Update From Home

I'm home. Got here yesterday. Things are a mess and there's so much to do to get things back in order. After I get things under control, I'll begin to write blogs about the final stretch of my trip from Managua, Nicaragua, all the way up through Mexico and into El Paso, Texas, and on up to Tacoma. I'll also edit the last several thousand photos I shot and get them up to my photo site.

To make your life easier, just subscribe to the RSS feed so you'll be notified automatically when I post new entries and not have to check back every day. I'll try to post the blogs using the dates of their actual occurrence for some continuity. Thanks for sticking with me, all.

Internet in Latin America

The vast majority of hostels that I've stayed at during my travels in Latin America have had broadband and WiFi. In fact, that's one of the criteria I use when I select a hostel. Having WiFi for my laptop makes all the difference in the world. Most hostels also have a computer or two for the travelers to use.

There are also many locutorios in almost every city. These are Internet Cafes and usually also have telephones. You use the computer or telephone (you can usually call anywhere in the world) and then pay at the front desk on your way out.

It just occurred to me that it might be useful to share what Internet speeds I've encountered during my trip, so I'll post the ones I remember here (not many) and I'll update this post as I think of it.

• Buenos Aires, Argentina (download) — 3Mbps
• Salta, Argentina (download) — 1Mbps
• La Paz, Bolivia — 650Kbps / 116Kbps
• Tupiza, Bolivia — horribly slow
• Lima, Peru — 450Kbps / 140Kbps
• Quito, Ecuador — 460Kbps / 122Kbps
• Managua, Nicaragua — 440Kbps / 170Kbps
• Puebla, Mexico — 1Mbps / 180Kbps
• Durango, Mexico — 786Kbps / 95Kbps

To test your Internet speed, use Speedtest.net. It's great.

Christmas Update From Latin America

I know some of you are wondering where I am. I haven't been updating my blog regularly, as I've been moving fast, and photo editing and writing the blog take loads of time. There will be a lot of blanks I'll have to fill in after I get home—which should be in less than two weeks.

I'm currently in Puebla, Mexico, with my friends Tim & Barbara-Lee Glessner. If you want to see where I am at any given moment, either look at my facebook status or check my travel map. I try to update both of those regularly.

The remainder of my trip may look something like the following: go to Mexico City tomorrow for the day, go to Tequila for a day, go to Durango for a day, head up to Los Mochis and take the train through Copper Canyon getting off in one or two places for a day (horseback riding?), then take a bus to Ciudad Juarez, cross the border, and hitch a ride to Seattle.

Walk for Your Food

Although this happened to me in Puebla, Mexico, it could've been any Latin American city. Wherever you may find yourself, I recommend you do what I did.

My friend Tim had dropped me off in downtown Puebla to walk around some, take some pictures, and just get to know the city a bit. He was going to meet me several hours later and we would decide what else to do then.

Before he took off, he had pointed me in the direction of a market where I could find a bathroom, so that's the first place I went. Like many of the toilets in Latin America, there was no toilet seat, but unlike many of the toilets in Latin America, it actually flushed. At a fair number of the baños you'll encounter in this neck of the woods, there is someone who works there who has a 50-gallon drum of water—or a hose—and a 5-gallon bucket that he uses to flush the toilets manually.

After relieving myself, I proceeded to the cathedral—which has the tallest towers in Mexico—and to a few other churches. By this time—probably an hour-and-a-half later—I was pretty hungry, so I decided to find some place to eat, which brings me to the point of this post, really nothing more than a simple travel tip.

I wanted to find a small outfit with good, cheap, authentic food. That meant getting away from the main plaza where the cathedral was. I normally just look for a hole-in-the-wall, an uber-small restaurant where locals are eating. I headed back toward the market where I hoped to find such a joint.

On a street corner in the same neighborhood as the market, I found a nice looking place. It looked like a candidate. There was a menu sitting on a table near one of the large, airy, entrances. I picked it up and gave it a quick once-over. A quick scan down the price column told me all I needed to know: 50, 70, 90 pesos. Coke: 15 pesos (probably a 355 ml glass bottle). I continued with my original plan and went a bit farther, arriving at the market. At either end of one of the aisles of the market were vendors selling food.

I approached the metal cart and stood by, as they were currently cooking for those who were already standing around and had ordered. The cart had a large, thin, circular plate mounted on top—a cooking surface—which was quite far from flat from years of hard use. This metal disc was raised several inches above the surface of the cart to make room to build a fire underneath. Red-hot coals were working on my behalf, firewood and oxygen for the cooking of my meal.

They were cooking only a few different items, not too different than loads of the food you'll find in Mexico—tortillas with stuff inside. The lady grabbed a fist full of dough, plopped it down onto a cast iron press, closed the handle forcefully, opened it back up and rotated the now-tortilla-shaped dough a bit, then pressed again. Upon opening the tortilla maker once more, she removed the thin, round, uncooked tortilla from between the two sheets of wax paper and threw it onto the steel griddle next to the other tortillas that were already cooking.

I didn't understand the names of all the ingredients that were at my disposal. She pointed at another guy's quesadilla and asked if that would work for me. It looked like what I wanted so I told her to go for it. The meat, a beef, was called chorizo, and the cheese that was used was very stringy, but nice when melted. There was some lettuce thrown in and some salsa for a bit of twang.

I paid 14 pesos for this freshly-made delight. That's about a dollar.

There was a guy standing by the stand who had just finished his food and was sipping a bottle of pop. I asked him if it was cold. "More or less," he said. I felt one of the bottles of Coke that was sitting in the plastic crate next to us and it definitely wasn't too terribly frosty. I asked him where there was a store and after some grimacing and squinting he pointed to the next corner, verified by the cook. I walked the block and bought a chilly 600 ml Coke for 8 pesos.

Moral of the story? When traveling in Latin America, get away from the tourist spots, look for the tiny joint where the locals are eating, save your money, and enjoy a treat. I've experienced the fruits of this bit of extra labor countless times during my trip and it's worth the walk.

A Bunch of Random Schtuff

• When you visit ruins such as Machu Picchu (Peru), Copán (Honduras), or Tikal (Guatemala), there are normally guides at the entrance that you can hire. They will walk around the ruins with you giving explanations of all manner of things, such as dates, rituals, habits of the people, religious practices, etc. Hire them! They are worth every penny. You will come away with far more knowledge and appreciation of what you've seen than if you walked around by yourself guessing at what's what.
• The bus station in Panama City is unique. You will see literally hundreds of school buses, all pimped out—wild paint jobs, lots of chrome, and other decorations. Kind of funny, kind of crazy.
• In Copán, Honduras, I was bitten by far more bugs while visiting the ruins in one day (and on the island of Utila, Honduras where I stayed for the week before that—sand flies) than on the entire previous ten-and-a-half months of my trip. Bugs can be very annoying. My ankles and feet itched for days.
• Currency in Latin America—this is both from experience (to the best of my recollection) and from what I've heard.
• Ecuador's official currency is the US dollar.
• El Salvador's official currency is the US dollar (I was told this by someone else).
• All other countries in Latin America have their own currency.
• All Central American countries that I have been in (Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, and Guatemala) accept payment in US dollars, but give change in the local currency.
• I stayed at a hostel called El Hostal in Antigua, Guatemala. I recommend it. It was nice, clean, the staff was friendly, the breakfast (included) was great, and they have WiFi. The one caveat is that the mattresses are lousy.
• I stayed at a hostel called Los Camellos in San Cristóbol de las Casas, Mexico. It's cheap, clean, and they have WiFi. No breakfast included, but breakfasts at these places usually aren't great, anyway, so just go out for breakfast. Recommended. I was going to stay at Las Palomas, but it was full. I showed up and talked to the lady, though, and it looked really nice. Plus, they have WiFi, so if you have a laptop, consider it as an option.
• The farther north you travel, the smaller the modes of transport seem to become. In Argentina, it was double-decker buses. In northern South America and some of Central America, it was single-deckers. Then in northern Central America it became mini-vans. The company I went with to get from Copán, Honduras to Antigua, Guatemala was Plus Travel Agency. The vehicle was in horrendous condition. The transmission sounded like it was going to explode. A CV joint went out an hour into the trip. The driver was strange. He may have been drinking. Not sure. Regardless, he was off somehow. There are only two agencies in the town that drive this route. I would try the other one next time.
• From Antigua, Guatemala, there are tons of travel agencies you can use to get to San Cristóbol de las Casas, Mexico—or any of a number of other places. To get to San Cristóbol de las Casas, Mexico, most of them charge $60. I found one that charged $40, but I was very skeptical of the service I would get. I took them anyway. The vehicles were excellent and the drivers very professional. I told the second driver he was the best one I'd had on my entire trip. CAT rent a bus. CAT stands for Centro America Travel. They've got an address in Copán (I just noticed) so they may be the other agency there.
• Antigua address: 6ta. Avenida Sur No. 10C
• Copán address: Barrio El Centro (it's a small town—if you walk for a minute, you can find it)

Antigua, Guatemala

There were three things that stood out to me in Antigua—the myriad churches, the gargantuan market, and the stunning girl behind the desk at the hostel, Ana.

Robb Wilkinson, a Cal Poly student whom I’d gotten to know on our adventurous trip up from Copán, and I decided to spend the day together getting acquainted with Antigua. Robb was a real mellow guy from what I could tell and was perfectly happy hanging out with me. This is good because a lot of folks wouldn’t be happy doing what I like to do, which is walking around taking pictures. To hang with me when I’ve got my camera and there are lots of really old, crappy buildings around, it takes someone who’s not in a hurry. Robb was great.

When you pick up a copy of the tourist map after arriving in Antigua, you’ll notice no fewer than 23 little icons representing the churches you might want to visit while wandering the quaint, 16th-century city’s narrow, cobblestone streets. Robb and I wandered those streets for several hours, but couldn’t quite find it within ourselves to visit all 23. While church hopping, we noticed smoke belching from the peak of Volcán de Fuego every fifteen or twenty minutes. That was pretty cool. Another pleasant surprise was running into Jes and Haley, a couple Canook gals I’d gotten to know while learning to SCUBA dive in Honduras. We dived with the same outfit and in fact stayed in the same dorm.

So, the four of us headed to the market and bummed around there for a while. The market in Antigua is one of the most amazing markets I visited on my entire trip. Its awesome factor was up there with the market I visited in La Paz, Bolivia. It was broken up into a few clearly different chunks.

First was a nice, covered area, surely targeted at tourists. It was pretty spiffy with quite nice spaces for the vendors to lure in the visitors, people like me who wanted to buy some nice keepsakes to take home. I had bought hardly a single thing on my trip up to this point. Here, I bought a handmade quilt and a few hand-carved wooden masks. I wish I had bought a hammock here, but we were being sticklers on price and we didn’t get the deal we wanted. Robb and the girls were all pretty hard core barterers.

Second was an outdoor area with many food vendors, but interspersed with all the other typical vendors selling random things. Since Christmas was just around the corner, you could find Christmas trees and various decorations for said trees.

Third was an area I explored alone. The next day, I went back to the market by myself and passed through the same area where the food vendors were located. After another inexpensive meal of chicken, rice, and a Coke, I continued farther along this outdoor market street. Toward the end of the street, there began what I would discover was an enormous covered area—primarily a world for locals. It wasn’t nice like the tourist area and didn’t sell carved masks or hammocks. Let me repeat, this area was vast. Here were sold spices, meat, fruit, vegetables, weaved baskets, clay pots, and other items required daily by every family. Also in this area were table after table after table of used clothing and shoes, apparently shipped in from the States.

While in this dark and dirty Latin American supermall, I ran into a gal I recognized from Honduras. She had also been on the island of Útila. A common friend had introduced us back then and we recognized each other in the market. Jennifer, a New Zealander, had been travelling for 6 months and had 4 to go. She had met a guy earlier on her trip and was really into him. And I mean really. She was so into him, she was going to the spend the next 3 months with him taking meditation classes near Antigua. We found some fresh fruit juice and then I proceeded to hang with her for a bit while she looked through mounds of clothing. I can’t take much of that so I headed off to explore more of the market before too long. Once again, I found that the people I met were a highlight of my trip.

The second day I went to the market, Robb climbed a volcano. Jes and Haley had done it and highly recommended it. I didn’t feel properly equipped to make the climb, so I passed. Back in the hostel room, some new people showed up: a girl from the States who had moved to Honduras to teach—where kidnapping are rampant, she said—and a couple brothers who were spending their two weeks of vacation in a few Central American countries. While we were visiting, Robb got back to the hostel after his run-in with the volcano. He hadn’t fallen in, but he was a mess. He hadn’t heeded the advice of Jes and Haley. He had worn his sandals instead of getting hardier footwear. In all fairness, we did look for shoes for him in the market, but didn’t encounter anything quite big enough for his feet. His feet were absolutely filthy and a bit scratched up, but he was in pretty good condition, considering what he’d just done.

We all went to a club where there was to be Salsa dancing. At first it was just our female roommate, the brothers, and I. After showering, Robb showed up. I never did get up enough nerve to ask any locals to dance. Our female friend became quick acquaintances with an Antiguan guy. Us guys didn’t stay too late. The next morning when I got up to leave, the gringa still wasn’t back. She either got murdered or got lucky. I’ll probably never know.

Ana, the gal at the desk, was stunning. She was a local and had just gotten a new fully-manual 35mm camera. I offered to help her learn how to use it, nice guy that I am, but unfortunately, we never did connect.

Were I to travel more extensively in Central America, I would most certainly return to Antigua to visit Ana and see how her photography is coming along.

 

      

Terrible Travel Troubles

As I sit on the bus here in Chiquimula, I enjoy all kinds of entertainment out the window. Presumably, we'll be waiting here until the bus fills up—I'm not really sure. I'm not even supposed to be here, but I'll enjoy it as much as I can. Here's what I see:

• A man is pulling a big wooden cart with a few piles of some kind of melon.
• A taxi driver has a dirty, semi-transparent green bucket of about a gallon capacity. It's filled with water. He's pouring water into a small green tray which he's holding in his other hand and tossing the water onto his dirty taxi. He wipes the wet rear window with his hand. He tosses more water onto the rear bumper. Mud and dirt pour off the car into the street.
• A woman in a skirt walks past with two dead chickens hanging from her left arm and holding a pair of black boots in her right hand.
• A boy of about ten years is walking around with a big pile of newspapers stacked on his head. He gets on the bus to try and sell a few.
• A family of four rides past on a small scooter. The family includes husband, wife, a little girl, and a baby.
• A man gets on the bus selling sugar coated peanuts. He takes one peanut with a pair of tongs and gives it as a sample to each passenger. I buy a few packets and ask him to get me a Coke from across the street. When he returns with my Coke, I buy an extra packet of peanuts.
• There is a small restaurant across the street. It's open air—no doors or windows in front—as are most such places in Latin America. A couple guys sit at the counter, talking and eating, another man reading the paper. There is an old steel wheel with legs welded to it sitting on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant and a grate sitting on top of it—a typically-resourceful Latin American solution (it's a barbeque).
• Another man pulling a big wooden cart walks past, laboring to pull his load. His cart is filled with melons, cantaloupe, onions, tomatoes, and other produce.
• Across the intersection, a woman sits at a rickety wooden table with three baskets on top of it. The baskets contain pieces of watermelon and other things I can't quite make out from here. She sits and waits patiently for customers. Other vendors nearby do the same thing.
• A man with a blue pole about 8 feet long walks around trying to sell the myriad bundles of cotton candy which are attached to the pole. Another man—his competition—does the same.
• A baby, just old enough to walk, in a pink-and-white-striped jumpsuit sucks on a bottle and wanders around on the sidewalk.
• A small pickup truck with a dozen people in the back drives past the bus slowly. That's common transportation in these parts. Some of them are filled to overflowing.
• A man who works for the bus company is walking around in the street yelling out our destination, a typical marketing strategy in Latin America.
• There is trash in the street. There aren't too many garbage cans around, so the streets and sidewalks are where the trash goes. Not all Latin American countries are like this, but many are.
• A man drives by on a scooter. To the back are bungeed two 5-gallon propane tanks. They are horribly rusty. Apparently the stringent safety regulations regarding propane tanks in the States are overblown.

My day started by rising at about 5:15 A.M. I showered, put my toiletries in my backpack, and left the hostel. I walked across the street and down a couple doors to the small company that would be driving me from Copán, Honduras direct to Antigua, Guatemala.

As we headed out, the transmission of the minivan made a horrendous whining sound as though it was about to explode. I didn't have high hopes. Maintenance had not been performed on this vehicle.

The driver had asked me twice where I was from and had done the same to a guy from Japan. I had spoken with the driver earlier in Spanish. He later asked the Japanese guy if I spoke Spanish. I didn't know if he was drunk or just had a really bad memory. Regardless, it wasn't confidence inspiring.

About an hour into the trip, the driver slowed down for some speed bumps as we passed through a small town. Each time we accelerated, I heard a loud popping sound. At first I didn't think much of it, knowing the condition of the vehicle was not good. As we pulled away from the third or fourth speed bump, there was a grinding sound. At first, I thought the driver was just grinding the gears, but it quickly became clear to me we were losing a CV joint. The vehicle would not move forward—only grinding. I knew that was the end.

The driver got out and talked to some locals. He asked how much it would cost for them to take us to Antigua—in the back of their pickup truck. I wasn't excited about that prospect. I ended up hopping a minivan—typical public transport here—to Chiquimula where I would catch the next bus to Guatemala City, then a connecting bus to Antigua. None of the other 6 passengers came with me.

Now, as I sit here waiting for the bus to fill, I look out the window and what do I see? My six long lost friends. I guess they hopped another minivan and they've caught up. Within minutes, we're off to Guatemala City.

That segment of the trip went without a hitch. After getting to Guatemala City, we split taxis to save on cost—we had to catch taxis to Zone 3 to hop the bus that went to Antigua. Supposedly, it left from the bus terminal, but when we pulled up, there was only one school bus sitting there. Not much of a terminal. We piled in and off we went.

The bus stopped dozens of times as we drove across and out of the city. By the time we hit the open road, there were three people to a seat—space was tight, but this was normal for the locals.

Part way to Antigua, I heard a funny sound from across the isle. A little boy was holding a sack. A chicken poked its head out. The boy's mother opened her bottle of water, filled the cap, and pushed the chicken's beak into the water. You've got to make sure your chicken gets water to drink before you chop its head off. A happy chicken is a tasty chicken!

We arrived in Antigua none the worse for wear. I'm sure it took a bit longer than the mini van would have, had it not busted the half shaft, but it was probably a bit more interesting. And in times like these, you commonly make new friends, so it's not all bad. What could've been a terrible trip wasn't so bad after all. Long live Latin America!

Copán

After a week relaxing and learning to dive, it was time to continue north. I decided to skip Tikal as it was too far out of the way and I didn’t have the time. Copán, however, was another Mayan ruins that was on the way to Antigua, Guatemala, so I headed there. As luck would have it, Brandon Olson was headed the same direction, so we planned on going together.

We met near the dock at around 5:45 AM, as the ferry leaves Útila each morning at 6:20. At least it’s supposed to leave every morning. The past few days, it hadn’t, due to strong winds. This morning, we were in luck. I also met a great guy that had been hanging out with Brandon for the week—Matt, a Marine who was on leave. We got to know each other a bit while we waited for the ferry to arrive and during the one-hour trip back to the mainland.

After the quick jaunt across the pond, Matt went his way, and Brandon and I made our way to the bus station where we had some time to kill before departure. The bus station was surrounded by a market, so we strolled around a bit, looking for a good place to have breakfast. We finally found what looked like a good place for an inexpensive, home-cooked meal. It was run by a single woman and she prepared our meal in front of us as we sat on bar stools at the counter. Eggs, meat, potatoes, and juice hit the spot.

Back by the bus, we waited a few more minutes before boarding. I picked up a couple Bachata CDs for just a couple bucks from one of the many nearby vendors. Part way through the several-hour trip to Copán, the bus pulled over for lunch. It was a pretty amazing rest stop. It was a huge building with a sloped roof on all sides and was open air. There were sofas, restrooms, and a restaurant inside. Outside was a nice swimming pool. It was one of the more interesting rest stops of my trip.

We arrived in Copán Ruinas, the small town near the ruins, in the evening. We found an inexpensive but decent hostel, dropped our stuff, and then headed out to get some dinner. I don’t think this little town is a party town, but no matter—we were tired. We went back to our room, did some reading, then hit the hay.

We got up at a decent time, around 7:30, got some breakfast, and then set out. You can catch a little auto-rickshaw-type taxi, but we elected to walk to the ruins. They’re only about a half-hour away on foot and the weather looked good. We took our time and shot a few photos of some old stone carvings along the way. During the first few shots, Brandon realized he had left his spare camera battery back in our room, so after we got to the ruins, he hopped a taxi back to the room to retrieve it. The taxi was only a few bucks and he was back before I knew it. I spent those few minutes looking at a large model of the ruins and looking at some maps in the visitor’s center.

We bought our tickets and headed in. Copán is the southeastern-most ruins of the Mayan civilization. The Mayan territory stretched all the way up to the top of the Yucatán peninsula and over to the Pacific Ocean. Copán is along the northern border of Honduras. These ruins were inhabited between the 5th and 9th centuries by some 20,000 Mayans.

As I’ve stated elsewhere in my blog, each ruins I’ve seen on my trip are different than the rest. It’s fun to see how the people in a particular region used whatever tools, resources, and landscape they had at the time to build their own, unique world. Copán has its own mysterious vibe, being somewhat hidden in the jungle and having myriad statues. These ruins also had a place where the people played a sport, called Mesoamerican ballgame these days, certainly for lack of knowing the name originally used. As human sacrifice was common in the old days, I wouldn’t want to lose a game of Mesoamerican ball. Talk about pressure to win!

A few interesting tidbits about the Mayans? Their writing system used glyphs (think hieroglyphics) and had more than a thousand different symbols. They used base 20 and base 5 numbers. They had a surprising knowledge of astronomical objects. They practiced human sacrifice.

After visiting the main Copán ruins, take a taxi just a few minutes farther down the street to Las Sepulturas. This is another site with more ruins, albeit smaller than the main Copán site. As long as you’re in the neighborhood, go see it. Brandon and I elected to pay a guy at the gate a few bucks to be our guide. He knew quite a bit about the ruins and gave us some good info while leading us through the site. There is a river near this site and in 1998 when hurricane Mitch struck, the flooding was such that this smaller site was revealed for the first time. At least that’s the story according to our guide.

During my trip, I had hardly any encounters with bugs. At Copán, I got assaulted. Also, while visiting the smaller ruins, it started raining. So, while not a perfect day—hot, rainy, muggy, and buggy—the ruins were a pleasure to visit and I couldn’t have had a better travel partner than Brandon. We really enjoyed ourselves.

Útila the Hun

For almost 10 months, I had been spending money but hadn’t been making any (with the exception of two weeks in Buenos Aires doing some software development for a friend back home). I had decided to cut out something that had been in my plans since before I began my trip, but was now having second—er, third—thoughts. I was going to skip SCUBA diving, but I was now close to Honduras and I must’ve heard the ocean, fish, and coral calling my name. I e-mailed a dive shop on Útila and got the specifics. It was actually pretty cheap, so I went back to plan A. Warm waters of the Caribbean, here I come!

Adrian got up at the butt-crack of dawn to take me to the bus station. I had a ticket for Tegucigalpa, Honduras. I didn’t know how I would get to La Ceiba—the launching point to Útila—from there, but I’d find out on the way. The bus broke down about an hour from Tegucigalpa—busted radiator hose I think. That’s where I met Brandon from Colorado and a couple girls. We were all heading to Útila to take SCUBA lessons, so we got to chit-chatting about what busses we could catch from Tegucigalpa and what time they left.

Another couple girls were on a missions trip with YWAM and had called their sponsor who showed up in a small pickup truck to get them and take them the rest of the way into town. I asked them if we could bum a ride since we didn’t have long before we’d miss our connecting bus in the city. The bed of the truck was piled high with people and bags and the cab was filled to capacity with more bodies.

We arrived in Tegucigalpa around 2:00 PM. The bus was leaving at 3:30, so the timing couldn’t have been better. The kind gentleman dropped us off at the bus station. Before he left, I ran in and checked on the availability of seats. The four of us were in luck. We thanked him and he left with his worker bees. We bought our bus tickets, then went next door to get some lunch. It felt so good to have tickets and know we would make it to La Ceiba the same day. I didn’t want to burn a valuable day because of bus problems.

It’s a straight shot north to La Ceiba from Tegucigalpa, but there’s no road that takes the crow’s route, so you have to go through San Pedro Sula, then cut back to La Ceiba. The bus driver knows the way. The four of us got a room together that night on that waterfront town, then got up early to make sure we were at the ferry dock in plenty of time. We got to the dock, bought our boat tickets, then waited to leave. It’s about 20 miles out to Útila from the mainland, but the ferry smokes. It takes only an hour to get there.

Once on the island, the four of us split up and went our separate ways. Well, I went one way and the other three went another. Each of us had specific dive shops in mind. I followed complex directions I had received via e-mail some days earlier. “Once on the island, turn right on the main street. We’re on the left after about 10 minutes.” On this little island, there’s one main drag and one street branching off from the center of Main, lined up with the ferry dock. Main street is about wide enough for one car or two ATVs. Most folks rode bicycles, motorcycles, ATVs, or walked. The occasional car would pass by.

Along the main drag are 3 or 4 churches, shacks posing as restaurants, houses on stilts—in case of hurricane—a few stores, and a dozen dive shops. That’s the deal on Útila—you go there to learn to dive. I found Útila Water Sports with no problem and checked in. I was shown across the street to my room in their two-story housing complex.

Back across the street in the office/dive shop, I was given some paper work to fill out—I guess if you drown, they don’t want you suing them. I aced the medical section of the forms, except for my asthma. Little did I know that that one little checkmark would almost be the end of my diving trip. I was introduced to the man in whose hands I would place my life for the next week. Okay, that’s probably a little dramatic. Martin, from Belgium, was one of the nicest guys I have ever met. He was also a wonderful instructor. I couldn’t imagine having gotten anyone better.

Before my first trip under the surface, I had to get written permission by a doctor, due to my asthma. There’s a local doctor, but there’s also an American doctor who goes simply by Dr. John. The dive shop sent me to him. They said the clinic opens at 9:00, but I should show up early. I was there around 8:00. The sign said they didn’t open until 10:00. I needed to get in quickly so I could start my dives in the afternoon, so I just waited on one of the benches on the front porch. The dive shop also warned me he was a bit eccentric and that he shows up whenever he feels like showing up.

At about 10:00, another fella showed up, a regular patient of Dr. John’s. He was an elderly black fellow, probably in his 80s. His name was Dolores Cordón. He and his wife were both born here on the island, while one of his parents was from the mainland and the other from the Caicos Islands. His four children were all in the States, and he had spent many years in New York. He came to see Dr. John regularly to get his diabetes checked. He was very pleasant and I enjoyed talking to him while waiting.

It began to get hot, so I walked a block down the street and got a Coke, then walked back to the clinic and continued to wait. At 11:00, the (very cute) nurse showed up. She had me fill out some paperwork, then led me into a room in the back of the clinic where she proceeded to take my blood pressure, then had me blow into a device that measures lung capacity—a standard test given to sufferers of asthma. After this, she sent me back out onto the porch to continue waiting.

At 11:30, Dr. John showed up and began seeing patients. By 1:00 PM, he had finished seeing all of his patients—except me. A friend of his had stopped by and they were inside shooting the breeze. I can be an extraordinarily patient guy. I had been waiting 5 hours and the Dr. was yakking with a friend. I poked my head in the door and kindly asked if he could see me now—I didn’t know if he was aware he still had someone waiting. He turned to me and said, in a rather raised and agitated tone “I’ll see you when I want to see you! If I want to see you now, I’ll see you now! If I want to see you at 4:30, I’ll see you at 4:30, so get behind me, and if you don’t like it, then get the fuck out!”

I sat back down. At about 1:30, I determined that if he hadn’t seen me by 2:00 PM, I was going to go back to my room, pack my things, and leave the island. At 1:40, the nurse called me in and had me go to another room in the back. A couple minutes later, the doctor walked in, talked a bit, asked me some questions, did a couple quick tests, then signed the waver so I could dive. He acted like nothing had ever happened.

On my way out, the nurse and the receptionist apologized.

Here’s a rundown of my week on Útila:

• Day 1: I began watching a series of videos and going through a lengthy list of related questions.
• Day 2: I saw the doctor. Martin and I went over all the material and I had all my questions answered.
• Day 3: I did my first two dives. We began in about 10 feet of water near the pier. I practiced removing my mask under water, replacing it, and then clearing it. I also had to remove the SCUBA tank and vest (called a BCD, or buoyancy control device) under water and then replace them. These exercises are all just meant to help the beginner get comfortable under the water. Panicking at 100 feet under the surface could end your life in a big hurry.
• Day 4: I took the written test and missed three out of 50. Two of those were arguably very poorly worded and unclear. Oh, well. I just had to pass, so I can’t complain too much. I also did two more dives. On these dives, we went out in the boat and dived around the reefs. On the last dive, Martin even let me take my camera, which he wouldn’t normally do with a bigger class. It was just the two of us and he knew all I wanted to do was take pictures. At the end of this day, I was a certified Open Water Diver.
• Day 5: I did two dives—a deep dive where we went down to a shipwreck at 100 feet and a PPB, or Peak Performance Buoyancy, dive. Normally, a diver’s ears shouldn’t hurt, but my left ear was bothering me by the end of this day. It was unrelated to the fact that we went to 100 feet. By “equalizing” as you go deeper, the pressure on your ears is completely normal, just like at the surface. Sometimes, divers get infections or other problems from the water in their ears.
• Day 6: I did my three last dives—Naturalist, Navigation, and Search & Recovery. For the Naturalist dive, I took loads of photos and later had to identify the things I had photographed, for the Navigation dive, I practiced navigating with a compass and by counting kicks, and had to make my way back to the boat from some random location some distance away simply by following the path we had originally taken by recognizing landmarks, and for the Search & Recovery dive, I practiced swimming in different search patterns and raising an object from the bottom to the surface in a controlled ascent using a special balloon made for just such a purpose. By this time my left ear was really hurting and I had earned my Advanced Open Water Diver certification.
• Day 7: I just relaxed. I walked around the island and took some photos, as I hadn’t gotten much of a chance to do that so far. It was a nice way to end the week.

As part of the two courses I took, I could’ve gone on 8 more dives, called Fun Dives, where you can do whatever you want—take pictures, go to different parts of the reef, or practice skills you’re interested in improving. My ear was bothering me too much and I had a schedule to keep. I can go back sometime down the road and do my Fun Dives.

My last day on the island, I wanted to walk around some and take photos. I hadn’t really had a chance to do that during my busy week of diving, so I wanted to make sure to snap a few shots so I could remember this crazy island. The island is pretty simple to navigate with just two main streets. There are also several really good restaurants that are popular with the tourists. I should mention that everything is pretty expensive there. Remember, it’s really just a tourist destination. Even though many of the tourists are backpackers and don’t have tons of money, it’s a challenge to find a good deal on food, especially if you eat out.That brings me to a point about my lodging.

I was given an unclear description via e-mail by Kate, the dive shop manager, about room pricing, and discovered the problem only when I handed over my credit card the day before departure. She refused to budge and insisted that the misunderstanding was my fault. When I decided there was no hope she was going to do the professional thing, I said “Fine, I’ll pay. Just keep in mind that your e-mail is unclear and other people are going to misinterpret it, just as I did.” That was one of only a few sour moments I experienced while on the island.

Largely, it was a wonderful week. Útila Water Sports was a good shop with good people and good equipment. If you want to learn to dive, I recommend it!

 

                

Giving Thanks With the Mingos

For months, I had been looking forward to the day when I would see my friends in Managua, particularly my good friend Adrian (no offense, Cheryl). Adrian is from Buenos Aires and some years earlier he married Cheryl, a gal I had grown up with back in Tacoma. They are now missionaries and have lived in various and sundry locations in Latin America. When I got far enough along my route, we finally determined that I would arrive when Cheryl’s parents were there, so I would see the whole clan. Moreover, I would get to enjoy a good, old-fashioned Thanksgiving dinner.

Although probably 8 months had passed since I got robbed blind in Buenos Aires, I was still feeling the repercussions. Emergency passports have far fewer pages than a standard passport and mine was full before I left the shores of Colombia. Luckily, Central American countries don’t seem to care about stamping your passport. They just make sure it’s current and that you don’t look like a criminal and then wave you through. So, I made it to Nicaragua with my thin passport. Managua would be a perfect place to replace my temporary passport with a full-blown one. I wouldn’t mind the wait because I’d be with friends and wouldn’t need to worry about spending the last little bit of my money on a long-term stay. One of the beauties of friends.

Long story short, I went to the US embassy—the most expensive building in Managua—within a day or two of arriving, submitted the passport application, and my new passport arrived from The States in less than two weeks. I stayed a few more days before continuing on my way.

Rewind.

Upon arriving in Managua on the crazy bus ride from Costa Rica—things had calmed down by this point—I showed the driver’s assistant the piece of paper with the Mingos’ address written on it and asked him where I should get off to place me closest to their house. He actually told me to get off right where we were parked—the bus had just let a few people off and hadn’t yet begun moving again. Moreover, the driver and his right hand man were trying to kick off some deadbeats who hadn’t paid and who were refusing to disembark. Although the other passengers were already gone, this little insurrection gave me plenty of time to gather my things and set foot on Nicaraguan soil.

Apparently, this was the terminal, although the bus was to continue through the city and this looked simply like a seedy and dirty market. When some taxistas approached me, I told them I needed to call a friend who lived nearby who would come get me. One of the drivers gave me his cell phone and I called Cheryl. I told her I was in town and gave the phone back to the taxista and asked him to tell my friend where we were so she could come and get me. The taxista charged me 20 Cordobas—about a dollar—for the call.

After I got off the phone, a hooker—and not an attractive one—approached me and attempted to sell me her services. I said no thanks. With that, one of the taxistas made some comment about possibly giving my business to one of his buddies—a guy. I told them I wasn’t gay. By this time, we were all having a pretty good laugh.

I thanked them for their help, picked up my things, and walked out of the market and over to the street to wait for Cheryl. By the time she arrived, I had told probably a dozen passing taxis that I didn’t need a ride and, when they looked at me cross eyed, that someone else was coming to pick me up. I was relieved to see Cheryl. I hadn’t seen anyone that I knew for about 10 months. It was good to see a friendly face—an old friend. Although I was now accustomed to the common Latin American greeting—a kiss on the cheek—I gave her a good old-fashioned Williams greeting—a big hug.

Cheryl’s parents—Chuck and Dottie Tucker—were already there visiting and stayed until after Thanksgiving. It was great to see them, too. They spent several hours every day repainting the outside of the house. They finished the job right before they left.

My first order of business was to get to the US embassy and get a new passport. Cheryl took me there within a couple days and we got that ball rolling. The rest of my time there consisted mostly of relaxing. I made a permanent imprint on their sofa. Think Homer Simpson. I spent loads of time on my laptop, watched a fair amount of TV, and the kids even got me to try their dance pad—Dance Dance Revolution. They all made fun of me, but I think I probably did about as well as the average first-timer. I think they would say I was much worse.

Each morning when I got up, I would eat a bowl of cereal and then hop on my laptop to check e-mail. I would do this in my permanent seat on the sofa. Right about this time, the maid would show up. She would ask me to move, then she would proceed to move all the chairs and sofas out from the walls throughout the house. Next, she would sweep and dust the entire house. A few hours later, she would move my sofa back against the wall. Why couldn’t she just sweep behind my sofa, then move it back against the wall so I could sit back down while she cleaned the rest of the house? I think she was just trying to annoy the gringo. It worked.

Adrian acted as my guide for a couple day trips to nearby towns. I consider him one of my very best friends. Not infrequently when we’re together, we laugh so hard we cry. This visit was no exception. Thankfully, he didn’t crash his pickup truck during these episodes.

We visited León, about 50 miles to the north, Salinas Grandes, a fishing village near there where the Mingos work with the local people, Masaya, which is about 15 miles to the south, and Granada, about 10 miles past that. We mostly just hit the main squares and markets.

While in Granada, we swung by Lake Nicaragua for just a peek. It’s the largest lake in Central America—just a bit smaller than Lake Titicaca in South America—and the 21st largest lake in the world. Another interesting thing we saw was an artist carving a beautiful design into a pair of maracas. These are gourds from the jicaro tree and are used as a percussion instrument. This was one of many instances during my trip where I witnessed a truly skillful artist. The most excitement we had, however, was when the pickup broke down in Granada. Adrian said it was a bad part of town, but we lived to tell about it.

We sat and chatted with the locals until a tow truck showed up and gave us a lift back to Managua. About an hour into the ordeal while Adrian waited with his dear truck, some kids and I walked to a pizza joint and I bought some pizza for Adrian and me and some for the kids. One of the guys that was hanging around with the truck and us had a freaky pot belly with a gargantuan scar. He said the police did it, but who knows the true story.

When the tow truck first showed up, Adrian told me the driver said he had to ride in the car behind the cab—it was on a flatbed—but he agreed with me that that was ridiculous and the driver relented and let us both ride up with him. So, we chowed down on our pizza and guzzled our Cokes on the way home.

Thanksgiving was another matter. No pizza. With a house full of Americans, there was only one option—a full blown turkey dinner with all the trimmings…except a turkey costs over $50, so we made due with a chicken. Including the maid, we were a baker’s dozen.

For most other meals, we were a mere dozen. I don’t know how Cheryl does it. If she weren’t so easy going, I bet her head would explode. Six crazy kids and a psycho husband’ll do that to you. The Brady Bunch was tame.

Although I loved seeing my friends, my head was about to explode. I had dropped scuba diving from my itinerary due to pecuniary problemas, but I reserve the right to change my mind at any time for any reason. I decided to go through with the underwater adventure. So, the northern coast of Honduras—specifically the island of Útila—was my next stop. Chau, good friends.

 

 

 

                             

Adrian and I were sitting inside on the sofa when I looked out the window and saw what looked like heavy rainfall. As it turned out, it was just this variegated squirrel who had gotten into a coconut and spilled its milk all over creation.