last bits

4/04/12

I got into Masaya in the late afternoon. The hotel room I had reserved, it turns out, is in Managua. So I went to another. After dropping off my things, I went to find somethingto eat. My "Last Supper" in Nicaragua. On offer at the Central Park were expensive meals, pizza, and different forms of fried meat dishes. I sat down with a bag of cut mango to consider my options. On the bench next to me sat a young woman in very shabby clothes. She looked very dirty, quite pitiful and smelled incredibly bad, a mix of sweat, dirt and urine. An older woman sat down next to me. I offered her some mango. She accepted. I then took a chance and mentioned that I was looking for somewhere to eat. She said she knew just the spot. 3 blocks away and she would accompany me as she was heading in that directions. The smell of our neighbour was now very strong as we headed off together, me with my stick, she limping beside me. 4 blocks later, we are still walking. Eventually we reach a small plaza with many food stalls. Yes, she was right. The food here is more than adequate . Cheese dumplings, plantain, vegetable patties all deep fried with a coleslaw salad on top. I invite her to eat with me. We sit down at a table. The vendor brings us our drinks. Mine is a spicy ginger drink. I finally ask her her age. I figure she must be between seventy and eighty. She says that she is sixty years old. She was sick with arthritis but now she is cured, she says. She wraps up 1/2 her meal with the 1/2 plantain that I can't finish for her breakfast tomorrow. When we are done, we part ways.

My hotel room is a sweatbox. The fan on the wall seems to be going fast enough but the wind never seems to reach me. I lie awake most of the night soaking in heat for the return. I will be in Montreal tomorrow night.

almost home

12/04/02

Sitting in the vegetarian restaurant/yoga centre in Esteli. I have just finished my meal, which I heavily laced with a homemade chili sauce. I am waiting for my penultimate Spanish class. My teacher is a very sweet woman of 42 years. We discuss politics, religion etc. and she gently corrects my grammar mistakes. (I have just moved tables to get away from the cell phone music that started just behind me.)

Yesterday I came back from a 2 day visit to the mountains. Beautiful pine forests. Vistas of volcanos and distant mountain ranges. Hot in the day and cold at night. A preparation of sorts for the coming return to the cold. I sit here and reflect on the past 11 plus weeks. Lots of travel. Many buses and boats. Many hotel rooms. 33 to be exact. Lots of packing up and moving on. I saw beauty in so many forms: the enormous trees, the flowers, the birds. All the colours. Beautiful beaches, rivers, lakes. And such kind people. Such gentle sweet peope. Reading the Dalai Lama at this moment, it is easy here to recognize the innate Buddhanature of people. Returning back to the cold and fast paced reality, it will be a greater challenge to see inherent gentleness in all beings around me.

And what did I learn on this trip? That in stopping and staying, I get more rewards and understanding than in movement. That travelling alone has its benefits - I follow my own rhythm, I am forced to make an effort to meet others - and its disadvantages: The adventure is mine alone. No one to laugh with about all the memories. 11 weeks was too long this time. There is only so much movement, so much beauty one can integrate. I look at all these travellers I meet with their yearlong, 6 month, 2 year around the world trips and I don't envy them as I have in the past. I need to stop and give back. It is time to look beyond this solitary mind.

And of course, the body and its frailty. My assumptions of my strength, my capacity to endure and overcome were tested. Sure, I endured. Sure, I overcame. And I was not afraid. But there was alot of physical pain and discomfort. Lots of enduring. And then that night alone in my lovely room. Diarrhea and vomiting. Severe abdominal crampìng. Do I go and bang on the door of the tourists next door? I think they are German. We barely acknowledged each other today. It is the middle of the night. Am I sick enough to go and ask for help? I guess not. I endured and survived. And took the bus, boat, bus and bus the next day.

I guess from where I sit, it is the end of an era. I will be 60 this year. There are others older than me who travel in this way. But it no longer pulls me to take the tough route. Was it the length of time? Was it the solitary travel? Was it the body fragility? Perhaps a bit of all of it. Am looking forward to new possibilities. Other options.

And I have a Spanish lesson to go to.

life on the grid

12/03/27

Everywhere in Nicaragua, to find a location, there is no exact address. No street number. The streets have names but no one knows them. Directions are given by landmarks: 2 blocks west of the church. 1 1/2 blocks east of the park. And it works well. I give those directions and people are able to direct me. Here in Esteli, it is different. Streets are clearly marked. Avenues are perpendicularto streets. Everything starts at the central park and progresses accordingly. And directions follow suit: 2nd street noirthwest and 3rd avenue south west. Seems somehow logical. And yet, people join me in the absence of an internal map. They too have no sense of direction. I get to a corner and ask, do I go left or straight here and I get directed to ask somewhere else. Finally at the cultural centre, they call the school for me. Someone will come and get me. Just tell me which way to go. No, sit and wait. Someone is coming.

to esteli

12/03/25

I told myself - enough with bus travel stories. I´ve already taken so many buses and boats - they've started to blur. And yet, here recovering in Esteli, I do believe, yesterday again I passed over the line. Esteli is not far from Ometepe in kilometres but it demands many changes in bus and boat. A crowded bus to the boat. A ferry over to the mainland. Another bus. All along, I was not sure whether I would make it. I told myself, I will stop when it gets too messy or I get too tired. Maybe I will stop in Granada. Then the bus was heading to Masaya. Maybe I will stop in Masaya. And then, it was midafternoon. The bus had just dropped me off on the outskirts of Masaya with instructions to take a taxi to Tipitapa. OK. A taxi driver tries to hustle me into his taxi. I stop him and join a group of two others.Then I realize that Tipitapa is 20 k away. I am no longer nowhere near Masaya. I am dropped at a noisy intersection where people are standing waiting for the buses coming from Managua. There is garbage everywhere. People looking hot, harassed, tired and unfriendly. The buses arrive, packed. People are jumping on, squeezing on, holding on. I think, oh shit.

A well-dressed woman sees my distress and comes over to help. I say - are all the buses this full?. Yes, she says. To get a seat, I would need to go back to Managua. Or go down the road to a hotel (questionable at best) and try again in the morning. I go off to the toilet -a wet stall which doesn't flush. I pay 25 cents for the service. When I get back, she says: come quickly. Your bus is here. Someone grabs my suitcase and stows it under the bus. She tries to tell the boy - This woman has a problem. She needs a seat. But he isn't listenng. I move quickly to the front. Stick in hand, I push onto the bus. I can barely get on. I have visions of being stuck one foot off as it starts to move. Impassive faces No one is offering a seat. There are 2 peoiple sitting on the triangular engine cover next to the driver. I ask the woman if I can sit too. She moves over as much as she can. I sit on one buttock for a while. Peope have to step over me to get on and off. It is ultimately too uncomfortable and I stand. After a long while, someone gives me their seat as they are getting off. The rest of the trip is uneventful. I have a seat. It is wonderful.

We arrive at 7:30 pm. A taxi to the hotel. I wake this morning at 6:30 am. A church group is having a celebration, the music echoing outside my window. A block from my hotel is a little cantina that sells homemade yoghourt with fruit. I have bought 2 containers. I had been craving yoghourt for days. One is with papaya, the other with pineapple. Heavenly.

socialism

12/03/24

A man sits down beside me at the bottom of the hill. I am waiting for the bus. He has just carried down a big bag of produce for a woman. She has been visiting his farm and heading back with her 2 children to the town. He is so happy that I understand Spanish. He wants to explain to me the injustice he feels has been done. He tells me that he had lived in Managua for 20 years but had come 30 years ago to work on the coffee plantations on the island. Then the revolution and the land was nationalized. The plantation owners went home, he said, and the land divided up and given to party members. Those who had paid for their cards, he said. He hadn´t paid so he had to buy his land from another. And work it to survive. Now there is no money. Only working to survive.

Another man, the other day, told me that he had received a portion of land. He has built a hostel on it and his family works hard on it. Nonetheless, he too is not happy with the government. They gave us land, he says. But nothing else. It is true, the roads are beyond belief. The electricity service is pretty off and on. "What about health care?" I say. "Drugs are free." Free for you, he says. We get prescriptions and have to buy them ourselves at the pharmacy.

And yet, I must say, the general feeling is one of great contentment and stability. People are very famiy oriented and appear happy enough.

giggling

12/03/23

It is not as hot today. I am sitting on my verandah. I hear giggling in the room vacated by the American. Two of the cleaning staff have been in there a long time now. The door closed. Finally they emerge. "Did you have a sleep?" I ask. Yes, they say giggling. They are both about 5 months pregnant. The one who is 26, it is her first. The other is 30 and it is her 5th. Her oldest son is 17. Yes, she was 13 when she had him.I say: "You started so young. You must have worked hard." referring to childrearing. Yes, she says, I worked in the fields in the rice and the corn. They finish off the room and take their things and leave. Giggling.

crippled divers

12/03/23

An American man sits down on a hammock near me and begins to chat. The light flickers and goes out. Another power outage. The stars shine very brightly. There are no mosquitos.

He tells me he has been coming to Nicaragua now for 15 years. He initially came with a church group but he quickly got disillusioned and continued on his own. He records the names of lobster divers who have been left paralysed by faulty ascents from their deep dives. The government has promised to help. NGOs come down with fancy hyperbaric chambers and dive instructors. But the damage continues. The divers still dive poorly. He says it is ignorance but also machismo and that youthful sense of immortality. "It won´t happen to me." And the indifference of the boat captains. He has gone into the small villages up above the port town to collect his names. The divers are young Mesquito men as young as 16. Never over 30

Now he is hanging out waiting to do dental work.

paradise without purpose

12/03/21

It is the first day of spring. Back home there have been record breaking warm days. An earthquake in Mexico yesterday.

I have spent so much time and so many years searching for the perfect spot. I have been in many places - like here - where it is just so beautiful, achingly beautiful. But I never seem to plan for what to do once I get here. The initial aha and then what? I finally understand the 2 week vacation. Just enough and then you go home. My insistance on extending the experience -wanting to live it "forever", catches me up every time. There are only so many books to read. Only so many conversations to be had. Now that walking is such a challenge, this is all that is left for me. The "goal" of being present in every moment - I have not mastered it despite all my good intentions. To be honest, I am bored. I hate to admit it. It is so ungrateful. But if I want to look at all this clearly and honestly, I must face it. There is only so much hanging around I can do.


So it is time to rethink this solitary winter wandering. I have always wanted to be passionate about something. I am envious of those who have a passion for something - a beloved hobby, a musical bent, a creative urge. My work has given me satisfaction but that too will have its limits soon. Hmm.

ometepe

12/03/20

I have finally come to a stop. I am staying at Monkey Island hostel. Under Maderas Volcano facing the water of Lake Nicaragua. There is a sandy beach down below. Around me are fruit trees and flowers. The wind is blowing. I can choose between the rocking chair and the hammock. Sometimes a bar in the distance sends out a song. Then there is quiet again. The electricity is spotty. It can go off for a day at a time. When it comes on, people charge their phones and laptops. I charge my ereader.

I went to the service for the American volunteer. The whole island was in attendance. (except for a few boys playing soccer in a field.) People came from other islands and from the mainland The coffin was brought down from her home and we all filed into the church. The church was painted in naif figures of birds and animals on a white background. The outside , bright coloured panels. People got up to speak about Carolina. There were always 4 people standing by the coffin, one at each corner, keeping guard. Men and women, young and old would stand up to replace the 4 at regular intervals, one at a time. It was quiet and respectful. The husband sat near the front and greeted each coffin guard as they sat down.

I left the next day. It was either then or wait 4 days as the ferry goes only twice a week. I had dreaded the 11 hour journey but it was a beautiful ride. We sat on the outside deck on lounge chairs, watching the sun set, and the stars. The seagulls following the wake of the boat. At 10, I went inside to lie on a padded bench. At 12:30 am, the intercom woke me up. Time to disembark. A minibus was waiting at the dock. It dropped us off at our chosen hotel.

I was here last year but did not come this far. The island is shaped like a figure 8 with a volcano in each circle. Last year, I got as far as the isthmus. This year, I came further onto the 2nd circle. After the isthmus, the road deteriorates impressively. It takes an hour to do several kilometres.

isla de solentiname

12/03/15

Today is my fathers's birthday. He would be 98 today.

It continues to rain. Abnorman weather conditions. Like the rest of the world. I have recovered from my slump. I have been able to breathe at night for the past couple of nights and my sinuses are starting tyo recover. My thoughts have started to clear as well. I notice there are alot of peopple here with stuffed noses. The rain has stopped. It doesn't seem to rain as long as in El Castillo where it poured the day I was there.

I am on an island in the archipelago Solentiname. There are many islands. This one has about 400 inhabitants. The biggest island. A slow boat ride from San Carlos on the coast. I am staying in a little bungalow behind the house and little store of the owners. It is quiet and serene. On a tree covered hill. The water is visible in the distance. I can hear the grackles and other birds. My view is of fruit trees and the main path in front. A pig wanders by. A hen with her chicks.

The dueña tells me that an American volunteer has just suddenly died of a heart attack. She had been living here with her husband part of the year for the past 5 years working with a local NGO doing education. She was 53. The death was announced just as I came to the island. Perhaps that accounts for the incredible stillness when I arrived. She will be buried here later today. She had no history of heart disease.

All the ideas, projects, worries, aspirations - gone in a flash. Food for thought.

the beginning of the end

12/03/09

What is a journey if not for self-reflection? Sometimes the edge needs to be pushed beyond the comfort zone to make for clarity. Well, I am definitely beyond my comfort zone. The experience has gone from pleasant holiday to something to endure. A test of equanimity. I had thought that the night several nights ago was the bottom. But last night was a step further down.

When I had booked my room, I was so pleased. It was so cute. Looking onto the water. So many quaint touches: the canopy mosquito net, the bamboo hanging curtain for a bathroom door. I settled in for a comfortable night. Then the disco started down the road, celebrating International Woman's Day. My sinuses blocked up and I couldn't breathe. At all. I was forced to keep my mouth open, tense jaw, dry mouth. I had eaten a candy bar and was wired so I read my book to pass the time till I got sleepy. Then the man in the next room started to snore seriously. The classic log sawing. It was a long night. Somewere in the middle of it, I started to recognize all the opportunities I had missed: Why didn't I buy that menthol cream from the young man at the dock? Why didn't I ask the nurse for an antihistamine? It was crystal clear to me that my pride was my blind spot. That my righteousness, my incredibly stiff perfectionism was holding me back. Was actually causing me harm. Here I am, quite sick, spewing massive amounts of green snot for the past 3 days. I see a nurse about my aching ear and don't think to ask for drugs. This insistance on purity, on the natural way - where has it gotten me? Being so fixed on being good, doing the right thing. Here I am: sick as a dog, an aching hip, ear, nose. This perfectionism has not made me perfect. Just stiff. Despite believing philosophically in accepting what is, I continue to crave comfort and well being.

And so. a long sleepless night. An ongoing humbling journey. My self image of strong and capable has been eroded. How can I care for others when I can't care for me?

It is the next day. I sit in the boat. I am in the very last seat. Seems fitting. It is a dark grey day. The spray comes up past my window. The locals look with fascination at the Costa Rican side of the river. They are building a highway on that side. All the trees have been cut down. The Nicaraguan side is still pristine tropical jungle. It starts to rain. I put on my rain jacket to keep dry from the spray. The boat slows to negotiate some rapids. The music is blaring. Then it speeds up. The music fades away.

rough night

12/03/06

What a night! I had tripped on a metal rod in the darkness and jolted my hip. My sinuses swole up and I couldn´t breathe. My mosquito ear was aching. The mosquitoes were brutal and it was one of those mosquito nets that fits tightly on the bed. Great to keep them out. Very hard to get in and out. And I would wake almost every 1 -2 hours with a full bladder. Finally on one of my bathroom trips, I stubbed my toe on the uneven floor. Lying in bed on the very comfortable bed, my awareness would jump from painful area to painful area. Really quite absurd.

Now it is morning. The monkeys are howling in the distance.

grand river lodge

12/03/05

There are 12 thatch huts. Each has a basic raised wood structure with a porch and a concrete room in the back for toilet and shower. The back wall of the bathroom is only 7 feet high. There is an open space to the roof letting in light, wind and rain from the hills.In the room are 2 beds, a single and a double with decent new mattresses. Electricity from 8 am to 2 am but no fan. She will bring a mosquito net for me.

There is an older French man staying here. He has been here for 3 days now. He is happy to speak French with me as his Spanish is poor and his English is non-existent. He was traveling with a French couple until they came to Ometepe last week and said they were not going further. They had been traveling together for 5 months and so it was a bit of a shock for him to find himself suddenly alone. He has no guide book and no language skills. Must be interesting.

The owner, Marvin, arrives with an older American man. Marvin is 30 years old and very talkative. He speaks English, French, Italian and German besides his Spanish. He tells me he has been working on the cruise ships for the past 10 years and slowly building this place over the past 2. He only offically opened 5 months ago and is not known yet. The American is a Catholic priest that Marvin knows from the cruise ship. He was the ship chaplain for 8 years. He is now 83 years old. Marvin finally convinced him to visit Nicaragua and he is here for a week. He seems a bit overwhelmed.

Marvin takes us around to see his fruit trees. He gives us unripe guavas to eat. Frather Frank has never seen a banana tree before. M shows us the cocoa, the mangos , the papayas. He gives us coconuts to drink.

I am sitting in the shade beside one of the huts, the wind blowing on my back. Lunch was a nice fresh fish with the classic rice and beans, plantain chips and salad. Then M suggested hot water in the ear to help remove the mosquito. He wanted to put the water in the opposite ear. I guess he figured there was a direct connection between the 2 and that pouring in one ear would push out the mosquito from the other.

rio san juan

12/03/05

Like the Mekong river in southeast Asia, the Rio San Juan makes a good part of the border between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. In the 18th century,it was slated to be part of the crossing from the Atlantic to the Pacific. But politics gave the canal to Panama. The Americans wanted more control than the Nicaraguans would give them. There is no road access to towns beyond the first short section. Beyond, it is a water culture with boats connecting all the small farms and communities. I take the local collective boat from San Carlos. Last night I suddenly started a sore throat and by morning, my nose is stuffed up. Possibly from the endless fan on my face and body. Then as I woke, a mosquito flew in my ear. Half-asleep, I pushed it further in.. It buzzed for a bit and then stopped. But did not come out. It is either travelling down to my throat or stuck at my eardrum decomposing. Given all the above, I was not in the best of shape heading out this morning.

It is a small boat with an open roof and optional plastic sides for the rain. The boat is full and moves quickly thru the water. It stops along the way. Sometimes there is a wharf. Sometimes a mudbank. I see toucans flying by, a turtle lying on a log, lots of herons, ibis. A boy waits on a bank in high rubber boots. They drop me at Grand River Lodge. A long rickety boardwalk. The boat man helps me onto the boardwalk. I roll my little suitcase, bump bump bump. I see some wooden huts with thatch roofs up on a hill and take a side boardwalk towards them. A young woman comes to meet me and carries my suitcase the rest of the way.

bizarre moments

12/03/03

A woman gets out of a taxi.She is wearing very tight jeans as per the norm here plus 6 inch spike heels. She waits on the curb as the taxi driver hauls out 2 huge gunnysacks packed with green mangos. She stands with her mangos waiting for the chicken bus.

I am on the packed chicken bus. My suitcase is somewhere behind me. I am happy to have found a seat. A well-dressed man moves to the front and starts preaching. He starts gently but is soon shouting in a hoarse voice, gesticulating wildly with his hands. The conductor is passing, collecting the fare. He hushes him as he passes him. He can´t hear the customers. The preacher stops for a moment and then continues. No one is looking at him. People are sleeping, talking. Loud tex mex music is blaring in the background.

But wait! He is pulling out some scissors. And silver rings. Keychains and toothbrushes. Now the people pay attention. I can´t resist. I buy a key chain. It is similar to the one I bought last year which lasted almost 8 months. Last year it was a palm tree bottle opener. This time, it is shaped like a horse with no other functions I can discern.

juigalpa

12/03/03

I came here last year. I know my way around. The bank. The internet. The central park. I must be the only foreigner here. The older woman walking along with a broom handle for a cane.  I thought I would spend 2 nights here. Get some money from the ATM. Cheap and quick internet. Get my roots done. But all except the hairdresser were easily done in a couple of hours. The salon is closed. The girl is in university class Friday afternoons.

So early Saturday morning I present myself at her door. Still closed. The friendly shopkeeper next door calls her boss who says she will be here soon. She is eating breakfast. She shows up at nine. The salon is a narrow nook between the different stalls There is room for one barber chair facing the small mirror. She rinses my hair in the back at the stone pilla (where they wash clothes). I bend over and she pours water from the reservoir over my head. She and her friend spend much time blowdrying and styling my hair. I say, don,t bother. I am going on the bus. It will get blown out in a minute.

The taxi drops me at a bus stop on the highway- Across the way is a local cafeteria. A few chairs under a tin roof. The señora gives me a good plate  of beans and rice, local cheese and a little salad for $1.20. I buy tangerines,  grapefruit and then a popsicle for me and  a young boy sitting by me. The bus should get here soon. Looks like it will be a chicken bus. Onto to unknown territory.

juigalpa

12/03/03

I came here last year. I know my way around. The bank. The internet. The central park. I must be the only foreigner here. The older woman walking along with a broom handle for a cane. I thought I would spend 2 nights. Get some money from the ATM. Cheap and quick internet. Get my roots done. But all except the hairdresser were easily done in a couple of hours. The salon, though was closed. Tthe girl is in university classes Friday afternoon. So early Saturday morning I present myself at her door. Still closed. The friendly shopkeeper next door calls her boss who says she will be here soon. She is eating breakfast. She shows up at nine. The salon is a narrow nook between the different stalls. There is room for one barber chair facing the small mirror. She rinses my hair in the back at the stone basin where they wash the clothes. I bend over and she pours water from the reservoir over my head.She and her friend spend much time blowdrying and styling my hair. I say, don't bother. I am going on the bus and it will all be blown out in a minute.

The taxi drops me at a bus stop on the highway. Across the way is a local cafeteria. A few chairs under a tin roof. The senora gives me a great plate of beans and rice, local cheese and small salad for $1.20 I buy tangerines, a grapefruit and then a popsicle for me and a young boy sitting by me. The bus should get here soon. Looks like it will be a chicken bus. Onto unknown territory.

back to the mainland

12/03/01

The waves were very rough outside my window at five this morning. I went out to look at the ocean down below my balcony and remembered the ferry crossing last year. I can feel the queaziness rising. I am taking the plane, I decided. At 7 I was outside looking for a taxi to take me to the airport. Perhaps I can get on a morning flight. It is a 20 minute flight to Bluefields. No taxi passing but the dueña´s door is open. I go in. She is in her hammack, drinking coffee and watching TV. She smiles and reassures me. She always takes the ferry to Bluefields. The wind is behind pushing. It is a good day to go. You will get there quicker, she says. Take the ferry.

I take the ferry. It is a smooth ride. We ride the blue waves that turn green as we approach the mainland. The waves did not push that hard, however. Still a 5 hour journey.

leap year in Big Corn

12/02/29

I am sitting in a comedor - a local restaurant. There are 3 tables. At the other ones are sitting a few workers, having a smoke after breakfast. It is 9:50 am. The chickens are clucking. The black birds whistle. The cars and taxis pass. My Danish friend, M, has just walked by. He has bought us a pineapple to share later.

I am waiting for the local breakfast: gallo pinto, (rice and beans) eggs, cheese, and coffee. Maybe even bread. Should do me for the day. This is a test. If it sits well, I may eat it again before the ferry tomorrow. Do I dare or go on with an empty stomach and a few packs of soda crackers?

Last night I had what could only be called a cultural experience. We went to Mama Lola´s for supper. The taxi went off the pavement into the jungle towards the beach. We bumped along till we came to a headland. Wave after wave breaking into the distance. A 3 storeyed pink and green concrete building. The view from each floor is great but the roof terrace is impressive. Each floor has a group of local people sitting and talking and drinking. The music is blaring. A mix of hip hop and sentimental tex mex. We sit indoors because it is too windy outside for eating. A few women get up to dance to the hip hop. I am envious of their incredibly loose hips.

Mama Lola comes in at the end of our meal. She is a big woman wearing a dreads wig and a big bold smock with leggings. She sits with us and tells us her story. No prompting is required. She is Ecuadorean, 62 years old and has been living in the US for many years. Her first husband, an American Bahai missionary brought her back to Detroit. Her second husband came down to Nicaragua and bought the land where she has since built her hotel /bar/restaurant over a period of 6 years. Now she wants to sell it. Her husband doesn´t want to come back after several rough dealings with some locals. So she comes and goes. Detroit, Ecuador, Corn Island She is very friendly and effusive. I do notice a facial tic. What is behind the friendly face? We say good bye and take a taxi back to our hotels. I am right on a rocky shore beside a little sand beach. The wind blows all night.

leaving little corn

12/02/28

Fourteen days on the beach. Fourteen days of Little Corn. Reading. Walking. Swimming. Fetching drinking water from the fancy restaurant up the road. Talking with the hotel staff. Talking with the other travellers. Turquoise water. Blue blue skies. Occasional rain. Mainly sun. Thousands of stars. Good trade wind. White sand. Coconut palms. So hard to leave. I will return.

the drug dealer

12/02/28

The drug dealer shows up mid morning. I figure he is the local dealer because he is carrying a fanny pack and a little attache case. No one here carries a fanny pack and an attache case. Plus the local stoner runs over to him and they go into a little huddle. What impresses me about Mr. Pusher is not his gold teeth or good chain but the tee shirt with a grinning skull that says: SMOKE TILL DEATH. He shows me a one ounce baggy of very strong smelling grass. 1000 cordobas. $44. I ask him to let me take a photo of him but he declines.

Church

12/02/26

Today I went to church. A friend invited me to go along. Sure, I said. We met a couple of other women and started off. On the way, a few more joined us and we became a raucous group. Then we waited outside Colour Vista Restaurant for the owner, Talesa, to come out. She came out serene and majestic. I felt embarrassed for our noisy chatter. Some people fell away before we reached.

The church was in a big pink building. A stage in front with a drum set on it and many wooden benches facing it. There was no one bu a man sitting in the front row. Over the next few minutes, the hall started to bill. The man went on the stage and began to play on an electric keyboard. Talesa went up and with a microphone in hand, began to sing. The songs started slowly but then picked up speed. We were all standing. Some women began moving towards the front, hands raised. People clapping and singing and swaying. And then it was over. The man put down his keyboard and began to preach the sermon. He started with the kingdom of heaven is not in the future but in us here and now. Good, I thought. Then he started onto heaven and hell and the sins of homosexuality and it was time to go.

William

12/02/24

William tells me that he just started work at the hotel last week. He says that he works from 6 am till 5 pm 7 days a week with a day off every 2 weeks. He rakes the beach of the daily seaweed. He rakes the grounds. He carts everything to the back with the wheelbarrow. He goes back and forth to the village with the wheelbarrow, carrying bags of laundry, supplies, cases of beer. Most of the way it is a flat path but there is a steep hill that he must negotiate up and down. Last year, there was only a dirt path which got regularly washed out in the rain. Now there is a cement path reaching down to the beach. Steps in the middle and ramps on either side to accomodate the back wheels of the wheelbarrows. It is pretty steep.

I meet him on the path today. How many times has he been today, I ask. He says 25 times. He tells me he makes 1000 cordobas a month. $44. He gets his meals and a place to stay. S tells me this is impossible. Minimum wage is 3500 cordobas. $154 Still....

departures

12/02/23

T and D left this morning. I set the alarm for 5.20. It was just barely light when we walked out 10 minutes later but by the time we reached the dock around the other side of the island, a 20 minute walk, the sun was up and bright. A few people were already sitting on the wharf. More arrived soon after with wheelbarrows loaded with bags and suitcases. We had been told to get there by 6. There is only 1 boat in the morning and once it fills, it goes. Nonetheless, the boat only arrived at 6.30, loaded up quickly and was gone in 10 minutes. T and D managed to get seats in the back. They waved to me and off they went. Now after a week of their presence, it will take a little moment to readjust to my quieter rhythm.

It was a great visit. We met in Masaya at the hotel. A knock on my door and there they were. The next morning we took a taxi to the Managua airport. We wandered into the almost empty International Departure area but were redirected to the National flights. There was already a long queue even though the plane was not due to leave for another 2 hours. The line was not moving. Eventually check-in began. Very complicated, it seemed. Many people were carrying overweight bags and the sole clerk was not rushed. People started crowding in behind us and the queue snaked off to the left. D ran around and between the groups of people. An hour later, we were passed through to the waiting area. My full bottle of water was ignored by the check-in crew. We sat down to wait. And wait . And wait.

There seemed to be some problem with loading the luggage. Attendants leaned up against the propeller plane. Which side does which bag go?. An hour and a half after our scheduled departure, we finally left.

When we landed, it was the same sort of thing. It easily took an hour before our bags were fully unloaded. Our passports were inspected. Then there was a mad rush for bags and to the taxis whose drivers were patiently waiting outside. To the dock. Again, the passports. A dock fee. When we finally get to the small boat, it is crammed full. It is also getting later by the minute. Another boat is brought alongside and we cross from the first to the second. Our bags are carried across and packed somewhere. We are the last to board and are in the front row of seats beside some French tourists. Finally we are off. It is after 5. The water is very choppy and the front of the boat starts to slap the waves with great force. D gets frightened and begins to wail. He wails all the way across - "I dont like this!"

It is dark when we arrive. Our bags are the last to emerge and we are the last to leave the dock. The wheelbarrow transport has left. D is very glad to be on dry land and races ahead. I hadnt thought to leave out my flashlight and stop to hunt for it. Luckily at that moment another group arrives with lights and we follow them onto the beach.

I have made reservations at Elsas but as I feared, she has not honoured them and her place is full. I am shown a small bare room with a double bed and told this is all that is available for the night. All 3 of us to sleep here. D is playing in the sand and refuses to move. T is waiting somewhere behind with the bags. A moment of worry but I am too tired to panic. Then a room with 3 beds at a 3rd place is available and we happily move in. We stay the whole week. It is a dark and sandy room and there is no electricity on the island from 5 am to 3 pm. But there is a hammac and chairs on the little porch. A parrot that adopts us. Very friendly staff and guests. The beach in front of our door. We eat at different restaurants, we play in the turquoise water. We turn red and brown. We hunt for crabs. A good week.

Now they have gone. I will stay another week. Then I will take the ferry. The day ferry. No more night ferries for me on the Atlantic with rainstorms and no electricity, thank you very much.

After a good dose of ocean, I will head south to the Rio San Juan on the border of Costa Rica

postscript- One of the hotel owners was on the boat. He reports to me that D did not cry at all on the trip over and that they were able to catch an earlier flight out. Yay!

Puccini in Leon

12/02/12

They have been preparing for days. The entrance to the Basilica is surrounded by big cameras. Are they making a movie? After a day of watching more equipment amass, I ask a policeman who is lounging against his car, what is going on. Opera, he says, at 7 tonight. A free performance.

At 7, a new friend and I go down to the Central Park. There are many plastic chairs set up in front of the cathedral. They are all taken. The square behind is filled with people, vendors, small carnival rides. My friend is hungry so we go behind the cathedral to eat from the barbeque vendors.

We wander back to the square. Nothing happening yet. We sit on a park bench to talk and soak up the festive atmosphere. At 8, after a few speeches from local authorities and then the Italian producer, we all stand for the Nicaraguan and very lengthy Italian national anthem. Finally the opera begins. It is the Rustic Cavalier by Puccini. Spanish subtitles are on the big screen hidden behind the scaffolding holding more people with cameras. The orchestra in front of the stage stands to bow then the music begins. The opening piece is a crowd scene with many comings and goings on the stage. I normally love Puccini but am too far back to appreciate the music or follow the story. We stay to hear the beginning of the first solo then wander off to get ice cream.

leon

12/02/11

I love Leon! It is as hot as Hades here but it is so alive! Beautiful churches. Friendly people. Interesting museums. A great big clean market. After visiting the Museum of Legends and Myths in the old prison and then, the old home of Ruben Dario, Nicaragua's beloved poet, I load up on fruit and vegetables at the mercado and walk up the narrow sidewalks to my hotel, avoiding the sun as much as possible.

A young boy accosts me on the street, asking me to buy some of his tortillas. I had no plans to buy tortillas but he is so earnest that I can't resist . He wants to sell me 12 for 10 cordobas. What will I do with 12 tortillas? They are boring enough when they are hot. Cold, they are like chewing humid paper. I give him 5 C for 5 tortillas. As it is, that is too much. These are big tortillas. So I stop at a house and buy fresh cheese and make a little lunch in the park before I move on.

It is interesting to consider why people choose to live in extreme conditions. Montreal has such a cold winter and yet there we are. And here, it is hot all the time and people seem happy enough to be here. I guess the word choose is a bit grand. Most people don't get a choice.

heat

12/02/10

I will not complain about the heat. However, I must state the fact that it is very hot here in this northwestern corner of Nicaragua. It must be in the mid 30s most of the day. I am now in Leon which has the reputation for being the hottest city in Nicaragua. It also has the reputation for lots of churches, museums and universities. So I am here for culture after 3 days on the beach where the sand was burning my feet through my sandals at 9 am.

playa jiquililo

12/02/07

Finally, a chicken bus. I had no choice. It is the onlty bus heading to Playa Jiquililo. I am waiting in the little market and slowly collect food and water for the trip. There appear to be only 3 of us waiting but when the bus appears, it fills very quickly. Just before the bus leaves, a young boy appears and asks me if the seat next to me is taken. He then call to his mother (grandmother?) who arrives with a a white plastic bag filled with raw meat which she puts on the floor in front of her. I have given her the window seat to avoid the sun. He then passes her a huge plastic bag which she holds on her lap. She opens it and gives him little plastic purses, hairbands, plastic combs to sell. He does a few turns up and down the aisles. The aisles are swarming with vendors selling food, drinks, batteries, razors, watches, q-tips, etc. He returns, gives her his earnings and she gives him a stack of DVDs. He goes off again. Each time he returns, he asks me for something. Give me your watch. Give me your water. He is not begging. He is demanding. Finally the sales are over. He squeezes past me and takes his place by the window.

Playa Jiquililo is on a peninsula in the far northwest of Nicaragua. The beach stretches for miles. It is very undeveloped. The countryside is arid and dusty. I see many citrus trees. They look dead - all dry wood and thorns. But there is fruit hanging on the branches.

The bus drops me off at my hotel: Rancho Tranquilo. I don't know what to expect. What I do find is a budget resort owned and run by an American from San Francisco. She is very talkative and introduces me to everyone there. I have my own bungalow - a well built cabin with a very high thatch roof and cement floor. A sagging double bed with a mosquito net. Lights and a fan. But alas, I have to share the bathroom. No ensuites here. We are right on the beach. The food is vegetarian. Tina, the owner says she wants no meat on her property. She is a woman in her late 40s. She smokes constantly and smells of alcohol. She tells me she is an extrovert but that her boyfriend is overwhelmed by many people so he is building them a house further away. She tells me he was a Navy "Seal". He looks like a musician who could play for the Grateful Dead. He has a full long and straight grey beard.

Meals are by vote. You put your choice on the white board and the most voted for choice gets served. So I am not sure what I am having for supper.

the middlewoman

12/02/06

I meet Carla on the minibus from Choluteca to the Nicaraguan border. She is sitting behind me and is heading to the same town as I am. She takes me under her wing and I let her guide me though customs, changing money and buses.

Carla is 29 years old. She is not tall but is very round.. She tells me she has 3 children and pays someone to look after them as both she and her husband work. She crosses the border 7 days a week to go to the Honduran capital to buy cases of apples and grapes. She has bought 6 crates of apples this time. The fruit is coming from the US. The Nicaraguan government imposes a very high import tax so she goes daily to Honduras to bring them in herself. She pays the border guards to look the other way. She has a connection in Managua that she sells to. She sends them on, in the bus. I notice another woman with boxes of canned juice. A man has some cases of soda. Carla has been doing this for 3 years now. She hopes to continue. The money goes toward home improvement, she says.

When I come back from the beach 3 days later, I meet Carla in the bus station heading back to Honduras yet again.

hotels

12/02/06

I don´t expect much for $13 for a room. A fair enough bed and a private bathroom. No bedbugs. Hot water would be nice but not necessary. In Copan, the room was so cute: A firm bed. A shower with hot water. A ceiling fan. A view out on the mountains. And a rooftop terrace with hammocks and kitchen included. In Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras, I expected less. Nonetheless, a quiet room overlooking a courtyard back from the street,. A ceiling fan. A big bathroom but no hot water even though the friendly receptionist said there would be. And both had TVs.

Today I arrived in Nicaragua. Again, I looked in the guidebook and chose one near the Central Park. The guidebook did note that the rooms were bit grungy. When I arrive with the bicycle taxi, the driver had to ring and ring before the dueño finally appeared. He had been sleeping and looked drunk. He sent me upstairs to look. The rooms were beyond grungy. The sheets had not been changed. The curtains were dirty. He was asking $15 for this. I left in a hurry. After a few more trials, I settled for the Hotel Glomar, not in the guidebook. A room in the back corner with a window high up in the bathroom reflecting into the room.The walls painted a bright green. A TV. After sorting out money, tickets and food in the town, I came back to the hotel. I am so grateful for the fan as the room is very hot. Then the power went out. Luckily after 10 minutes, it came on again. Now in the distance a very loud music is playing. The bass is very insistent. But the fan is working. Price? $8.50. Tomorrow I am going to the beach.

San Pedro Sula

12/02/05

It is 7 am. I am sitting in the bus heading to San Pedro Sula. I was thinking to leave yesterday morning but I woke up from a dream about death. Someone was trying to convince someone (me?) to commit suicide. At the last moment, I rebelled and refused. I got very angry and physically fought back. When I awoke, it was dark and I was in no mood to go. This morning, at 5:50 the alarm went off and I got up, bright and easy.

I just remembered that today is the anniversary of my mother´s death 50 years ago. She was 47. From where I sit, it seems so young. As I take a moment to think about her, the bus starts to move.

carbs at comedor mary

12/02/01

I am sitting in a popular local restaurant. It even received a World Bank grant. I ordered the vegetarian plate. Salad and rice and vegetables. Can´t go wrong. The plate actually consisted of a broiled potato, 2 pieces of avocado, fried rice and a pasta salad which did contain some diced carrots and green beans. And small pieces of ham. And 3 hot tortillas on the side. In Jane Fonda´s new book, Prime Time, she remarks on an improved sense of humour after 50. It is true. I smiled inwardly and removed the ham.

Copan is a pretty little town. All cobblestones. Very touristy. I moved today and am finally staying in a sweet little room looking out on the mountains. Above me on the roof, there is a sheltered area with 2 hammocks, some tables and chairs and a compact little kitchen available for guests. So far, I am here alone this evening. Earlier an American showed up with a gaggle of young children. She offered them all homemade popsicles. They gave me a green one which was quite awful. Now it is night. I have eaten my supper and am hanging in a hammock.The children in the street have gone for supper. It is quiet for the moment. The sky is dark wiht no stars. It did not rain today. Nor did the sun shine. I imagine that with either distance or time passing, it will shine again.

Heading to Honduras

12/02/01

It rained hard during the night and the sky is threatening this morning. I wait in the bus station. A man comes over to say hello. I had spoken to him at the Guatemala bus station. It appears that he is a bus inspector and travels throughout the country. He was in Puerto Barrios last night and is heading back to the capital tonight. He is tall for a Guatemalan and has a gold-toothed smile. He tells me that the rain is unusual for this time of year and that even in the capital, there has been rain. A cold front, he says.

The bus arrives a few minutes late. I had been told it was a 4 1/2 hour journey. The guard in the station says 5 1/2 hours. The conductor says 6.

We are driving out of the rain. I can see some blue sky. The landscape is beautfiful. Green hills spotted with banana plants, palms and fruit trees. Terraced farms. Grazing cows. At each village we stop, the vendors pile on. I have 3 1/2 pesos burning a hole in my pocket. I can´t change coins at the border so am trying to get rid of them. The cut fruit costs more so I buy a pink ice cream with some red sauce on top. The sellers of magic potions have arrived. One pill that cures stomach, liver and kidney problems, bad breath, lines under the eyes. I would love to check out the ingredients but don´t want to the the man hope of a sale.

The terrain has shifted. Mountains in the distance. Brown and dark green. I am semi-dozing when the bus arrives in Chiquimila. It stops briefly at the station and then again and again at brief reprieves. Then everyone is getting out. The conductor tells me there is something wrong with the bus but I suspect that it is more a matter of saving on gas. There are perhaps 6 people left in the bus. We are transferring to a minibus. More people pile in. My suitcase is taken from its nice dry and safe spot inside to the top of this minivan. We meander into every little village picking up, dropping off. Standing room only. The sky is threatening again. At one stop, I ask to bring my bag inside. The conductor is not pleased but he accedes. We get to the border finally. It is 4 :20. Over 7 hours of travel. Luckily the border crossing is simple. The minivan on the other side leaves soon after and it is a short ride to Copan Ruinas.

aguas calientes

12/01/31

I left Hotel Kangourou this morning. (I will miss the comfortable bed.) Gary, the Aussie owner, had given me detailed instructions on how to get to the waterfall and then on to the canyon. The colectivo dropped me at the entrance and I walked in. A man met met and I paid the entrance fee then I walked along the path. A young couple who had come over on the boat from the hotel with me were just coming back. He had tried to climb up the muddy cliff and had lost a rubber thong to the current below. He was now walking barefoot.

The guide, an Indian who told me with great pride that he is 60, took me down to the water´s edge. Across the way - a beautiful waterfall. I showed him how to use my camera and asked him to take a few photos of me in the water. He showed me where I could climb to get to the "sauna" but it looked too slippery to do alone. I made my way over the rocks into the water. Cold. I swam over to the wateralls. Pockets of warm water as I approached. Treading water under the falls - it was definitely hot water cascading over me.

When I came out, I looked at the pictures he had taken. There I am - a tiny figure in the water. I asked him to turn away while I changed. A few minutes later, more tourists started coming. Time to go.

The canyon was further down the main road. I did not have long to wait for the bus. Again, I got dropped off on the side of the road. Some boys were waiting on bicycles. They brought me down to the river and we negotiated a price. A young boy, aged 13 he said, paddled me thru a beautiful canyon with trees and rocks towering above us, the water a muddy brown. We got to a series of boulders. He said it was too dangerous to go further. There were rapids ahead. It started to rain and we retraced our steps.

livingston

12/01/30

I was not planning to go to Livingston today. After a rainless night, there was this deluge at 6 am. Very intense on my tin roof. I woke with a mild sore throat and thought to pass a quiet day listening to the birds. But suddenly at 9, the sun appeared. The workers in back looked like they would be seriously digging and talking all day. So at 9:15 I asked if there was room for me on the boat and at 9:30 got on. There was barely room fo me. But we moored near another boat and 3 people transfered over. The sun disapppeared and clouds amassed. The rain started to fall and people pulled out their rainjacket and ponchos. Rio Dulce widens into a big lake called la Golfete and we sped across it in the wind and water. After a while, the sky lightened and finally we were able to remove our raingear. The river narrowed again and we stopped at a dock called Aguas Calientes. By the dock, a pool of water. The other boat had already arrived and there were some young tourists soaking in the warm sulferous water. 3 of us followed a guide up stone stairs towards a cave. He gave us solar flashlights and guided us into a narrow opening. Water dripped from the ceiling. He pointed out stalactites and stalagmites. We went in only a certain distance. The access was quite narrow in places and demanded bending and twisting. I came out muddly and happy.

Livingston was an hour further on. Populated by Garifuna people, it feels very Caribbean. On the dock, the grizzled black men spoke English and asked if any one was headed to Belize. Punta Gorda, Belize is 45 minutes away by boat. Livingston is accessible by boat only. No roads reach here.

We stayed long enough to eat lunch and wander the streets and then we headed back to the boat for our return. The boat filled with people coming from Belize. The sun continued to shine and back we came.

a deluge of rain

12/01/29

It rained all night and all this morning. Finally, late morning after the thunder and lightening that was a little closer than I would have liked, wrapped in plastic, I came to Hotel Kangourou. The rain did not let up until after my arrival. My little bungalow was flooded near the door. and the young worker wiped it down. The room is dark with wooden slats on the windows - newly built with an alcove for the shower and toilet. The are asking $30 for this and I think it is overpriced. The hotel is on the river about 7 minutes by boat from Rio Dulce. I had envisioned quiet little private bungalows away from the main restaurant as in Thailand. It is rather a wooden dock with little rooms built around an open bar (which thankfully is not open). In front is the main building with the dorms upstairs and the restaurant below. I am sitting on the dock where the boats are moored. Across the way, and on my right are other docks. A few noisy sailors have just left in their boat. The owner, an Australian married to a Mexican woman, has just gone with them. I did have a hesitation in coming here because of the Aussie connection. The stereotype of loud, brash, friendly and hard drinking. He appears to fit the type. But it was cheaper than the one I was interested in by $15. He turns out to be a sincere guy, very ready with tourist info.

trying to get to rio dulce

12/01/28

Ah yes. Traveling in Guatemala. I had forgotten. I had thought that in taking a shuttle, I would avoid the inconvenience of the local "chicken" buses. Leave San Pedro at 8. Transfer in Antigua to another shuttle to Guate city. A "Pullman" bus at 2 to Rio Dulce. Sounded good.

The shuttle didn´t show up till 8:30. Then we detoured to San Marcos to pick up a big group of foreigners (here to build stoves for a week) We leave San Marcos at 9:30. There are now 2 shuttle buses filled to the brim, It is a very slow climb up the long hill. I can hear the motor straining. I ask the driver - will I make my connection? He assures me that there is a later bus at 2:30 if I miss mine. Great. We get to the top of the hill. We stop at a gas station. Everyone piles out to pee and stretch. Then we pile back in. But then, the driver cuts the motor. We pile back out again. It is the other bus. Something with the brakes. The clutch? The driver tightens one of our wheels. He starts the motor. We drive a little and then circle back. There is still a problem. It is 11 pm. We are nowhere near Antigua. Hmm....

Chapter 2

We actually did get to the juncion at 1 pm. A shuttle was waiting for the 4 of us transferring to Guatemala City. The girl sitting behind me has an international flight leaving at 3. The driver drops her at the airport just before 2 and gets me to the bus station for 2:10 There is no bus scheduled for 2. Nor for 2:30. The last one left at 1.The next one is at 4:30. Darn. I really don´t like travelling these roads at night. The driver buys me a ticket and shakes my hand.

Across the street, the girl is selling different fried meats. I ask her for something without meat. She stares at me. I cross the street. A senora is selling tamales and cakes in her store. All her tamales have meat. I say: all I want is frijoles (beans) She laughs and sends me back across the street. This time, I specifically ask for beans and rice and tortillas. I am given a full plate. I ask for seconds of beans. I am very very hungry. Now back to the station to wait.


Chapter 3

The bus left on time at 4:30. It was 1/2 full, dropping off and picking passengers along the way. Traffic was bad most of the way. And yet, I am peaceful. So many things to be grateful for: I am grateful that they did not put on any movies or music videos. (The TV screet is just in front of me.) I am grateful that I don´t have to pee. I am grateful that I am not in pain after all these hours of sitting, I am grateful that I am hot. I am grateful that i am comfortable. I am grateful that I am safe. I read until the light went and then listened to music on shuffle on my Ipod.

We arrived at 10:30 pm. In the rain. As I came off the bus onto the main street, a man said quietly: "do you need a hotel?" and led me across the street. It rained all night. The mattress was terrible. I had to find a place between the springs. The disco bar blared in the distance. A sheet on the bed. A fan on the ceiling. I am finally in the tropics.

San pedro 3

12/01/26

Poor San Pedro. Many years ago, it was a small self contained village of Mayan Indians. And slowly the invasion of foreigners began. When I was here 8 years ago, it was still a small village with a discrete section catering to a back packer crowd: bars, hotels, restaurants, juice kiosks, all crowded in one or 2 winding dirt paths. The local people very reserved - almost unfriendly. Ada reminds me that I said I would never come back because of the unfriendly people.

Now the tourist section has expanded. A big wide street near the lake plus all the winding trails. More hotels, more restaurants. Art galleries. Language schools. People selling their jewellery and handicrafts on tables on the street. ATM machines. (that don´t work) Tuktuks abound. The lake is still there down below, ringed by volcanoes. But the focus is here on the street. Buy. Buy. Buy. And the local people are definitely unfriendly. (understandibly so)

My hotel is a case in point. It is one of the original ones, The housekeeper tells me that she has been working here for 20 years. The workers smile and greet me when I initiate a greeting but there is a definite hostility.

We come with our obvious richesse, our "cool" clothing, our tablets and ipods, our fancy luggage, whether it is an upscale backpack or suitcase,. We hope to be well received and taken care of because we think we are boosting the local economy and are of value. There are people that come here annually or stay here full time. But have we really helped? I had a zipper changed on a cloth bag. The man charged me a dollar. My hotel bill with private bathroom is less that 5$. There are drunks on the street in the day time and lots of drugs at night. The people in the market are sullen and harried. Poor San Pedro.

waiting for Ada

12/01/23

It has been a good visit so far. We have spent the last 2 afternoons together. Yesterday I gave Ada a massage at her place. And today I wait for my massage. She gave me a book on the Emotional Freedom Technique yesterday. I read it last night and tried the technique a few times. It purports to heal old emotional traumas via balancing the meridians in a sequence that lasts one minute. Simple. So easy. I would love to believe implicitly. However....

And yet, it has the approval of Candace Pert and Bruce Lipton - 2 gurus in the energy movement who both have Phds for what that is worth. And Deepak Chopra - though that may not be a great recommendation.

The sequence involves an affirmation statement while massaging a spot on the chest, a sequence of tapping meridian endings, another sequence involving eyerolling and humming and then one repeats the tapping sequence. Actually kind of fun. And for those of us hanging around eating tortilla chips on a hot day with not that much on our agenda, an interesting diversion. So it releases phobias and traumatic emotions pretty quickly, the manual says. For degenerative illnesses like arthritis, it takes persistence. Do I have persistence?

So I did the technique 3 times last night specifically for hip pain and then went to bed, I woke up as per usual a few hours later with a toothache in my hip. It feels like a mouse is chewing on my bones. I lay there trying to find a comfortable position. Nothing doing. Do I get up and get a pill? Can I just get thru the night?

I rubbed hard on some acupressure points and then amazingly, rolled onto my tummy and slept till morning. Unusual for me these days.Was it the technique? The acupressure points? Hey, if it works, I will tap, hum, roll my eyes. I can believe that my hip mouse is a result of years of negative emotions (and genetic karma and poor foot structure) Can I believe that tapping on meridians and saying I accept myself despite the pain will make the mouse go? I will believe anything that works.

san pedro 2

12/01/21

Cold at night. Hot in the day. In the early morning, I don´t want to leave my bed but now I am roasting in the shade, my legs browning in the sun.

I walked up the steep incline to the market this morning. The fruit ladies are still at the entrance. The bakery I liked is not there any more. I buy fruit, vegetables and peanuts, and a small package of smelly laundry detergent. There is something so familiar in all this. I have lived this so many times in so many places. I am in my comfort zone of travel mode.

From this veranda - I am looking straight at Volcan San Pedro. It is very green and very big. I can't believe I had the energy to climb it 8 years ago. Even then, it was a brutal climb. I ascended with a young 18 year old who was in the middle of a ¨peine d'amour¨. His girlfriend had rejected him because he was getting drunk too often. He would run ahead of me and then double back to wait and smoke a cigarette. It felt like a 60 degree incline the whole way except the top which was close to 90 degrees. Today I am happy to look at the mountain, sweat and remember.

(And did he marry the girl and have 3 children?)

san pedro la laguna

12-01-20

The last time I was here was 8 years ago. Driving in on the shuttle bus, I start to remember old landmarks. I am sitting next to an American woman who tells me there are 13,000 people living here now. Bigger than I remembered. She has been living here for 4 1/2 years. She is 76 and looks much younger. She lives on her social security pension, she says, and is involved in different local NGO projects. Beside the American is a young Chinese man who has been travelling through North America for the past 7 months. I am impressed that he took a train to Churchill Falls, Manitoba to see polar bears. He saw 6. The American sitting behind him looks either Japanese or Guatemalan. He is living part of the year in a village nearby. He and his wife work with an NGO supplying and fitting hearing aids.

It is dark when we finally get to San Pedro. The tuk tuk drivers crowd around. I get in with the American woman and she drops me off at my hotel.

I am here to visit a woman I met here 8 years ago. She is a massage therapist and has her studio at my hotel. I drop off my things and we go for supper. The temperature has dropped from hot to cold. The restaurant we choose is an outdoor garden café. We are somewhat chilled when we get up to go.

The dueña has given me a ¨very quiet¨ room. Nonetheless, it is Friday night and there is a party on the roof across the way. Earplugs are required and sleep comes easily.

Antigua - finalemente

12/01/19

It is green in Guatemala. And it is hot. Finally. To think that just yesterday afternoon I was stepping gingerly over the ice. I am sitting in a little cantina, checkered tablecloth, 4 little tables. The senora just took my order of a vegetarian plate and a fresh orange/pineapple juice. At the table in front of me, a young gringo in shorts and sandals is eating his meal, headphones in his ears. I haven´t even taken off my airplane clothes yet. I was too hungry.

It was a 2 plane event to get to Guatemala and each flight was short enough that no meal was served. Peanuts and drinks. Snack food for sale. So rather than arrive stuffed with too much food, I arrive ravenous. Customs was a non-event as was finding the shuttle bus. They found me. I gulped down a burrito at the airport cantina but it barely left a dent.

The food has arrived. A little green salad in the centre surrounded by a slab of pureéd black beans, a baked potato, 2 slices of fried plantain and a mound of guacamole. A tortilla chip sits in the guacamole and in the beans. 3 hot tortillas wrapped in a cloth. With a little hot sauce, it is heaven.

Hartsford Jackson International Airport, Atlanta

12/01/19

It may be 25 degrees Centigrade in Guatemala but it is 35 degrees Fahrenheit in Atlanta! I have an overnight layover here and so take the rail service from my gate in Concourse E to the exit. I am pleased to hear the disembodied voice announce: Concourse D - D for David. But then we pass through C for Charlie, B for Bravo and A for Alpha and I feel like I am in an American military sitcom. I have to stand outside shivering waiting for the shuttle to my hotel. It finally arrives and fills with people whose plane was delayed coming in from the Domincan Republic. They have a free voucher because they missed their connecting flights. They talk about their golf games, the food they ate and check their smart phones for messages. My room is cold and sterile but adequate. Up at 6 and here I sit waiting for the next plane. The intercom keeps reporting " an emergency in the building". And what am I supposed to do with that information?

Departures

12/01/18

I am sitting in the airport lounge. I have just eaten a Maamoul and an apple. Some things don´t change. Years of traveling at a budget and health-conscious level, I still pack snacks and ignore the airport food. At least on the way out.

And yet, I feel sleek and modern. Sure, I am wearing my old sneakers but gone are the baggy outfits. I am actually wearing pants that fit and a T-shirt that is bright and revealing rather than dark and anonymous. I must be growing up. And instead of 3 books weighing down my backpack, I actually have a Kobo ereader with 105 books on it. 100 classics preloaded - some of which are worth a read: Dostoievsky, Jane Austen, even Charles Darwin and Karl Marx. Plus the ones I put on myself. I have held off reading till this moment and even now, I hold off, instead writing in this book. What if I don´t like it? Which one do I start first?