It's Not Every Day...
In light of my adventures
around the globe, I often get asked: a) do I get tired? b) do I get strange rashes? c) do I have any outstanding warrants for my arrest? While
the answer to all three is no - so far - I do however rate my success by a very
simple phrase: "It's not every day
that you..." And
so, in my odd, little travel-motivated world, this last week has been immensely
satisfying, and here's why:
It's not every day that you float past a giant
crocodile beneath narrow cliffs that tower 1000m high
Check out the photos!
It's not every day you hear Shania Twain, the
Village People, and the Black-Eyed Peas played to death in a Salsa Club
It's not every day you see Coca-Cola offered as a
sacrifice in church, alongside very-soon-to-be deceased chickens
"Now many people
think that these people put on the rituals for the tourists, but I can assure
you, I have witnessed these rituals many times in my life, and it is
authentic," continues Cesar. He is
referring to the spectacle inside the church, where local Maya are praying to
their saints, sitting on the hey-strewn floor. They have with them chickens,
alive for the moment, as well as bottles of Coke. Mexicans consume more Coke and Pepsi than any other nation
outside the US, and in some groups Coke has become a valuable and holy offering
to the saints. This has no
doubt thrilled Coke marketing executives no end. Cesar blames bible-thumping Christian missionaries with
invading and destroying his culture,
twisting Mayan beliefs into Catholic ones. For example, some churches are adorned with symbols
like corn and coca, both holy to the Maya. "You might wonder how they managed to take a people
with thousands of gods and make them believe in just the father, son and holy
spirit?" asks Cesar. The saints
replaced the gods, a saint for every calling, and inside the church dozens of
wooden effigies line the walls as the people pray to the "saint" that speaks to
their current predicament.
Chickens are sacrificed inside the church to ward off evil and
illness. Hundreds of candles
are lit on the floor (a French tourist trips over a couple and walks on,
oblivious). Shamans chant.
Children giggle. I
could go on and on, but ultimately, I'll just leave it and say that visiting
the Mayan villages was fascinating, somewhat queasy, and a glimpse into a very
real part of Mexico that you'll won't find on the menu at your local Tex-mex
restaurant.
Check out the photos!
It's not every day you discuss the definitive list
of hot female cartoon characters.
It's not every day you get stuck on a mountain pass
inside a Guatemalan chicken bus
And yet the
Guatemalans appear to conform to that oddest of third world rules - the poorer
the country, the richer the travel.
I see kids playing soccer on dusty streets, and a touching tenderness
between parents and children on the crowded buses. Here you'll find strange
dress, customs and markets so refreshingly different from our increasingly
homogenized global urban culture.
Anarchy, surely, but like India or Laos or Albania, there is a system in
the anarchy. I see a
traditional Mayan woman, wonderfully clothed in traditional garments, her teeth
embedded with silver, speaking on her cellphone as we approach her village. As
the bus somehow edges down bumpy, narrow streets, I peer into small shops where
men and women are talking, or reading the paper (Headline: Robbers Lynched!), or looking
peacefully out the door at passing traffic. In a country where the indigenous Mayan population has
been brutally oppressed, where nature routinely wrecks havoc (last year's
hurricane caused thousands of deaths), where poverty is a way of life, I see
why so many backpackers rave about Guatemala. As Val sorted out the accommodation upon our
arrival in Xela, the bus terminal taxi drove off with his backpack inside. A half hour later, it
returned to drop it off. In
a country where the average daily income is less than $10 a day, I found that
rather admirable.
It's not every day you get to speed boat across one
of the world's most beautiful lakes, surrounded by perfect, cone-shaped
volcanoes
It's not every day that you climb a volcano with
lava spewing forth
16 November, 2006
St Cristobal to Panajachel
We're still in
Mexico, about an hour's drive from St Cristobal de las Casas, our last stop in
the Chiapas region, and the country itself. St Cristobal is one of those cobble-stoned, colonial towns
that charm the hell out of you.
You know, the green, leafy plaza, the brightly painted shops alongside
narrow streets and 16th century churches. It's big with the gringos, specifically the Europeans,
and so the town center has coffee shops and vegetarian restaurants and a sweet
knick-knack paddy whack market (to give the stray dogs a bone). All rather pleasant, but not as
exciting as say, speeding on the Rio Grande beneath massive cliffs where the
Maya Indians once hurled themselves to their deaths, rather than work as slaves
for the conquering Spanish.
Sumidero Canyon is located in a national park that houses many exciting
species of flora and fauna, which I might have seen if I wasn't gazing up all
the time. I had
however hoped to spot a "cocodrillo", for ever since I cradled a baby saltwater
croc in Malaysia I think they're kinda cute in that rip-you-to-pieces kind of
way. Esrock: not quite the
Crocodile Hunter, more like, the Crocodile Lover! So it was thrilling to float alongside a large adult,
gracefully gliding along away
from the kids swimming just a few hundred meters upriver. I'd like to regale you with
dozens of facts and figures of the region except the guide spoke only Spanish,
which was poorly translated for us by a French-Canadian kid sporting mirrored
aviator sunglasses.
Something about the Rio Grande, something about the 6th
biggest hydro-electric dam in the world, that sort of thing. Meanwhile giant pelicans, various
storks, and rat-faced buzzards were gliding in our slipstream, with the blue
sky framed by the towering limestone cliffs into a shape resembling
Africa. As the warm wind blew my
hat behind my back, I imagineded
Evel Knievel trying to leap across the canyon, and I imagined Evel Knievel
falling terribly short, plummeting 1000m, and being torn to shreds by a hungry
crocodile. What would the
croc make of the crash helmet? As
I followed this line of thinking to its illogical conclusion, the boat raced
back into the town of Chiapa de Corzo, and it was time to head back to St
Cristobal for the salsa dancing.
Check out the full video from Mexico!
Boy, was I looking
forward to Salsa dancing. A
few weeks before I left on this trip, I participated in a Salsa Bootcamp, an
intense weekend of dance lessons.
You can read about these adventures in Modern Gonzo Does the
Salsa, save to say that I was feeling well
cocky at my ability to do the basics, the Cumbria, the Cross Body Lee (which, I
later found out, is actually "cross body lead"). Of course, it all went out the window when Val - Tucan guide, Australian, up for a
pint - arranged a salsa lesson.
The instructor, who doubled as our server the previous night, spoke no
English and seemed more eager to hold the ladies than show us any instruction,
which is fair enough. By the
end of the hour, I had successfully tied Nicole into a knot, Mel into a figure
eight, Emma into spider web, and Annabelle into a fishing net. The instructor, however, had no
problem spinning them this way and that, nigh a drop of sweat on his greased
black ponytail. Later, at
the salsa club, I was looking forward to channeling my bootcamp maneuvers,
except the band quit after three songs and was replaced by a DJ with a fondness
for Shania Twain. This I
could handle, maybe, once a decade, but the previous night we had partied at a
Top 40 club and I received my recommended annual allowance of shite music. When I hear Fergie singing about her
"lovely lady lumps", I keep wondering if she's referring to her recent
mammography exam. I sat out
YMCA, as I'd heard it three times this week already and my memories of watching
Can't Stop the Music as a five-year-old were starting to rattle me. By the way, I once played the "Biker
Guy" from Village People in a school play, complete with fake mustache and
black leathers. I was only
11 years old - no wonder I'm so traumatized! "Man, I feel like a woman!" screeches Shania Twain, to
which Val responds "or two!" Music of this nature is supposed to be
experienced on only the rarest occasions (weddings, acts of torture) so to hear
it on consecutive nights sent me into the streets, where I found solace in an
electronica club full of creepy Latino hippies with odd haircuts and black
circles around their eyes.
Perhaps it's a sign that the next time someone suggests Salsa, I should
whip out the taco chips and leave dancing to the professionals.
There are 21 Mayan
villages that surround St Cristobal, and the region is a hot king-size waterbed
for the Zapatista movement that was founded to restore indigenous rights
through revolution. Roughly
13% of Mexico's population are indigenous, the descendents of the Maya, a once
powerful but brutally conquered people. Many live in poverty, worshipping a bizarre
mixture of Mayan traditions and fanatical Catholicism. On January 1st 1994, as
Mexico signed the NAFTA agreement, St Cristobal was invaded and briefly occupied by the popular
Zapatistas, until the Mexican army moved in for a hearty massacre. After a decade of volatility, including
the kidnapping of several foreign tourists, the region has finally settled down
and today tourists can visit surrounding Mayan villages, providing they stick
to the rules and respect the customs of the locals. Taking photos of a spiritual leader, for example, will
quickly lead to the confiscation of film or smart card. So will photos of any rituals. And snapping the locals is not always a
sure bet, because most believe you're capturing their soul. I discovered all of this when I
went to check out two villages, Chamula and Zinacantan. There has been some controversy
over a "zoo" situation, whereby tourists take pictures of the locals as if they
were some kind of backward primates. I felt this, once, on a Soweto tour in South
Africa. We were led into a
small, ramshackle tin shack in a shantytown, where a man and his ragtag family
carried about their sad, miserable day.
All it lacked was cage, yet the argument goes that tours bring in much
needed income for the desperate.
As our very respectful, pint-sized guide Cesar walked us around the
village, explaining Mayan customs and history, I got the feeling that I was in some
place I really didn't belong. When we arrived at the local market, dozens of
dirt-caked kids demanded pesos, aggressively selling bracelets and gunk to the
tour groups. Cesar looked on
with a look of resignation and pity.
"We ask you not to buy from the children, as they learn that foreigners
give them money and so they do not go to school," he says. He tells us about the Mongolian
Spot - a small birthmark on the lower back of Mayans that is linked to a
similar birthmark found on Mongolians.
This is used as proof that the Maya came from Central Asia, although the
whens and wheres still remain bitterly contested amongst academics. Meanwhile, church bells toll above the
church, the start of a holy ritual (not unlike an announcement for a bird show
at the zoo). If my absolute ideal
is to discover a new culture through the warm introduction of a local, and my
absolute worst is being trapped on a large bus with overweight tourists
carrying overweight cameras, then this sincere little day trip in a local collectivo mini-bus with Cesar was somewhere in the
middle.
Check out the full video from Mexico!
Inspired on cheap cervesa, by popular vote, but in no particular order:
And so, after a one
last night drinking Sol and walking amongst St Cristobal's narrow streets, it
was hasta lauego to Mexico and buenos
dias Guatemala! After decades of
civil war, the country is slowly getting back on its feet, the way one might
after receiving a heavy blow to the head. According to Amnesty International, 1.5% of the
population occupy 75% of the land, and 77% of all households are considered
poor (93% considered extremely poor).
The government is notoriously corrupt, crime is rampant, the wealthy few
live in armed compounds, and the country's pollution policy is seemingly not to
have one. We crossed
the border, changed some money for the local quetzal, the flaked dirty bills
seemingly manufactured from colored dandruff. The chicken bus, the country's main source of
transportation, pulled off before we got on it, sped up while we threw
ourselves on board, and then promptly stopped 100m up the road for a half
hour. The legendary chicken
buses, so called because you might be sitting next to one, are old US and
Canadian school buses, painted in glorious colours with slogans like "God Loves
You", "Jesus Saves" and other prayers you'll need if you're to have any hope of
surviving one. Just a
few weeks ago, another Guatemalan bus went off the edge, killing 42 people, and
road accidents of this nature are frighteningly common. If the seat sits two comfortably,
the Guatemalans, bless them, will squeeze in five to ensure everyone is utterly
familiar with each other's body odour.
The ride can last anywhere from a few minutes to eternity, depending on
road works, God, and the skills/intuition of the drivers. The buses fart all manner of
noxious gases; the engines grind hard, brakes bite as drivers feel religiously
compelled to take hairpin corners at 110 miles and hour. Fortunately, passengers don't get
slammed from side to side because they're packed in so tight they can't feel
the turns at all. Locals
didn't bat an eyelid at the gringos on board, listening to their iPods, most
likely a playlist entitled: Music
to Hear Before I Die.
I loved every second of it - which is an absolute lie but something a
seasoned traveller is supposed to write. The five-hour chicken bus turned into
eight hours - one full day of work - but at least I could look out at the beautiful steep mountain
passes, representing a painful, fiery death by just several inches. My knees were getting raw from rubbing
the metal back of the seat in front (Guatemalans, like school children, are
short, and the seating reflects this accordingly). My butt was vibrating with the engine (last service:
Brantford, Ontario, 1973) and still, somehow, heavy trucks would overtake and blow thick black exhaust
into our open windows as they did so.
After a night to recover in a small town called Xela, where I drank
good, cheap wine and chatted up some German home-stay students, it was back on
the bus for a simple 2-hour chicken bus to the incredible beauty of Lake
Atitlan. Six hours later,
we're still on the bus. The
mountain pass is being repaired, leading to an hour-long delay. Finally, we drive a few hundred meters, before we stop for
another hour-long delay. As
charming as these chicken buses are, as colorful as their paint, as praiseworthy
their God-fearing slogans, two days on one is enough for a lifetime. Incidentally, I only saw one
chicken, on the roof with our backpacks, and no, this wasn't my "worse ever bus
ride". That honour is reserved for
my Albanian horror story, which also
featured chickens - namely our antique bus playing chicken with speeding
18-foot trucks over 3ft potholes on a highway lined with the corpses of wrecked
vehicles. Oh, that was fun. And yet...
Lake Atitlan is a
postcard - the water clear, the traditional villages that rise up the steep
sides of its surrounding mountains ready to pose as centerfolds in travel
magazines. The Sunset Cafˇ
might have been full of gringos, but the music was perfect (Latin chillout),
the marguerites fresh, the food delicious, the company light, and the view
stunning. It was impossible
not to feel the magic in the place, an unmistakable buzz of somewhere
beautiful. On a
speedboat, we had motored across the lake to explore the town of Santiago
(sight of the worst tragedy during last year's hurricane, when 2000 families
lost their lives in a mudslide), and the backpacker village of San Pedro. The locally grown coffee is as
thick and rich as chocolate, the markets cluttered with hippie-gear. Lake Atitlan has been popular
amongst gringos for decades (we have an awesome breakfast at a Norwegian owned
hillside hotel) and while some of the locals are annoyingly persistent to
peddle their wares, others smile and simply welcome. My two favourite all-time travel sensations: Zooting by scooter (without a helmet)
amongst ride paddies and coconut trees, and standing up front on a boat,
speeding across a beautiful lake, warm air through my hair and fingers. With three volcanoes
piercing the cloudy sky, there was no better place for the latter than Lake
Atitlan.
Well, I did have
that day last year in Chile, but for this day you're going to have to wait
until next week because I'm only climbing Pacaya in a few hours. Our group of
14 has continued to gel, taking each challenge in stride (six went down to
gastro in the last 48 hours!), the laughs plentiful. Fortunately I'm not bunking with Stuart tonight
because that bastard can snore up an earthquake and last night I didn't sleep a
wink. So I am a little tired, but
after another great week on the road, I'm pleased to report there are still no
rashes, and still no arrests.
Pousada Los Bucaros
Antigua, Guatemala