We landed in Medellin at about 4:30, half an hour ahead of schedule. I don’t generally like to fly as I feel like I’m missing out on countryside and adventures in between hubs, but in this case it was not much more than the bus and much faster (two 1 hour flights vs 13 hours) and we were in a bit of a time squeeze with Phil’s last days looming and attempting to meet up with Maria and Anabella in Bogota before the 23rd. And anyway, I don’t feel so guilty flying within a country especially when the flight is not much more money than the bus. It’s interesting here as both of our flights took off well before the scheduled departure times although the second one was stuck in traffic in Medellin for some time. But finally we were in Medellin, or at least an hour from Medellin on the other side of the mountains. The city lies in the heart of a cauldron of green hills, towering on all sides, and we got our first view of it as the bus came over the ridge and around, looking like a crumpled piece of lettuce drizzled in Thousand Islands dressing (from the Mediterranean tiles) with most along the valley floor and splashing up the mountainsides in places. Or maybe it looked like a giant Petri dish with pink mold eating away at it. I guess it depends on what you want to see. Either way, we were on our way down to find out.
I was immediately impressed. Admittedly, we came down into the more wealthy area of the city, near Zona Rosa (or the pink zone) but the streetscaping was some of the nicest I’ve seen anywhere. Parks are all over, trees line boulevards and everything flowed really organically along the hillside with sophistication that I, in all honesty, wasn’t expecting to find. We had a card for Tiger Paw hostel and made our way there with a taxi as we had neither map nor inclination to haul Phil’s surf board on a bus. The taxis here are metered for a change which definitely helps when you don’t know how far away your destination is. Tiger Paw was a really nice hostel: the beds are incredibly comfortable, it’s clean, and it’s located in a perfect area. Drawbacks, as we would discover, were that the clientele was largely middle-aged Americans perhaps because the owner himself is an American. We didn’t find much of a social scene here which is probably the most crucial ingredient in a hostel. They had a pretty awesome looking party for Saturday where they take you out to a lake with giant karst pillars sticking out of it, put you on a boat, and you cruise around enjoying the scenery and some drinks. But not only would we not be there, the question again is who else would be on this boat.
We really didn’t have a lot of time allocated here, so the next day, tired as we were from our post-Carnaval syndrome, we set out on foot to find the metro station. We took a turn on a road we thought was a different road and wound up walking a long way towards downtown (buying a strange fruit called Grenadilla, some yogurt, and some plums from the grocery store for breakfast) before finally hopping on a bus heading in that general direction. We passed the metro station and hopped off, ironically exactly where we’d hopped off the airport shuttle though we didn’t realize it at the time. The metro system here is great, another point towards Medellin as a well-planned city. It could be more extensive but at the same time it ran along the main corridors. Additionally, because of the hills, part of the metro system is a cable car running up into the mountains which you ride at no additional cost. I think this is an ingenious way to get around, and probably a LOT cheaper than trying to lay rail and clear strips of land below or digging up the earth to put in subway.
We got off at the central square which was teeming with life and interesting buildings. We walked around the square and I decided it was finally time... for a haircut. I picked a place and they took me upstairs and for 7000 ($3.50) they cut my hair (pretty short), washed it (afterwards to clean all the little scraps), styled it, and gave me a straight razor shave. I have done a lot of crazy adventure sports in my travels, but I can’t recall many that filled me with as much fear as a sharp straight razor scraping along my adams apple. Phil, meanwhile, went hunting for a washroom, and I was finished and discovered he went to the very small “casino” (named Casino Athenas, incidentally) next door. So I went in and took out a 2000 note and a few spins later, hit three out of five of the big ticket item on the slot machine. So Phil found me sitting at a machine that was first of all giving free spins and then hitting this jackpot, taking my money from 2000 to 9000. I was excited – after all it paid for my haircut. And then I thought about it in dollars and realized I had just won $3.50 but strangely this didn’t dampen my spirits.
We walked the downtown area and along the markets and when I took out my camera to snap a photo of some teenagers hanging out on a small balcony a scraggly guy stared as though I had just pulled out a solid brick of gold bullion from my camera bag. So I put it back promptly and we walked back to the more solid center and took the metro to the cable car and then took the cable car up into the mountains. The views of the poorer areas spread along the mountains and the city below were sweeping and this really gave us some energy again as spirits were flagging a little before that. We had gone to the centre to explore the city and had failed, leaving us without a plan. After our cable car ride we returned to the hostel via metro and bus and got ready for the evening. Medellin, aside from its history as home to drug cartels, was famed for its nightlife and friendly girls, many of whom were daughters of the drug cartels and surgically enhanced for your viewing pleasure. We would see about that. As you probably didn’t note, we never actually had any lunch so we were pretty hungry and went for some Mexican food in zona rosa then found a cool little bar in the park (seats and tables were tree stumps) to have a couple beer. From there back to the hostel to hopefully meet others to hit the town with but in the end, all we got was a tip that a club called Babylon was the place to be.
Naturally, we investigated. It cost 30000 to get in ($15) which included drinks until 1:30... that is, assuming you could get the bartender’s attention. It didn’t include all drinks, but you could get mickeys of terrible Medellin Rum or Aguardiente (ouzo mixed with moonshine) as part of the package and we opted for the rum. Want mix? Well that you have to pay for. We found a seat next to a group of older people celebrating a birthday and as the night progressed found them to be among the most friendly in the room. The girls here were not all that remarkable, at least not compared to Cartagena. And then club, though filled with cartoon beings of yore, was decent but nothing incredible. They did have a big Star Wars banner however, which I took a photo of. This brought me a tap on the shoulder about twenty minutes later and a man scolding me not to take pictures of girls which I hadn’t been and as much as told him so. He then pointed to a grumpy looking trouble-maker whom nobody in their right mind would photograph in this bar full of much better looking girls and said (this was all in Spanish) that she was his girlfriend. Ah. Right under the Star Wars banner. So I took out my camera and showed him the photo and explained that I was a fan and she was hardly in the photo and he laughed, apologized, and walked off. I saw him go and explain to his girlfriend that no, there was still nobody else interested in her as she looked annoyed that there hadn’t been some altercation she could tell her friends about.
We did dance with several groups of girls throughout the night and it was fun, but I guess our expectations had become a little too high. We took a taxi detour to a grocery store on the way home and called it a night pretty early by Colombian standards. Morning came and it was time to finally get on the bus to Bogota which was easily reached by the metro. Another point for Medellin city planners. The fare was 65000 but we managed to get it down to 40000 which is something we had no success at in Cartagena and it left in just enough time for us to grab a quick snack from a nearby cafe. Then we were on our way, winding along the beautiful mountainous countryside to Bogota and our friends there, Maria and Anabella. The trip takes about 8-9 hours even though it’s only 450 km because of these winding roads and single lane highways choked with trucks, curves, and hills. I finished my book, Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake, which was a very imaginative form of social commentary on pretty much everything. It is dark, disturbing, compelling, and a master work that I know you’ll love. After all, this blog shares at least those first two characteristics.
A favourite speech from Seinfeld begins with George Costanza setting the scene: “The sea was angry that day, my friends, like an old man sending back soup at a deli.” Indeed, many of the crew would, that day, refund their soup and also cheetos. The wind was coming from behind us as our sailboat, which suddenly felt too small to make this passage, bobbed, weaved, dropped, and heaved in the swell. Contrary to what you might expect, a tailwind is probably one of the worst winds you can have sailing. Why? Well, I’m going to get geeky on you here but it’s because a sail actually works a lot like an airplane’s wing: that is, the wind doesn’t actually fill the sail and blow it forward. Instead, it runs along the curvature of both sides of the sail. Because the same volume of air blows across both sides, the air on the outside of the curve of the sail is actually more spread out than on the inside of the sail and that means there’s higher pressure inside the sail than out. What THAT means in turn is that the sailboat is actually sucked forward more than it is blown much like a plane is sucked upwards into the sky. This phenomenon means that wind blowing about 70 degrees from the front actually gives you the best speed and most stable configuration. What we had was a sail filling and pushing the boat along and then going slack as the boat reached the wind’s speed then jerking taut again as the boat slowed. In addition to the boat not being pulled in one direction and therefore rolling back and forth. (NOTE: This continues part 1, Sailing San Blas, below)
Still, I didn’t get sick. Others did, definitely, but that Dramamine was looking like the best $5 I ever spent. There was nothing to do except sit on the side and stare out at the waves and distant islands we were sailing past or standing beside the mast and looking off the bow as though it were your boat. Thus, it was the most relaxed I’ve been on this entire trip, with no pressure to be moving on to the next place (after all, we were!), study Spanish, write my blog, edit photos, or even read my next book which is Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood a very thoughtful bon voyage gift from Barb. I just sat and watched and contemplated and occasionally listened to music. I could get used to sailing, I think, although by the last day I was getting comfortable enough to not only start studying my Spanish some more but also working on photos belowdecks as we plugged along. At least for a little while.
Kuna, Ya!
We arrived in the Kuna town of San Ignacio de Tupile a bit after 5 PM and immediately headed for land where we noticed for the first time that land felt funny as opposed to comfortable. Some of us even walked a bit off-kilter though I wasn’t really at that point yet, or at least no more so than usual given my tiptoe tendencies. And anyway we were soon too wrapped up in Kuna attention to notice. What a friendly and warm people! After reading about how isolationist and ‘tolerant but unwelcoming’ the Kuna are meant to be according to the idiot that writes the Panama section of the Lonely Planet (easily the most unresearched and throwaway section of the Central American LP) we found them excited to see us and eager to converse with us. In the main square kids would either run up to us and ask us to take their photo or approach shyly or just pose and hope we’d notice. The older kids would be brimming with questions and for us guys the eligible females were definitely curious if we had ‘esposas’. None of this was money related – we were twice approached by people looking to collect a $1 visitor tax but the others never asked for anything aside from our attention.
While we were standing in the square distant explosions, pops, and bangs approached with shouting. Suddenly, the square was awash with Kuna in red with wooden weapon facsimilies like rifles and swords running around and shooting at each other and us. They were rehearsing for their Independence Day celebration and as quickly as all the play fighting had started it moved further along the village. We left the village at sundown for the boat and after another great dinner and a bit of chit chat we went to sleep. Alcohol in any quantities was basically no longer an option after the day’s sail so we had our beer and realized we had purchased far too much alcohol for the voyage. There was no swimming here (especially after seeing the pit toilets over the ocean, Slumdog style) or beautiful island but the village was a unique experience all its own and we felt lucky to have seen it.
Day of the Dolphins
We had another big day of sailing the next morning but everybody had found their sea legs by then and nobody was sick at all. We broke up the trip by stopping for lunch outside a small group of islands and yet more Kuna villages. The afternoon sail was unbelievable: not only were we all in good spirits as the bouncing of the boat no longer phased us, but we saw no less than five separate pods of dolphins including one pod that was very curious and friendly and loved the sound of us cheering and clapping. They’d flip and jump and splash and race alongside the boat and probably hung around for half an hour. By the fifth pod, half the people couldn’t be bothered to look up from their books but I think we all knew it was pretty amazing. My perception of the ocean changed a bit that day. It’s kind of like wandering through the jungle. At first all you see is trees but with enough time you see there is plenty of life hiding among them and sometimes not hiding at all. Dolphins have that peculiar distinction of not having been hunted by man and are one of the few animals out there with whom, despite reckless tuna fishermen the world over, we still have good relations. This, to me, is what being in the Galapagos will be like and I’m very excited to make it there if I can.
Night of the Storm
We anchored that night at Isla Pino which was again beautiful and also the last of the San Blas islands we would visit. There was a really strong current but some braved it anyway and while they were ashore we realized that our anchor hadn’t stuck and we’d drifted pretty far. Luckily we didn’t run aground or get hung up on some reef and we motored back up and anchored again as they swam doggedly back to the ship. We all sat on deck and watched the last sunset we would see over Central America which not coincidentally was beautiful. That night the wind really picked up and the boat was rocking something fierce but again, we’d all adjusted to the sea by then and only Phil in his hammock, swinging in the wind, had any problem sleeping. The captain asked us to wake him up if his computer started beeping, as it would mean we’d drifted more than 100m from our anchor point but thankfully there was no such emergency. We awoke in the morning afloat, intact, and anxious to complete our journey and see the coast of South America appearing on the horizon.
Yes, our last day had arrived and the agenda was nothing but sailing and fried bananas wrapped, interestingly enough, in bacon. I have grown to dislike two foods in my time here: beans and fried bananas. I started liking them, moved to loving them, but have since consumed more of both then any ordinary non-Latin human could be expected to endure and now can hardly stand the taste of either. Not green beans, mind you, just the refried variety that are part of every economical meal from here to Tillajuana. We sailed and sailed and yet more dolphin encounters to the point that I surreptitiously kept an eye on our captain to see if he was chumming the waters but I found no evidence in the end. Our last dolphin encounter came as the green hills of Colombia were growing large on the horizon, our first sight of South America and our last sight from the bow of Da Capo. We anchored at Sapzurro, right on the Colombian border and in the heart of the Darien Gap with no roads or cars, just boats to bring supplies and people in and out. From there, back on to a lancha with all our worldly possessions and we said our goodbyes to Mats, Dina, and Mateo then motored off in the distance to the next coastal town of Capurgana. We arrived just in time to visit the immigration office and get our passports stamped. “Welcome,” the officer said to me, “to South America.”
I left the mountain town of Boquete for David (pronounced dah-veed) at noon with three people I’d met from the thankless climb up Volcan Baru: Clint & Kenny (two guys from Jersey) and Raj (from England). Raj was headed to Panama City to fly to Colombia and Clint & Kenny were, like me, heading to a place called Santa Catalina. They were looking for a bit of surf before heading back to the US and I for Manta Rays and Whale Sharks that I’d heard had been spotted in the area as recently as two days ago. Both animals are on my top 5 to-see SCUBA Diving list along with an octopus, seahorse, and Hammerhead shark so seeing both in one site made it too tempting to pass up (not to mention that it was somewhat along the way to Panama City). We switched buses in David but as we got to board the bus to Santiago we were told our bus had already left. Indeed, the girl had sold us the wrong tickets and we went back and managed to get ours changed with surprising ease.
We knew arriving that there was no way we’d make Santa Catalina that night without an expensive taxi so the four of us split two hotel rooms at $7/each and walked around Santiago long enough to discover there was very little going on. We also picked up some food as we’d been warned that it was difficult at times in Santa Catalina to get food: I grabbed a big packet of spaghetti, some sauce, and raman noodles or the low price of $2. The next town on our way to Santa Catalina was called Sona and there were many buses from Santiago there. However, there are only a handful of buses from Sona to Santa Catalina, specifically one at 8 AM, one at noon, and one at 4 PM. We said goodbye to Raj who jumped on a bus to Panama and we grabbed one to Sona that was just about to leave at 10 AM. Perfect timing. The countryside was a mix of hills, farms, and small towns, authentic and definitely not on the development trail. Promising. Our arrival in Sona gave us just enough time to grab a quick and cheap bite ($1.50) from the bus station before the Sona bus arrived. Even though it wasn’t supposed to leave until 12, it was full before then and left at about 11:30. Good thing we got here with time to spare.
At last we were in Santa Catalina. The town is great, relaxed, undeveloped, and devoid of anything resembling foreign infestation. Small streets lined with shady trees winding up the hill and down to the coast where a dive centre and a small restaurant sat. The problem with places that aren’t developed, of course, is that there isn’t much infrastructure for travellers. The first few places we looked were either full or way too expensive but eventually we found our way to the Blue Zone Hostal. They had two beds left and Ignacio, the owner, had a tent he was willing to rent out for the third of us. Clint volunteered for the $5 tent and Kenny and I took the last two beds. This place is really cool, just a short walk down a dirt path from the beach, up on a hill, with an open layout. In the rain it might not be so pleasant but it was a beautiful day.
Speaking of amenities, internet was basically a non-option here. There is one cafe about 30 minutes walk out of town which has pre-dialup speeds at T1-fibre prices. Still, I had to log on if only to let Brian know that I’d have difficulty making a Friday podcast in these circumstances (we’re supposed to be talking to Frank Black and Eric Drew Feldman about their upcoming album, Non Stop Erotik). Something else I hadn’t mentioned was that, at least according to familydoctor.org, I managed to get myself a stress fracture in my left foot hiking down from Volcan Baru. It’s not too bad for a bit of walking but more than that and it is pretty darn painful. The walk to and from the internet left me again hobbling like an old man and it took me about an hour to make my way back. I also booked myself on a SCUBA dive the following morning with SCUBA Coiba. Two dives are $115 and you stop on one small island and then Isla Coiba as well, which is ordinarily a $50 boat ride in itself. There’s an additional $20 for diving in the national marine reserve but for mantas and whale sharks, well worth it.
The rest of the night was pretty uneventful and relaxed. Kenny lent me his book, Outliers to read and I got about halfway through it. I also picked up a pizza and ate half for dinner leaving the rest for my packed lunch on the boat trip. This was my first time SCUBA diving in the Pacific (obviously Malaysia and Australia don’t count) as well and I was amazed. I’d been warned that the visibility was pretty poor and there wasn’t much to see but there was a bit of reef and a lot of life. And a LOT of plankton, which should have bode well for a whale shark sighting too but alas, the first dive we did not come across one. Flounders, frog fish, and a couple eels, plus the usual parrot fish and other regulars of the ocean world. We stopped at a small strip of sand on a deserted island and had lunch on the beach. One of the girls diving, Rebecca, is from Chicago and in fact manages the Chicago Symphony. We got talking about that and I mentioned my love of John Williams’ music at which point she told me she has met him and had lunch with him on several occasions. And then she points at her foot where she has a tattoo of the Rebel Alliance logo (which she assures me is also a symbol of good luck for a Sahara tribe). So she is going to let me know the next time he’s in town conducting and not only will I go and check it out but maybe – just maybe – I’ll get to meet him.
I don’t quite know how to convey my excitement at this possibility but rest assured it is immense. I’ve been listening pretty non-stop to his music since I was 14 or so and he is the only musician I’d put above Frank Black which might help underscore things a bit. But I digress. Aside from Rebecca, who was awesome, we had a pretty cool group of divers which always makes it a lot more fun. Our next dive was a bit better in terms of life. I have never seen so many moray eels in my life – at least 20! – not to mention the biggest reef sharks I’ve ever seen (and lots of them) and eagle rays. I believe I saw a manta ray as well, but it was quite distant though very large. Still, I don’t think it qualifies as a sighting but just for the sake of recording it. Then we went to Coiba island, which is sometimes called the Galapagos of Panama because it has never been logged and is a protected park. It was pretty though the quantity of life and its shyness leads me to conclude that this is no Galapagos. It is, however beautiful. And when we got off the boat, we were swarmed by media wanting interviews. Do you speak Spanish? A little. OK, good enough, and then some rapid-fire questions for the evening news or some sort of documentary. So now Panama and the world can see how terrible my Spanish is, especially under pressure. Woohoo!
That night, I made my spaghetti, thinking I’d make enough to have leftovers for breakfast in the morning. With my foot, surfing wasn’t a great idea and that left me little to do but relax, and I suspected I’d have quite a few do-nothing days in Panama City as it was, so I planned to leave the next morning. While I was making spaghetti and ‘meat balls’ I finished reading Outliers. I really like sociological books like this and found some of the insights fascinating. I’ve always felt that people who work at something are the people who are good at it, whether it’s math or music or anything else and it was nice to see some correlations of this theory to reality. As well, I always enjoy reading about people who have become ‘successful’ in their fields and there are plenty of stories here, too. Finally, there’s a whole section about cultural impact and flight so I was bound to find the whole thing fascinating.
My spaghetti didn’t have enough sauce and was enough for three people to eat AFTER I finished my dinner. Oops. So I didn’t save any money cooking myself. Afterwards, we all hung out and drank some of the beer Ignacio had stocked the hostel with and Florian, an Austrian guy I’d been diving with, brought out his schnapps that he still had from home. I probably could use more time at a place like this, I decided, but it wasn’t meant to be on this trip. I needed to get to Colombia and get started on South America, I needed to get to Panama and start negotiating with local captains for a good deal via the San Blas islands, and there was the matter of getting some new eye glasses made among other things. So I left in the morning, bequeathing the spaghetti to Clint and Kenny and taking the 8 AM bus to Panama City, the canal, and beyond.
It was about as organized as I have ever been travelling: I had booked somewhere to stay for New Years Eve almost two weeks in advance. Generally, I prefer the showing up and finding what you find approach. At first this approach might seem laden with stress and worry, but with time and enough experience showing up and finding something that works, there is actually less. You don’t have to scour the internet and reviews, find phone numbers, wait for emails, book with your credit card, and then hope you can find the place you booked. Instead, you show up, make your way to the centre where the hostels usually are, and then browse, reviewing the hostels – in person – and assessing their atmosphere, cleanliness, security, and location for yourself. Usually, you go with a few recommendations from fellow travellers heading the opposite direction in the town you just came from or, worst case, a starting point from the Lonely Planet. We had been recommended Pacha Mama’s by Fran and Ronja, a couple Aussies we’d met in Leon that were also going to spend New Years Eve in San Juan del Sur and after a tense couple days with no reply and some hunting of other places (booked, booked, booked), we received the email that said they had space.
The hostel itself was pretty nice. Pacha Mama’s is less than a month old, clean (except for the bathrooms which had a perpetual sludge of black sand on the floor in spite of the foot wash faucet at the entrance) and there was a decent common area, a little backyard bar, and hammocks and rocking chairs. That said, the vibe was not as good. This is always a mystery: the same travellers in another hostel would be social and outgoing but in this hostel that seemed to be absent. You expect it from groups traveling together – especially if they all speak the same non-English language - and this hostel did have a large contingent from Israel that did just that. But generally other independent travellers are more social. The owner or manager of the hostel plays a big part in making this atmosphere happen, and while we found him amusing initially, that soon faded. In fact, without fail every traveller we met said they liked the hostel, but not the owner. He wasn't great but I wouldn't specifically avoid this place and I guess if I were making a recommendation for my readers, it would be the much more amiable Hostel Esperanza. If I come back, this is the place.
Now then, for those that don’t ever want to run a hostel, you can start reading here. We got in to San Juan del Sur, Phil, Jez, and myself, freshly bruised and wearied from a hellish ordeal at Ometepe the day prior. The beach was beautiful. Clean (except for one spot where the storm drains empty into the ocean), and with cliffs on either side, one of which had a large statue of Jesus, Rio style. We didn’t do much but relax after our noon arrival, as we had some serious recovery to do. Dinner at Comedor Margarita was quite tasty and affordable in this town, after walking around and seeing that it was difficult if not impossible to eat for less than $7 anywhere else (generally we were paying $3 for a meal and when put in terms of back home this all sounds cheap, but when you travel this way you get into a local’s mindset and paying double what you usually pay is still paying double). The next day was likewise pretty relaxed, hammocks, breakfast at Jerry’s (best and most affordable breakfast in town), visiting with people and we met up that night with some girls that had been staying at the same hostel as us in Ometepe, from Texas.
Now, we’d drank at the hostel bar the night before and tonight we were looking to cut prices by picking up our own rum and coke and drinking in the hostel’s common area. The problem was, with the hostel so booked, it already had a couple people asleep. So we took a table in the backyard, as far from the bar as possible (even though there were only about 10 people drinking), and didn’t take any bottles of booze or anything like that out with us. Then we got out the Drinking Game Jenga, which is always a lot of fun if not trouble, and an hour later were scolded by Alex for doing so. Understandable, but the thing is that some hostels allow it and others do not. The ones that do not usually make a point of saying so when you check in, with signs, and so on. Even without these indicators we were discreet. The common area where drinking in this hostel would normally be allowed would result in waking people in his overbooked hostel, and we were simply trying to be polite. But I understand where he’s coming from, obviously. We moved back to the common area where the girls that had been sleeping were now awake anyway (two of the Israelis had started playing Ping pong near them) and resumed our game before heading to the beach for a swim and then hanging out at the Pier beach bar.
The days kind of flow into one another but it was now the 30th and Jez, Phil, and I went to the beach finally (we’d avoided it mostly in the day because we’d all gotten too much sun in Ometepe) and kicked around Jez’s soccer ball. Actually, it was pretty funny – I’d finally finished my final Bourne book (The Bourne Ultimatum, which was probably the best of the three novels) – so I arrived a little after Jez and Phil at the beach. I got there, they passed me the soccer ball. It was small and quite bouncy and two dribbles in, flew over my head. When I jogged to pick it up again and start dribbling, I dribbled it right into my head, sending my glasses flying off my head and knocking me a step backwards. There were some locals watching and they couldn’t stop laughing, but then again, neither could we. A great introduction to Dynamite Dean. After adjusting and passing it along the beach, we stopped for some Licuados (fresh fruit juice and ground ice, sometimes with milk) at Pier. It’s a nice place, they have a very cute server, and the licuados are pretty reasonably priced.
This is an example of why Nicaragua is probably my favourite country so far. There are people everywhere selling sunglasses, which gets annoying, but after definitively turning down one guy, we ended up chatting with him for almost an hour in our broken Spanish and making friends with him. He was from Managua and was heading back after New Years died down but he always said hi and chatted a bit when we’d see him from then on, never once trying to sell us more glasses. Just a cool and friendly guy. We also made friends with a cigarette guy (they walk the beach selling those too) and played a bit of soccer with him, plus some locals wanted to have a game with us but by then we’d had too much sun and were walking back to the hostel. And when we arrived, everybody (including taxi drivers who obviously benefit from people taking a ride because they can’t find a place) was happy to point us towards our hostel. Just friendly, friendly people.
Speaking of which, we were delighted to come across two more friendly faces when we got back from the beach that afternoon: Anabella and Maria, our Columbian Christmas Cousins (tm) had just arrived from Ometepe along with Lizzie and Andrea (England and Switzerland respectively). Unfortunately, they had no place to stay as the hostel was overbooked and Lizzie had not “confirmed their confirmation” meaning she’d emailed saying “I’d like to book for 5 of us from Dec 30-Jan 2” and they’d replied “OK, from the 30-2 for 5 people, it’s $12/night, cool?” the day before and she had not been on the internet to say “Cool”. So they looked for another place but could find nothing affordable and eventually gave up (Lizzie and Andrea were going to share beds with the girls and the Columbians had hammocks). Then we all went out for some pretty decent pizza, Jez and I split a Pizza del Diablo (who could resist taking that on?) and caught up. We now had our Christmas Crew back together and ready for New Years Eve and it felt about as close to being home as one can down here.
At last the day came: it was New Years Eve, it was 9 AM, and somehow in spite of celebrating a bit the night before, I was out and about taking photos. I noticed that quite a few places had life-sized dolls outside their houses, usually with booze and sometimes a little sign, which I discovered are effigies of the bad things they are burning away from the year prior. If only it were that easy. The plan for the day, after my little photo shoot, was to go to the beach, come back, get ready, and try to get a nice table at a beach side restaurant for sunset. We went to the beach a little late, Phil, Jez, Maria, Anabella, and myself, probably around 1:00, and sat at the Pier drinking licuados with rum in them. I went swimming with Anabella for quite a while and tried to teach her how to Body Surf but it turns out that I’m not very good at it myself. Generally I jump and maybe paddle once or twice but with these bigger waves that doesn’t work so well. Nevertheless, we had a lot of fun and both did end up catching a few waves. We were also joined by Phil and Jez’s Swedish friends that they’d met in Rancho Tranquilo, who were both pretty hilarious if a little unhinged. They were trying to hide from some woman that they’d been talking to the night before, whom they later discovered was married to a mobster from somewhere, which in writing sounds a lot more serious and less funny than it was, because they really hadn’t done anything terrible they were just wanting to avoid getting into trouble.
Back at the hostel, they were doing New Years Eve around the world, with different drink specials every hour depending on which country it was midnight at that particular hour. A pretty good idea, I think. We tried to get ready for sunset but we missed it entirely (I even ran to the beach about 5 mins too late) and so we wound up having a few drinks for England/Jez and then went out for dinner on the beach. These are the pricey restaurants, by Nicaragua standards, but I ordered the lobster anyway (the most expensive thing they had) and with a beer my tasty meal (and tip) came to $20. We returned to the hostel and Phil, Jez, and I bought a 1.5 L of Flor de Cana rum (excellent Nicaraguan rum) and a bunch of mix, and I made the unfortunate choice of also buying a cigar. Back to the room, I made my second mistake in letting Phil pour my drinks. The rum is so tasty you don’t really notice but you’ve just drank four or five shots with your coke. I had two or three. It was enough.
I should emphasize again what a great group we had. Sitting around in the girls’ dorm was probably more fun than actually being out was, at least for me. Good music, plenty (too much) to drink, good company, and we had a few newcomers from New Zealand that were hilarious as well. Still, we ran out of our rum pretty quickly considering its size and were soon out at the Iguana which is not so different from, say, the Sutherland, except that there is a beach in front with a bonfire. One thing we were missing, however, was a countdown. Phil was wearing Maria’s watch, a stylish pink number that really only he could pull off without looking gay, which was set to Columbian time, so he tried to get us counting an hour early. I do remember looking at my own watch at 11:50 when I saw fireworks, but fireworks and firecrackers especially are pretty much a daily thing in Latin America. As for the actual countdown, well, one minute it was 2009 and then next it was 2010. We lit our cigars and I tried to pass mine on to anybody who would take it but wound up having it mostly to myself. I should’ve thrown it in the fire but I do hate wasting things.
So needless to say, I went home early. And moreover, I don’t remember a lot of anything. I don’t know what’s happened, I guess I eat less and drink less here, but my tolerance is gone. I’m always the first one to feel the effects of alcohol which is good in a budget sense but this particular time it kind of wrecked my New Years Eve/full moon party. Oh yeah, I didn’t mention that it was also a full moon, did I? I would have loved to stay and watch the sunrise like Maria and maybe one or two others did, but I was the first one back to the hostel. I woke up that morning still coughing and tasting that cigar and then eventually, as the others awoke, tried to piece together what else had happened on New Years Eve from everybody and what I had missed out on. The others have some pretty good stories, but I’ll leave it to them to share. Apparently, I was pretty funny but by the end could hardly stand up much less walk straight. This usually doesn’t happen to me unless I’m really far gone, but I did make it home okay and with all my stuff on me which is pretty good or else lucky.
Our first day of 2010 was, aside from the slightly rough morning (I’d gotten sick the night before so I was actually pretty okay aside from that taste and cough). We got a cool cab driver named Jorge to take us (Andrea, Maria, Anabella, Phil and I) to a nearby surf beach called Maderas and bring us back after sunset for $5. The beach was really nice and we had a great day there. Maria and I swam the longest and I have to admit I’m really looking forward to hopefully catching up with both Columbians again when I make my way further south. If today was an indication of things to come in 2010 then it should be a great year. We had our final dinner together, the whole group that is, after a beautiful sunset at Maderas and it did feel a bit sad. I had some pork which I noticed was quite pink in the middle but absentmindedly did nothing about it as I was thinking of beef and only later did it click that, “Hey, that was pork. It shouldn’t have been pink”. I paid for it that night with a crazy fever and a really vivid dream that borders on hallucination that I was telling everyone about my fever and that I thought I had malaria and I would see how I felt in the morning but I might have to go to San Jose for the hospital.
In truth, I said nothing to anybody except in my sleep, though it felt like I was awake almost the whole night. By the time I woke up my fever had died down from the heights reached the night before to normal again though I still felt terrible. At least with the fever subsided, I was probably not dealing with malaria. I realized talking to people in the morning that most of what I thought I had said to them had, in fact, been dreams, and we went for breakfast as a whole, which was our last time together. From there, Jez, Phil, Andrea, and myself were heading to the Costa Rica border, Ronja and Fran were heading up to Belize for some diving, and Maria and Anabella were going up to the Bay Islands of Honduras to hopefully dive the Caribbean coast as well. I feel bad now that I was in a pretty poor disposition the day we left, not that I think I did anything rude I just wasn’t very smiley or talkative, but I hope they understood. The hostel owner called Jorge for us and we got in a cab headed for the border waving goodbye to everyone else, most of whom we’d probably never see again. You get used to the idea of it when you travel, but sometimes it’s harder than others. Still, for the next few hours, at least, I had Phil, Jez, and Andrea at my side.
Leaving Juayua on the Flower Route at 10 AM gets you to the volcanic black sand beaches of El Salvador’s Balsam coast (and specifically El Tunco) at about 2 PM. From there, you wander down a small cobblestone road from the highway into town, passing a few hotels here and there and eventually coming upon some restaurants and cafes. All this done with 20-some kilograms of backpack in surprising heat (the mountains are warm in the day, but nothing like this) leaves you anxious to find a place and quickly. I found one pretty quick that was $10/night for a private room but stubbornly pressed on, noting that there seemed to be nobody around (and I’d heard it was really busy here). Before I knew it, I found myself on the beach and noted a friendly (and pretty) surfer walking back from the beach with surf board under her arm. Aside from a couple Aussies who were staying elsewhere and seemed even more clueless than I did about where everybody was, she was the first foreigner I’d seen and I hailed her for instructions. She’d just arrived that morning, but had a place with private rooms for $10 AND with a swimming pool, not to mention a few other Canadians staying there. She was kind enough to lead the way to Fabrique and I was happy enough to follow.
The place was definitely not central but it was nice and had the essentials: fan, hammock, clean beds and bathroom. Plus it had a pool and at least one nice person to visit with. So I stayed. Jessica, the Canadian surfer from Vancouver Island, and I went to explore the beach and the town of El Tunco, sans backpacks, and wound up walking (and crawling through a cave) all the way to Playa Al Sunzal where we had some beer on the rocks and watched the sunset before walking back. She had a friend also staying here that was out when she’d arrived and we ran into the friend, Robyn, on the walk back. She seemed friendly enough. The third Canadian girl, Kat, was not so friendly and took an instant dislike to me, to the point of not only ignoring me but turning away when I offered an introductory hand and pretending not to see me when we passed in the street. Given that this behaviour started from the moment we met, she is either always a grump or else she really didn’t like my beard. Add to this a lack of humour and I definitely didn’t feel all that comfortable hanging out with the girls anymore as they seemed oblivious to her rudeness in my direction (and she was perfectly pleasant with them).
The next day, I have to admit I started by watching the Dexter finale. Holy crap. I won’t bore you with details but wow. Shocking. That done, I grabbed my book, The Bourne Supremacy, my towel, shades, and a bit of cash, and headed for the beach. After a quick breakfast at Erica’s, which is without a doubt the best food in a several mile radius, I sat on the beach and read. It seemed like I could get in about one chapter on my front and one on my back before I gave into the heat and had to go in to the water and swim/body surf. The waves here are great for body surfing, and I wasn’t quite ready to jump on a surfboard today so it worked out well. I finished the book, which was again entirely different than the movie, gave it to the girl at Erica’s, and retreated to my hotel to sit by the pool a bit and enjoy the last bit of sun. The girls were gone with a local guy to a local beach some distance away and were camping over night, so I had the place to myself. This could be a good thing or bad, I decided to head into town and see who I could find. Almost nobody. Almost. I ran into the Nicaraguan couple I’d visited with in Juayua who, it turns out, had had their camera bag stolen with the girl’s passport, wallet, camera, and a few other incidentals while on the bus here. We had dinner together and I bought them some drinks before retiring to catch up with Brian for the FrankBlack.Net Podcast.
I finally rented a surf board on my third full day in Playa El Tunco, and decided to splurge for a lesson to refresh my memory. I don’t think the lesson was worth it as the ‘teacher’ did nothing but hold my board and give me a push, but I did manage to catch several waves and only had the crap kicked out of me once. I surfed as long as I could with the heat, salt water, and weak arms I had to deal with, and returned to the hotel to find the girls were back. I still don’t know what makes a wave ‘crunchy’ but I’m learning. Jessica came to my room to say hello and tell me that they’d been invited to go partying in San Salvador with some local guys. It was one guy’s birthday and he’d rented a minivan and got a driver so that everybody could drink. Whether or not I should go played in my head. Pro: a cool opportunity with some locals in a city I’d never go party in on my own. Cons: San Salvador is really really dangerous at night; I would probably not be all that welcome by anyone but Jess; I was thinking to leave tomorrow morning. I went out to dinner to consider my choice (meeting again with the Nicaraguan couple, which is always a challenge for my seemingly worsening Spanish) and on my way back ran into a whole bunch of travellers that were likewise going and invited me to join. So I jumped in the crowded minivan, and off we all went.
It was a surprise party, so when he came to get in the van we all yelled something in Spanish (Happy Birthday, old something) then headed out to Stanza6. They had a pretty cool live band doing U2 covers among other things and there was not even a moment of feeling like there was the remotest danger. We were there from around 10:00 (we left just before 9 from El Tunco) and returned at 4:30 AM, stopping at a little street food vendor along the way, where the van almost left me behind. That would’ve been interesting. It was a great night and the return van cost $5 and club entrance with free drinks until midnight cost $10, and that’s all I needed to spend. The group was friendly, fun, and I would do it again... in a day or two. I decided El Tunco and the surrounding towns and beaches would get one more day after all, and set out in the morning with my camera to get, hopefully, a few decent shots. I almost brought it the night before, but luckily I didn’t as Jess had hers swiped. Most of the photos on this blog post are from that morning photography session. I wandered up to El Sunzal again, this time at low tide so I could walk further, and then came back noting a restaurant teeming with locals where I had a great lunch. It was time to enjoy the poolside hammocks at the hotel and I did.
I was hoping to get to Nicaragua the next morning so I tried to find out information. There’s a Pullman/private “Tica” bus (a company name) that leaves San Salvador at 5 AM for Managua. Not a bad option, but I had to somehow get to San Salvador in time to catch it. Some research unearthed another company called King Quality, that allegedly had busses for the same price (about $25) leaving at 10:30 AM. Done. I got up early and arrived in San Salvador via Chicken Bus (and then a short $3 taxi to Puerto Bus) by 9:45. There, I discovered there was a really early bus (4 or 5 AM), a regular-hour bus (8 AM) and another bus at 11:30. The catch was this bus was not the more reasonably priced $25 one but $46. Because they serve you food, supposedly. Well, here in El Salvador, that had better be a T-bone steak with some wine. So I was in a quandary: I had a backup plan of chicken bussing to Alegria, moreorless on the way to the Honduras border, and spending a night or two there before pressing on. On the other hand, Christmas was coming soon and I wanted to be sort of settled in Nicaragua somewhere that I liked, maybe a beach. And I’d heard of the difficulties in time and availability getting to Nicaragua from El Salvador (through Honduras, which is what makes the whole thing tricky) already. So I did something stupid and paid way too much money for the bus ride.
Why was this stupid? Well, for starters because it was the same price as two days in El Salvador eating, sleeping, and even drinking were I so inclined. Secondly, I would be missing out on eastern El Salvador, which is supposed to be pretty. Thirdly, had I thought about it with more clarity, I could have easily discovered that I could catch these same busses at more reasonable hours further east in El Salvador. So I could have gone to Alegria and caught, say, the cheap-o 5 AM bus from nearby San Miguel at about 8 or 9 AM. If I could rewind time, this is what I would have done, and I hope somebody somewhere reads this and is able to do it the smart way as a result. I should also mention that contrary to the supposed CA-4 agreement between Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, and Guatemala, I had to pay a $3 fee at the border (in spite of discussing/debating with customs officials and demanding proof) of Honduras and an $8 fee at the Nicaraguan border. The CA-4 is supposed to allow free travel across all those borders so I was miffed but, luckily, I had just enough money on me to cover it.
The bus, which didn’t leave until after 1 PM incidentally, did get me to Leon, Nicaragua at 10:45 that night. I hate arriving anywhere at night. It’s hard to get your bearings, it’s definitely less safe to be walking around with everything you own on your back, some hostel receptions are closed, and so on. I got a taxi from the gas station where I was dropped off into town for $1 and he took me to Big foot, which was boarded up for the night but a few knocks got someone to the door to tell me they were full. Via via across the street was in full party mode, and I didn’t even want to attempt to navigate my backpacks through that crowd. Which left me standing on the street with nowhere to stay at 11 PM. There was a hostel a block over that I walked through the shadows to get to, and that was not a pleasant experience. It too was boarded up and there was no answer. My same taxi driver drove by me on the street and stopped because he thought he’d given me incorrect change. He then drove me, free, to another hostel (he should’ve waited in the first place but this made up for it) called La Clinica which was not exactly a nice spot but it was cheap enough and I just wanted somewhere for the night at this point. I checked in, went to grab a beer, then came back and crashed. My exploration of Nicaragua would start tomorrow.
I won’t sugar coat it; the ride from Semuc Champey to Coban was... not nice. The views were spectacular, the sun was shining, but with a bit too much to drink the night before many of us were not feeling particularly up for twisting and turning in the sun. I focused on the view and was, perhaps luckily, the first one to find the washrooms at the gas station outside Coban. After that, a Snickers bar, a bag of popcorn (I was craving something salty), and a Gatorade and I was 100%. Feeling great and, like everyone, with two seats to myself, this was better than I could’ve hoped for considering the sardine can we rode in on. Not to mention that I didn’t have to pay a cent for it. I think the driver and I may have been the only ones awake for much of the beautiful drive towards Antigua. We passed through busy Guatemala City in the day and it looked decent enough, but I’ve heard enough stories about the nighttime to know better. We definitely didn’t dally and soon were on a random street in Antigua wondering which way to go. Jez (our English friend) and Jaelle (the Israeli day bartender at El Retiro) were going to Jungle Party, so we went too, found it to be fine (a bit pricey, but not if you factor in breakfast) and we had ourselves a spot in Antigua. The next step was to find a school where we could study Spanish for a week or two.
Arriving, as Phil and I seem prone to, on a Sunday has its ups and downs. On the plus side, you definitely aren’t missing anything exciting while you sit on a bus. On the other hand, everything is closed. We wandered towards Sevilla, a school that had been recommended by our roommates at El Retiro. It was closed but the doors were open because the director’s family was having an event unbeknownst to us. The director still took the time to chat with us and give us a price, and he also grabbed a relative who was a doctor to have a look at Phil’s ear. I thought this was pretty nice but Phil had picked up a bad vibe because the director was very anxious to get us committed to starting school in the morning and both of us felt uncomfortable not having shopped around or checked prices. Being Sunday, it turned out that there were street vendors aplenty so we ate quite well (I had a few chorizo tortillas, some hot fruit punch, and enjoyed both thoroughly). And it’s a good thing, because we needed that sustenance to find our way back to the hostel. No exaggeration, it probably took us an hour and a half for what should’ve been a 5 minute walk. Everything looks the same as it is, especially at night, and it didn’t help that many of our navigational landmarks were duplicated in the exact same style elsewhere. At one point, we later discovered, we’d stood 15m from the hostel without realizing it and setting off again in an entirely wrong direction thanks to the guidance of a local Tourist Police. He probably had a good laugh. It also didn’t help that the hostel is entirely unmarked, with only a red rope to signify its existence.
We eventually returned to the hostel and watched Catch Me If You Can with some of the other rather quiet backpackers before turning in. The next morning, after a hearty breakfast, Phil and I set out again, first to the ATM and then to do some more school hunting. The ATMs here, it turns out, not only charge you from $3-$5 per transaction, but they rob you blind on the exchange rate. Quetzales for US dollars are currently 8.24:1. The US dollar is pretty much on par with the Canadian dollar at the moment, and yet the exchange rate they give you is at or below 7.5:1. Meaning, taking out $100 in Q costs $9 in currency exchange plus the ATM fee. Ouch. The next stop was finding a school. Phil was dead-set against Sevilla and I felt a bit endebted but otherwise indifferent, and in any case I wanted to check out the options and prices, so we wandered through any number of schools. The two that most appealed to us were San Jose, which has an absolutely edenic setting in a verdant courtyard with fountains and so on, and Ixchel, where Phil’s friend had studied, which also had a decent setting and most importantly, someone we felt was there to make sure we were happy with our program. The price at Ixchel was a bit high, but San Jose didn’t provide a homestay option and seemed a bit, perhaps, stodgy. By the end of a day of hunting, we discovered that we could study at San Jose for $90 and get the homestay elsewhere (stay with a local family, and three meals six days of seven) for $60. We took that back to Ixchel where we managed to get them down to $100 for the school (4 hours, 5 days) and $70 for the homestay. Having pushed as hard as we could, we knew that was their lowest offer, but we did manage to convince them to throw in a free day of study at the beach IF they had three others going. I only report these numbers because when we were trying to research elsewhere on the net we found nobody quoting prices they paid. And I’ll add, for the record, that you can definitely study cheaper but we were comfortable here and bit the bullet. You win, Aliz, you win.
It was our last night at the hostel and we met some cool people on a tight timetable and managed to convince them to visit Semuc Champey, which wasn’t hard once Phil and I got reminiscing. And the next day, school was in. We started everyday at 9 AM and would finish at 1 PM, which would give us afternoons and evenings free (aside from homework) to explore Antigua. Each student has a separate teacher and I managed to get Luis, who is probably one of the best teachers they have not only from my own experience but also according to the receptionist (Aliz) and the family we stayed with. We have a little palapa with a whiteboard and a desk and spend some time conversing and practicing speech and the rest working on grammar and vocabulary. The first day started with a conversation which, I think, was mostly to gauge my level of comprehension. My “Learn Spanish in 20 Days” book clearly paid off as I was able to hold a grammatically barren conversation and, at the very least, skip some basics. Luis was great. He didn’t waste my time doing things I could do on my own at home, we would only work on, say, conjugating ‘ir’ verbs until he was satisfied I understood the concept and then we’d move on. Our conversations were a lot of fun, too, he has a great sense of humour and we joked all sorts of things. One day he brought a 40-page tome of “vulgarities” in Spanish for me to have a peek at. Now that’s education! I realize now, at the end of the week, he was letting a lot of terrible grammar slip until I had learned the rules to speak better. Obviously it’s better to let me practice using words and putting together sentences solely in the present tense than nitpicking about things I don’t understand.
Anyway, the school was great. The teachers were all friendly and seemed quite qualified, and we got what we’d wanted, which was some basics in Spanish. I think that a few things could be done to facilitate mingling between the students and encouraging social programs. They have lots of activities but nobody ever goes on them, it seems. Free but unadvertised was a 5.2 on the Richeter Scale earthquake after classes, though we had no idea it was happening. Of course activities are secondary and anyway, we had our hands full studying. Our homestay was, though not in the safest feeling area, equally great. We had a wonderful family with great food and they were always trying to continue our education at the dinner table, not to mention more joking around. Llourda made some great food and was always happy to accommodate – how her spine is still straight after all that bending-over-backwards I’ll never know. Marla (her aunt) teaches Spanish and was happy to turn her grammatical knowledge loose on us all hours of day and night. And Hugo, Llourda’s husband, was a riot. The man cracked us up consistently, which is no mean feat considering that he would often have to explain, word-by-word, his jokes. That we’d still be laughing afterwards is impressive.
As well, we shared the house with six Koreans. I was reticent at first, as I imagined a situation where they’d all talk amongst themselves and we’d be left out, but this was not the case at all. They were boisterous (especially Chino... por FAH-vor!), friendly, and spoke Spanish as much as possible. Some were pretty quiet, definitely, and Pablo was borderline antisocial as he was struggling to finish a book that was to be published in South Korea, but we had a lot of fun with them. Sure, they ate like it was a street cart in Shanghai, by which I mean loudly, but different culture, different habits, and they were too nice to get annoyed. We went out with Helen one night to Riki’s, a little bar where the sole remaining member of the Buena Vista Social club still croons and drums as people everywhere salsa, and she was far more entertaining than I’d expected since she was quite quiet around the dinner table. We went with Chino another night and bought five litres of beer then sat around the table joking. Phil and I lost it when we were being taught that muy mono is a way of saying ‘cute’ and Fabian was trying very hard to keep up pouring through the dictionary like a mad man. You may have had to been there or at least know Fabian, but the sheer concentration on his face as he pieced together and said to Hugo, “Tu.... es.... (long pause) mono” which translates to “You ... are a... (long pause) monkey.” The timing was just right as Hugo paused then gave a dismissive “Nnnnnno.” Yeah, I guess you had to be there but man did we laugh. Not at Fabian, of course, for in truth our Spanish is probably less than his, but because of the effort and Hugo’s response.
In the evenings and afternoons, we’d wander the streets and explore a bit, or we’d stay in and study, trying to balance being a visitor and working. On the weekend, the Koreans were gone to Tikal (and we missed them) and Phil and I climbed Pacaya Volcano, an active volcano not too distant from Antigua. For security and simplicity, we went with a group which meant 15 of us slogging along uphill at a rather slow pace. I would’ve been more annoyed except that my stomach was not exactly loving life and my own pace wouldn’t have been much faster. We left Antigua at 2 PM. Or more correctly, we were picked up at 2 PM, left around 3, and arrived around 4:30. We should’ve bought marshmallows or at least a stick but sadly we didn’t. We set off with the group making our way first through forest, always with a spectacular view of clouds below and Volcan de Agua looming in the distance like Mount Doom. Eventually we reached the black cinder top, ash and sharp-as-nails rock and pebbles which were more tricky to climb. Soon, we noticed that the rocks we were walking on were giving off a pretty impressive amount of heat. And then, over the rise, a river of molten lava spurting out the middle of a rock and flowing down the mountainside. Obviously lava is hot, but the amount of heat it was radiating was incredible. Trying to get close enough for a photo meant enduring air that was probably around 60 C – just hot enough to not immediately withdraw. This was from a distance of maybe 5 metres away. Closer than that was not bearable, certainly not long enough to take a proper photo. Some people had sticks that were spontaneously combusting without ever touching the lava. Others, marshmallows. I wanted to buy a marshmallow from a girl that had a bag but without a stick it was pretty futile. So we watched, postured for photos, and waited to hear “Pantera!” meaning our group was going down.
The descent was at dusk and passed into night. Having a headlamp is definitely recommended. We saw some people just beginning the hike up, presumably to stay the night and see what would’ve been a fantastic sunrise. I’m sure the lava would’ve been incredible in the dead of night, too, and maybe they were going to get closer to the top than we did. Pacaya, it seems, is more safe than we’d originally thought but what can you do? We went out that night to Monoloco which is a bit more pricey but we were talked into staying by a fellow Canadian at the bar that is opening up a very cool-sounding surf hotel/hostel called “The Salty Beaver” in Sapiaco. He offered us a lift down there but we’d then miss Atitlan and Xela, not to mention Phil’s ears prohibit water for a week or so more. There was also another character that was quite drunk and mostly funny though toward the end annoying “I’m a surfer!” he’d exclaim and then show us a tattoo. Sure, fine, great. “Don’t laugh, I’m American” he’d then say in a very broken English which, to be fair to us, is kind of funny. “Peeets-boorg!” And eventually he was escorted from the bar as the belligerence:humour ratio grew too high.
Sunday was market day and Phil and I strolled around looking at various crafts, shirts, and so on. I bought a sweater for Xela (turns out it gets quite chilly at night) for 60Q ($7) and Phil bought a bunnyhug and a few other things as well. 5:30, the Riders were in the Grey Cup game and we were determined to find it but destined to be disappointed. American satellite will show Women’s College Volleyball, Billiards, Lawn Bowling, and worse but we couldn’t even find mention of the Grey Cup. ESPN, you’ve just made the list. Don’t laugh, DirectTV. You’re on it, too. We seriously searched for an hour, flipping through satellite channels in the six-or-so bars that have satellite in town. Dejected, we grabbed some street food, amazed at the number of people in the streets and not knowing it was a Christmas celebration in the Central Square. So we returned home to keep an eye on the game via a really slow internet connection, gave up assuming we’d won with so little time left in the fourth quarter, only to discover the final score. Montreal won and I can’t imagine how mad I would’ve been to watch this, especially a penalty for too many players on the field. To quote Phil, though it’s hard to get the intonation quite right in writing, “Really?”
Our last day of school came and went in a flash. We said our farewells, stopped by the post office to mail our first round of postcards, and came home for lunch with the Koreans now returned. It was a lot of fun to have them back, and they were happy to be here, seemingly having been starved and abused on their weekend trip to Tikal and Rio Dulce. After dinner, we invited everybody out for a drink including the newly arrived American professor and Aussie chica. To show you how cool a family they were, Hugo and Llourda even came out with us for beer and tequila. And schenanigans. It was a really fun night and I was surprised how quickly I had become attached to them all. As always with travel, you have to try to appreciate that you were fortunate enough to meet (much less spend a week with) such great people rather than dwell on the fact that you probably will never see them again. Antigua would be a great memory, but still more great places, people, and stories lie on the road ahead. Next stop, Lake Atitlan.
