Action! Adventure!

All too often on this trip I feel like I haven´t been ¨extreme¨ enough. When is my six day jungle trek? It´s been nearly seven months of backpacking (!), whaddayamean I haven´t rappeled down a waterfall yet or gotten a tattoo? I know I shouldn´t get down on myself but hell, you see these people´s Facebook albums... you start to question one´s commitment to ADVENTURE.

Well I got those nagging doubts covered this week. Cause I´ve been tectonically active, you could say.

Guatemala wins ´Country Most Likely To Explode´ in my book. In a country the size of Tennessee, there are no less than four active volcanos. Most entries on pueblos in my guide book include the phrase ¨due to the recent eruption¨ something something.


So we climbed up one. Check it, here´s the view at the top. Volcan Pacaya, 2,000 plus meters high and covered with live lava flows and a bunch of gringos toasting marshmallows on them. Adorable.

Right after the hike, on our shuttle to Lanquin, an English girl told us about her friends that had done the hike a few weeks prior and found themselves running back down the trail in flight from an actual eruption. File this one under excursions that US travel agencies would find disagreeably litigational.

And now we´re in Lanquin, an agricultural, hilly paradise in the country´s center. And we hung with bats in a bat cave! Las Grutas Lanquin, where there are rocks that look like curtains and mushrooms and every night when the last cadre of spelunkers leave, they turn out the lights and thousands of winged mammals flap out over your head like some silly girl´s nightmare. It was wicked.

So as you can see, I am totally extreme and there is no worry because here in Central America, the adventure train just don´t stop. Even in my stomach! See, Erik and I, having been on the road like I said earlier for nearly seven months now, were of the opinion that we had stomachs of steel. No water too contaminated, no street food too filthy. Well weren´t we in for a surprise when one evening shortly after our arrival in Guatemala we met Montezuma and his fabled revenge. My parasites have been with me for one heartwarming week now and are beginning to give me burps that taste like sulfer. Truly, these guys are my good friends now. We shared the volcano hike, we spelunked together... buena honda.

Here´s the site of my convalescence, the young adult summer camp that is El Retiro Hostal in Lanquin.
It could be worse...

Con amor,
CD (and the parasites)

Photos by Mr. Erik Anderson...

Learning About The World Around Us: Edition Guatemala

A few notes on the history of Guatemala (completly and totally swiped from the ¨Culture¨ section of my Footprint Central America guidebook), interspersed with my shots of it´s people and their miraculous textiles:

-Guatemala is comprised of two broad social/ethnic groups: ladinos, or those who speak Spanish and wear modern, ¨Western¨ clothing and the indigenos, who adhere to the tounge and customs of Mayan tradition. Indigenos make up 40%-60% of the country´s population today.

-Like in most countries on this here crazy Earth of ours, Guatemala´s indigenous population has been subject to extreme harassment and institutionalized displacement. This tradition dates back to the arrival of the Spanish in 1524, who conquistadored Mayan lands and forced the Mayans to work plots once their own and pay crop tithes to their new, belligerant neighbors. As recently as 1931, ´anti vagrancy´ laws were instituted, requiring indigenous individuals to work 150 days a year on the farm of a ¨landlord.¨

-Teacher Juan Jose Arevalo, after being elected to Guatemalan presidency in 1944, instituted new liberal institutions like an Office of Social Security and acceptance of all political parties. These were surprisingly unpopular ideas with some folks. He somehow survived 20 military coups.

-But as far as hapless liberals go, Jacobo Arbenz Guzman, takes your need-to-know-about cake. This is because Guzman, Arevalo´s successor, was the first to challenge American business megolith United Fruit Company. He did it by expropiating under-utilized land from corporations, reimbursing them for the land´s stated value and turning it over to the landless poor. Sadly for them, United Fruit had been under-reporting the value of their acres for years for tax purposes, like by a factor of twenty. Goodbye, fallow banana fields!


-Obviously, our country and proud parent of these lights of capitalism would not stand for this clear act of Commie Reds. Deciding Guatemala was no longer conducting its business in a satisfactory manner, the US opened military strikes on the country in 1954. They exiled Arbenz, the democratically elected leader of his country, and opened to door to 38 years of armed conflict between the forces of the new government and the pissed off landless poor.

-Though this may not be news to any of my readers at home, seen from the standpoint of Latin America, the United States sucks.

-Since a peace treaty was signed in 1996, Guatemala has made certain gains towards healing the wounds of a country torn by civil war. Mayans have assumed something much more in resemblence of fair representation in government. Rafael Colom, upon his most recent election as the country´s president, promised to put forth a ¨new Mayan face¨on the administration of Ecuador.

-But sadly, we´re hitting Guatemala at what would appear to be the end of tranquil political times. Following the recent murder of a politically-involved attorney, a posthumous video was played at the man´s funeral in which he claims to have been killed in relation to a client who sought to expose government corruption. In the clip, he fingers the president, his wife and staff. The bombshell has led to marches of thousands of white-clad protestors through Guatemala City, calling if not for the resignation of Colom, than at least a thorough investigation into the matter. So who knows, we may be witnessing regime change in action here.

***

In more personal news, we continue to be stuck in San Marcos after a day trip yesterday to the town of Santiago Atitlan, where the men are renowed for their kick-ass embroidered, bestriped shorts.

Check it out, this cat has a nature guide´s worth of tropical birds embroidered on his. I stared, perhaps more than strictly polite. He rocks.


Again, becoming quite a fan of Mayan style. They are brilliant social crusaders and fashionplates from since back when that word didn´t even exist. In light of this newfound obsession, I had my Mayan horoscope read the other day. I am a White Spectral Wind, which is very exciting.

Con Amor,
Your favorite White Spectral Wind,
Caitlin

San Marcos La Laguna

After four countries in a week, it was time for some R & R.

I´d heard about the yoga schools of Lake Atitlan, up in the western highlands of Guatemala, way back in November, and promised myself that if I stopped this way, I´d partake. Actually, the school my friend had told me about was Las Piramides, a residencial complex on the lake which offered ¨metaphysics¨classes and a ¨Lunar Course¨ending in a week-long fast. I believe there´s also a vow of silence involved. And you know how I fall for that crunchy, baggy-pantsed hippy wisdom.


Lake Atitlan itself is shockingly beautiful, clear and blue and unspoilt like any mountain lake worth it´s salt.

But San Marcos La Laguna, the town where Las Piramides lives, has turned out to be a destination in and of itself. It kind of reminds me of Oregon Country Fair... or maybe a gnome community. The lake-side center of town doesn´t have a single road that is passable by car. People run about their Guatemalan adventure on dirt and cobble-stone paths and we´re in the jungle, so everything is completly overrun by colorfully-flowered vines and massive tropical trees.

And there´s hippies running every which way, a total Veneta vibe. Vegetarian options on every menu, more massage and reiki studios than corner stores. Though the ´spiritual reawakening´school proved a bit heavy, even for me, I´m back doing yoga classes after a five month break and am getting back my limber glow.

But running all this tree hugging and fire dancing, it´s the Guatemalans themselves that are the most amazing part of this place. They are nice, first of all. Not a single man, woman, child or household pet has passed me on the path without a friendly ´Hola!´ (shockingly image-oriented remark to follow) And their clothes! The women, from ages 8 to t0, wear traditional Mayan outfits, all made from the colorful woven patterns this region is famous for. Short sleeved blouses tucked into floor length skirts, bound up by a sash is the standard look, each with it´s own rainbow of colors in flower and animal designs and complicated geometric shapes. It´s the most glorious clashing of hues and patterns I´ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing.

In contrast, the men and boys are in T-shirts and jeans. Sadly, the cost of a male costume- around $200 according to some sources- is prohibitively expensive for the guys to be ´fitted in traditional clothes. But culture is preserved in different ways. Families live in the same town for hundreds of years. And every local I´ve met so far still speaks the traditional Mayan language, a ¨ch¨-heavy tounge I am butchering with a meat cleaver as I try to pick up it´s ¨Thank You¨´s and ¨How Are You¨´s.

And of course, I´m already scheming on an outfit of my own. I swear, along with the other ´garb´I´ve bought, I´m going to be one of those poor souls who cross over from Tijuana sporting head-to-toe ¨I´ve been in Central America¨wear and dreadlocks. But whatever, so be it. Okay, maybe not the dreadlocks...

***

Oh and! You know how movie stars and politicians get interviewed? Well apparently dirty backpacking hippies get interviewed too! Super stoked that Chelsea Smith, who runs the Hostelling International website, thought it´d be cool to ask me questions about stuff. Hell yeah! Check it out... and this crazy Guatemalan bell flower...

http://hipostcards.wordpress.com/


Peace and Love,
CD

Miami

You can´t get much farther from Oregon than Miami without leaving the country. Its not just a distance on the map, either, but a very real gut change.

We zoomed in straight from Bogota, so you better believe there was some airport security to be encountered. Erik and I, at this point in our lives, look like some dirty hippies and that, coupled with the fact we were containing a sarong-cum-hobo-bag full of illegal South American produce, we must have been patted down at three different points in the journey by swine flu-bemasked airport officials. By the end, after three days of travel and a whole bunch of cultural profiling, we were ready for four days of Stateside R & R.


Miami kicks ass. Its hot like the tropics, to begin with. You spend most of your time zooming down freeways with water on all sides of you, giant white yachts and mansions not acessible to the average proletarian on mythic private islands.

They dig on conspicuous consumption out there. We chilled on South Beach this weekend, where I came down with a big, shiny, pleasurable case of culture shock. I have never in all my life seen so many moms with fake boobs. Or monokinis. Or their glitzy-trashy friends, the G-strings. Or designer sun dresses to (almost) cover them up with, or waxed pectorals and half-buttoned linen shirts.

We re not in Ecuador anymore. Even though theres a hell of a lot of Spanish going down.

So I dug on people watching, freaked out when restaurants had Rogue Ale on tap, ate Goldfish crackers, threw my toilet paper in the toilet (Latin America has a strict, no-foreign-objects policy) and socialized on the most pristine city beaches I´ve ever known existed. Do these people not litter?

Plus, I got to meet the coolest group of people ever- so shout out to the Erik Anderson crew, family and friends. You guys absolutely spoiled us this weekend, it was love to hang with you all. And thanks for lending me your boy for a little while.



And now we´re back kinging of the roading. Guatemala, to be exact, Antigua to be exacter. Antigua is the old, old capital of the country, until 1770-something when yet another earthquake leveled the place. All the buildings are pastel-to-bright, one story, be-patioed beauty and the streets rock the cobble stone look. It´s located in a triangle of active volcanoes- these people like to live on the edge, tectonically speaking. Basically, its gorgeous. Unfortunately, the gringos know it- there´s about one million Spanish schools here and we actually ate bagels and cream cheese for breakfast. This is not okay. So we´re making like bananas and splitting out to Lake Atitlan in about... twenty minutes. Born to ramble, ya know?

Love to you all,
your still swine flu-free friend,
Cait

Otavalo

Dipped back through Quito and headed straight for the whore house. Now don´t get any ideas. Hostal Sucre, at $5 a night for a double room, rises up above it´s filthy walls and lecherous help based on sheer financial felicity... at least for broke backpackers. Erik sat and picked at his beard in the dirty mirror on the wall opposite our bed as church bells from the Monastery of San Francisco across the street filtered in with the remnant´s of the day´s sun. I´m left to reflect on the enduring institutions of humankind.




Quito loves it´s churches as much as some love paying money for sex. Maybe more, check out the ceiling in the Catedral on the city´s stunning Plaza de Independencia.


We had only a short while in the capital on this pass through. It was a mere layover in the whirlwind of our week, in which we´ll visit four countries. We. Are. Going. To. Four. Countries. In. A. Week. Ecuador to Colombia to Miami to Guatemala. It makes me want to stockpile reading material and do spine stretches just typing about it.


There was another, regrettably short layover in Otavalo, Ecuador. High up in the mountains, Otavalo is home to the most wealthy indigenous community in all of the country. How you ask? A kickass craft market, that´s how! These people can weave. And wear a mean fedora hat. And bargain. I suck at bargaining, but then again I am a gringa, despite my ample protestations. In fact, everyone down here pegs me on the spot as a German, to my endless irritation. I think it´s the statuesque build and big round pie face.


Here´s my second favorite market in Otavalo, where you can find the sweetest, largest bananas you´ve ever tasted. I know there are very few bananas in this picture, but rest assured that entire corners of commerce revolve around sale of nature´s perfect food.

You´ll be happy to know that Ecuador, supplier of about a quarter of the world´s supply, has no less than three kinds of bananas (four if you are not judging their banana-ness on any kind of strict scale). Three kinds of bananas! you say, and yes, to some that may seem excessive. But once you have sampled your standard issue yellow guineo, the tiny baby deditos and the sweet, stalky red banana, then you will most certainly change your feelings on the matter. For those who tend to the more savory end of the banana-scale, we have you covered as well, for here there grow in abundance beloved platanos, or plantains, which I like to fry and smash and fry again and eat with large amounts of salt and salsa picante.

Oh and! There´s a fruit called a taxo that I´ve been blowing up my recent correspondence about that is a cross between a banana and a passion fruit. Small and yellow and filled with sachets of orange, juicy outrageousness. If that´s not worth a trip to South America I don´t know what is.

Back in Bogota for a hot minute, my most favorite city of this whole gypsy caravan of a trip, after a twenty-hour bus ride that somehow morphed into thrity one hours. Ouch. I have a bone to pick with an overturned tractor trailer, lemme tell ya.

And we´re re-entering the United States today! I´m hoping to get a first hand perspective on the economic meltdown, which I hear has college graduates begging in the street and working in the service industry? Horrors. Wish me luck with the culture shock, vale?

Earnestly ducking swine flu, I´m yours,

CD

Canoa

Taking it easy in Canoa. Hammock, big fruity juices, bodysurfing.

This town is nice, the kind of nice that makes me unpack my backpack completly and start pumping restaurant owners about job opportunities. I hear it´s been in the 40´s for the past couple weeks in Portland, so for my web-footed friends up in the Pac NW, suck in the ambient warmth from the next couple paragraphs.

Canoa is on the central coast of Ecuador, with access roads of such low quality that it has managed to escape the tidal waves of gringos plaguing the rest of the country. I mean, there´s tourists out here but the first hostel didn´t open until five years ago. Before that there was only the guys and their fishing boats, rolling out every morning on big logs to the water´s edge to bring in the day´s mariscos and cebiche.

We´ve been hanging for the most part, taking up hammock space in one of the dozen beach bars (read: rasta-colored cerveza and pizza shacks) lining the town ¨boulevard¨. There´s bat caves and possible blue-footed booby sightings on the beach north of town for when we´re feeling like an adventure. I´m covered in a bouquet of bug bites like I am each time I re-introduce my body to the tropics and I could care less.



We have bonfires that Erik attends to with impressive amounts of fidelity that attract bluegrass singing guitarists and flautists. There´s bizarre spikey purple shells that we´re finding on the beach that ache to be incorporated into one of my macrame bracelets.

Actually, we did have one excursion out of town in the week we´ve been here. We headed out to ¨Finca Organica (Organic Farm) Rio Muchacho.¨ Ecuador is well known as a landing spot for eco tourist, that curiously wealthy species of traveler. At Rio Muchacho you can pay obscene (by Ecuadorean standards) prices to stay in a hammock and muck around in pig feces and gray water systems 7 hours a day.

Here is an exercise bike they have hooked up to a pepper grinder. This is an idea I can get on board with.



It was a nice place to visit though. Jesse, our German guide to the farm´s workings, took us by their garden where they´re growing peanuts, passionfruit, hot peppers, pineapples, papayas, rice, beans and coffee. We sampled their harvest liberally and left with a newfound respect for the organic, sustainable system of farming. The sign below details the ground rules for a happy hippy farm. I hope you can read point 2 font.



Basically, here is the gist. Pigs poop. Pig poop drains to hole, where chickens pick through poop. Poop is set underneath guinea pig cages for refination by their mas rico poop. This is then inseminated with plant life, lots of different kinds so the poop (now called fertilizer) is best used nutritionally and rotated about year by year for the same reason. Additional vitamins are added to the soil, not the plant, which grows into food for eco tourists. Eco tourists take care of animal helpers, including Isidro the obese pig and a bevy of excitable guinea pigs. Organic farm!

***
I was really impressed by the number of you who got amped on where that $450 plane ticket is going! I feel loved. Yes, it is to the States! But not to where any of you (I think) are. We´re headed up to Guatemala in a week and a half. Due to the vagaries of our international air travel system, it was cheaper to stop through Miami than to get a direct flight from anywhere in South America. So I´ll be back in the good ´ol U S of A for four days! Total mind freak. They say Miami is the capital of Latin America, and it´s the biggest US city I´ve never been in. Slowly extending my reach around the globe, per usual.