tune them
out and recline in my seat. The El Salvador airplane
exchange is simple and this is a good sign. Next, we
are in and out of San Pedro, Honduras and landing in
Belize by 10AM. I watched the reef curl like a snake
as we flew into Belize just remembering and looking
for good ole Caye Caulker. On the ground, I see my dirty
self in the airport bathroom, sniffling, and wishing
I was on the plane to the States. Once you recognize
the journey is truly over, you long to rest among friends
and family - even alone.
Extemporaneous
Reflections from an American Airplane
With
a congested brain and a travel weary body, I'm on the
last plane of the day. Six airports, five countries,
three plane changes, and I'm a few short hours from
Indianapolis. Travel is mind opening, soul searching,
exploring, self-reliance, and people dependence all
balled into one. U.S. culture shock is upon me after
only five weeks away, though I like to tell people six.
Perhaps the shock is because I see eagle rays in my
head, visions of rust and purple coral walls, monkeys
screaming off temple walls, volcanoes spewing orange
rock, canoes penetrating caves a day long laden with
crystal waterfalls, surfers lined up for the swell,
sloths hanging from forest limbs, toucans searing the
air.... I see drunks on cobblestone sidewalks asleep
for the day, little girls in turquoise dresses selling
hand woven goods, people stacked three deep standing
on buses traveling on dirt roads, changers screaming
at tourists to exchange their US dollar, taxi drivers
haggling tourists to take a ride, markets and bars,
farmers and crack heads, Rastas and Mayans, 10 year-old
prostitutes and kindly townsfolk, all these, this is
Central America - if only a scratch, a small speck of
an enormously diverse land. There are the poor and poorer
with but a few exceptions. Gringos traveling, meeting
for a few magic moments to share sights and adventure
to disappear back to the road. People who want to see
more than the ordinary, be more than ordinary, who don't
want to run into life no matter how unavoidable.
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