using my inside voice

Day 122 - 124: Part 2 - An Island of My Own

Mexican Travel | October 15, 2009

I wallowed in our private room for an hour or so after Luke left, crying in between naps, before I moved all our luggage into an 8-bed dorm. And boy, was the dorm dreary. I quickly changed into swimmers and headed to the beach, preferring the sand and sun to an empty white room filled with bunks.

I cried, and swam, cried and swam some more, hoping the sea water would mingle with the tears and disguise their presence. I looked out at the ridiculously blue ocean and marvelled at feeling so sad in such a glorious setting. I took a perverse sort of pleasure in the notion, imagining myself a heart-broken heroine in a Mills & Boon novel. But after a couple of hours it wore thin and I headed back to the hostel.

Two Israeli boys had moved into my dorm before I'd left for the beach and I returned to find them both sleeping in their underpants and nothing else, oblivious to my entrance and snoring to their heart's content. Their previous night at Cancun's famous Coco Bongo had obviously been too much.

I tiptoed around their barely-clad bodies, showered, changed, and escaped as soon as humanely possible.

The rest of the day is a bit of a blur, but somewhere along the way I met Julia, a German girl traveling with her sister. The two girls turned out to be my saviours, and provided much company and distraction for the next two days. I spent that night with them, eating dinner, then having a take-out mojito on the beach, but went to bed early when they decided to head to a nearby bar.

I slept fitfully with smelly boys surrounding me, aware of their breathing, small movements and general presence. To me it seems quite intimate to sleep in the same room as other people, since you are really in a most vulnerable state once your surrender to the land of nod.

This feeling was exacerbated by the fact that I was the only female among 5 boys.

At 5.30am I was woken by the sound of Spanish pop-music blaring from a computer. Obviously, listening to music was helping someone go to sleep, but it certainly wasn't helping me. Honestly, who plays music in a dorm room at 5.30am? I was close to saying something, but was praying one of the others would do the job for me. When no-one spoke up, I decided to let it slide - confrontation mid-sleep is not my idea of a pleasant situation.

Also, I'm pretty sure the guy playing music was the hostel's resident drug dealer. There was an overwhelming smell of pot smoke pervading the room every time he entered, and he kept popping in and out all night, rustling with things in his locker and crackling plastic bags. I'm almost 100% certain I heard the sound of small measuring spoons clanking together at multiple times during the night. That is a definite sign right?

The next day I decided partaking in the hostel's snorkel trip would stop me worrying about Luke, wondering what he was doing at each moment of the day.

On the trip there was me, an Israeli guy called Liron, two Israeli girls who deemed it unnecessary to speak to me, 4 older Mexican women who didn't snorkel, and an older Mexican couple who didn't snorkel either. This should have been a sign that the trip was not destined for good things, but I was already on the boat with nowhere to go.

It was really the most dismal snorkeling trip of all time. We were required to wear life vests at all times in the water which meant you couldn't dive down to see things more closely. I'm not sure whether they thought we couldn't swim, or if it was just some sort of cruel joke. And, the two snorkeling stops were so lame it was almost laughable.

At the first stop everyone had to swim in the same direction, following a little track marked out by bouys. The coral was pretty much ruined from a previous hurricane, and you couldn't get near it anyway because of the life vests.

The second stop was another very small area with a few fish and that's about it. I just sat in my life vest and floated about for the 10 minutes we were there.

Afterwards we were offered the opportunity to go to a turtle farm (for rehabilitation and release). No-one seemed to want to make a decision either way, so we ended up puttering there in the boat and only Liron got out to have a look as the rest of us waited for half an hour in the hot, hot sun.

Afterwards, we stopped on the way home for our "included lunch" which consisted of fish, cold rice, weird spaghetti with red sauce (I'm not saying tomato, because I'm not 100% sure that it was) and shredded cabbage with no dressing. Delicious.

The only real up side to the day was meeting Liron and having someone to talk to.

By the time we got back I was desperate to get to my email and see what tidings it would bring.

To my excitement and relief, Luke had everything organised and was going to be on a bus again that night, arriving the next night at around 6pm. I was ecstatic.

I showered, changed, and decided reading and relaxing on the couch was in order. But, no sooner had I sat down, then a moderately seedy looking Israeli guy came and sat next to me, let's call him John.

"Do you mind if I sit here, it looks much more comfortable?"

I thought raising my book quickly in front of my face after agreeing to have him sit on the couch with me would thwart any attempts at conversation.

I was wrong.

As his lisped his way through a varying array of mundane conversation topics I started to figure he was mostly harmless. And after about 30 minutes of chit chat I managed to get back to my book. But, he didn't move off the couch.

I'm pretty sure he wasn't reading his book either.

When my stomach started rumbling, I decided having some company for dinner was better than no company. So, against my better judgment, I asked if John would like to grab something to eat.

When his response to my offer was, "I'd love to have dinner with you!" I realised I'd made a big mistake.

As we wandered down the main street I spotted Julia and Hannah (the German sisters) at a restaurant and thought I was saved, but unfortunately they were already paying their bill. I promised to meet them at the hostel for drinks.

I tried suggesting dinner at the hostel to my persistent companion, so I could just walk home with the girls and be out of the jam I'd managed to get into, but he wouldn't hear of it.

So, at the next suitable place I sat down at and tried to get through things as fast as possible. The weird thing was, John wasn't even hungry, and when we got there he ordered one measly taco (they are really small in Mexico) which made me feel even more odd. Who comes out to dinner when they're not hungry?

When one of my dorm mates sat at a nearby table I engaged him in conversation for as long as possible without veering into rudeness, hoping to ease some of the tension that hovered over our table. It didn't work, so I stuffed my face with burrito in lieu of small talk. If the silence didn't put him off, maybe a girl that scarfs down a burrito in a matter of minutes would?

Finally dinner was over and I figured I was home and hosed. But not so my friends.

"Would you mind if we stopped at my place so I can get some more money?"

Yes, yes sure, I will come into your apartment alone with nothing but my wits for protection you lisping weirdo. I will accompany you on your venture for more cash, but you watch out, I am at least 4 inches taller than you, and figure I can hold my own if it comes down to it.

I stayed near the door, ready to flee at the smallest hint of deviant behaviour, as he rifled through bags searching for that elusive cash. Once he'd found it I headed straight back for the hostel, with my little dinner date at my heels, lispering sweet nothings in my ear.

As soon as I got inside I spotted Hannah and made a beeline. We talked about all things girly, and soon John left to pick up a guitar he'd rented, probably feeling thoroughly left out. I was free, and we all headed to a table outside to sit and chat.

As the night progressed, I didn't seem to be getting tired. I had a few 20 peso margaritas, chatted with my new friends, and pretty much had a ball.

I felt awfully guilty at the same time, to be having so much fun while Luke was on the bus ride from hell. But, I knew Luke would be glad I was having fun, and tried to console myself with this fact as I was forced into having another margarita at 2am.

After a 4am swim I decided it was finally time for bed, and pulled up the covers at 4.45am.

The next day was spent with Hannah and Julia at the beach, where if you spent $50 pesos each, you could use the loungers and umbrellas all day. So we had cokes and fries and club sandwiches, swam in the ocean between naps, read books, talked and generally lazed about all day. It was absolute bliss, and once again I chastised myself for being so happy while Luke was away, but it could not be helped.

I headed back to the hostel at 4.30pm to get ready for Luke's arrival, which he'd estimated would be sometime around 6pm or a little later.

As I sat at a table to read my book while waiting for Luke, Lispy the persistent Israeli came up once again to ask me out to dinner. Now, it bears mentioning here, that I'd told him within the first 10 minutes of our first conversation about Luke, and our current situation, but it was not deterring him. No sir. However, there was nothing and no-one moving me from my seat near the door as I waited for Luke to arrive. So I politely declined and turned back to my book.

No sooner had I started up reading again than another dude at the table opposite asked me where I was from... sigh... it seems that without a boyfriend for protection you are open to attacks from any and all gentlemanly admirers. Luckily for me, this guy took the information of my boyfriend's imminent arrival in his stride and we chatted amiably. However, I wasn't all that happy that the first thing Luke would see upon getting back to the hostel was me talking to some strange guy. But, nothing could be done about it without entering into levels of rudeness previously unknown to me.

When Luke did arrive, my new friend said, "Go on, go and give him a kiss," so I got out of it okay, ran up to Luke and did just that (although he did mention to me later that he felt pretty strange seeing me for the first time in conversation with another guy).

He was tired, overwrought and a bit on the pongy side, but I was just happy to have him back, passport in hand, ready to spend the next day relaxing with me on the beach.

More soon...

Day 121: Part 1 - Robbed

Mexican Travel | October 14, 2009

I'm pretty sure we hit rock bottom.

My stomach made its way to my knees on that familiar journey that could only mean the situation which at first had seemed too terrible to be real, was in fact the stark white reality of our morning.

My mind started quaking, barely absorbing the details, hanging in a balance between coping and shattering into 1000's of tiny pieces. As I stared dumbfounded around the Cancun bus station I happened to glanced at Luke and knew that today I had to be the strong one.

Luke was, after all, the one who had lost his laptop and passport. Half of the stolen money was mine, but for a web developer to lose his laptop... well, that's another thing entirely.

So, I was strong.

I tried to speak to the staff at the bus station, telling them that someone had reached underneath Luke's seat and pulled through his daypack, stealthily removing his laptop and money belt (with passport, cash, traveler's cheques, credit card and immunization record inside) before sliding the pack back through. The entire time, we were sitting unaware. But, my Spanish failed me in that moment of high stress, resulting in a mix of despairing cries and flailing hands.

Luckily, one worker spoke English and was summoned to our aid. I explained the situation and told him we would need a written statement from the bus company for our insurance company (or so I thought at the time, we actually only needed a police report), but he informed me that no-one at the terminal could provide that and we would have to go to HQ.

So, 15 minutes later, they bundled Luke and I onto an empty coach for a trip to the bus depot. Luke had spent most of the intervening time standing next to me mute with shock, his face a pallor of emptiness and despair. He did manage to shoulder his backpack and stumble onto the bus, so at least I knew some parts of his brain were still functioning.

For 10 minutes we drove further and further from central Cancun. When we were dumped unceremoniously at the depot gate not only did no-one speak English, but they had no idea why we were there.

I finally managed to convey, through a series on meaningless gestures and odd facial expressions, that could be attributed only to the very young or mentally unwell, why we were there, and soon the security guard was babbling in important tones to someone on the inside of the gate.

An innocent bystander, who happened to speak English, translated for us:

"You can come back at 5 o'clock"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"No-one is here to see you now, you come back at 5 o'clock and someone will see you. I'm only trying to help"

"Right, yes, sorry, thanks very much"

This is the moment when, if I had managed thus far, I would normally have lost it. Cracked, collapsed in a weeping heap and refused to be shaken from my misery and self-pity. But, as I had designated myself as the strong one for the day, instead, I hailed a cab, and asked for the police station.

As we entered what we'd been told was the police station I began to have doubts. There were endless corridors, people wandering aimlessly, no-one available to ask questions and us lugging our giant backpacks through the middle of it like overgrown mutant turtles (possibly ones with highly-developed ninja-abilities).

After being studiously ignored in the small office where we'd been directed, a woman finally took pity, stopped what she was doing, and told us we were in the wrong section. She wove her way through the crowds, and led us to a different part of the building where we could file a police report.

Before I could breath a sigh of relief I became aware of my surroundings and felt the tide of panic start to rise once again. There were people on chairs waiting, people standing with wads of paper waiting, and some people who'd made it to a desk after waiting either on a chair or on their feet, but there seemed to be no logic to any of it.

Thanks to the kindness of one gentleman, with a stack of folders under his arm and an important look about him, we were given a pearl of wisdom that saved us from further despair and futility.

He told us we'd be better off at the police station in the hotel zone, where the officers could speak English. At this station, he said, we would have to wait in line (and who knew where it started or ended, but I had the feeling he'd finally made it to the number 1 position), and, he expanded, we probably wouldn't want to be involved in Mexican bureaucracy first-hand.

So, our third stop for the morning was another cab ride away, to the infamous Cancun Hotel Zone.

Our man had been right, there were no lines at this police station, not one person walking listlessly about, and an officer ready and waiting who not only spoke English, but processed our police report in 30 minutes, and let us use his phone to cancel our credit cards.

Some sense of normalcy was entering our day, and I suppose getting robbed in Mexico isn't that abnormal either is it?

So, if normalcy was now the order of the day, we decided we might as well continue with our original plan and head to Isla de Mujeres (Island of Women), just off the coast of Cancun.

Another taxi ride and we were at the ferry terminal waiting for the next departure.

Luke and I boarded, silent, subdued and thoroughly beaten down. We sat staring impassively out at the sparkling expanse of aqua ocean and I turned to Luke, "Is this ever going to not feel bad?"

In response Luke snapped a couple of pictures, just so we would remember how incredibly bad we had felt.

We plodded our way to Poc Na, a perfectly located hostel on a beach on the island's northern side. From a palapa-covered restaurant area, to a sandy beach bar, the setting could not have been more idyllic. But, instead of lapping up the surrounds, we dumped our bags, jumped online, and phoned the embassy and our travel insurance company.

Our ordeal was not over yet.

The date was Tuesday, September 29. We had flights to Cuba on Sunday, October 4.

Luke had no passport.

The officer we spoke to at the embassy in Mexico City was incredibly helpful, "Don't worry, you will be flying to Cuba on Sunday," were some of the first words out of his mouth after we'd explained our dilemma. He made it all seem so simple, like he was on our team and together we were going to get through this terrible mess. But, in order to fly to Cuba on Sunday, we would need to travel to the embassy in Mexico City for an emergency passport to be issued.

And, as we soon found out, the bus trip to Mexico City was 25-hours each way. That would mean about 50 hours on the bus over three days to get back to Cancun in time for the flight.

After much backwards and forwards, Luke finally convinced me that it would be better for him to go to the capital alone. I would stay on the island and keep our families abreast of the situation via email/skype, and Luke would be able to travel light to Mexico City without a grumpy girlfriend beside him. Plus, the bus tickets were about $1300 pesos each way (over $100) and until we'd gotten the money back from the insurance company, the less we spent the better.

I resigned myself to fate.

However, the next day, as I walked back from the ferry stop, tears streaming behind my dark glasses, it didn't seem like such a great idea after all. What on earth was I supposed to do with myself on a tropical island when I would be worrying about Luke the entire time?

More soon...

Day 112: Some things not to do on Caye Caulker

Central American Travel | September 20, 2009

DO NOT:

1. cook pasta in sea water. While it seems a good idea at the time, since sea water is salty and you cook pasta in salted water, it turns out that sea water is about 10 times as salty as desired and makes pasta inedible (though you try valiantly to make your way through most of the bowl, probably leading yourself unintentionally towards an unexpectedly early coronary in the process).
2. make a pina colada from fresh coconut and fresh pineapple, even if you did knock the coconut down from the tree yourself and have to find something to do with your spoils. It really tastes like bum. Make it with coconut cream and store-bought pineapple juice as the recipe intended, that way you won't end up throwing precious, precious rum in the garbage.
3. bake fish with lime (two whole limes infact). Lime goes very, very bitter once it's cooked. Where are the lemons on this island dammit?
4. assume two latherings of suncream is enough for an entire day of snorkeling. It is not. You will end up looking like a beetroot despite your best intentions, and while you are sauntering away from your sail boat in the afternoon light, half-drunk from the free rum punch, you will look nowhere near as awesome as you suppose. It will be really embarrasing when you get home and see yourself in a mirror. Trust me.
5. read two Danielle Steele novels in a row. It will give you an entirely warped perspective on life, especially on a small island, where there is nothing to do but read, swim, think and drink too much rum. You will start to wonder if maybe you should strike out and buy a small farm in a sparsely inhabited area of North America to recover from the wounds of your previous relationship. You will be independent, reliant on no-one, and in the end, the Frenchman, who lives with the local tribes and was initially against your move to the area in the first place, will be so impressed with your tenacity and vitality of spirit, that he will fall in love with you and want to get married. (Please don't judge me...)

Day 99 to 101 - The Hike to Hell and Back

Central American Travel | September 6, 2009

The alarm sounded. 5am. I rose easily, having not slept soundly due to nervousness, anxiousness, excitement and a slight chill from a bed lacking in warm covers. My bags were mostly organised, divided into two piles, one for sending onto our final destination, one with the limited supplies I had calculated would be required for a three-day hike from Xela to Lago de Atitlan.

As our shuttle rounded the corner it started sinking in that we had three solid days of hiking ahead of us, up and over mountains, in and out of rainforest, coffee plantations and cornfields, and over rivers tumbling down forested valleys. But, the excitement prevailed over all other emotions and when we stopped to organise our gear into hiking packs and to receive our share of the food, our sleeping bags and bed rolls. It was the sort of reluctant thrill you experience upon receiving a new batch of pencils, books and stationary at the start of a new school year. You know deep down that you are perilously close to the drugery and doom of 12 more months of study, but can't keep the small tingle of titillation from surging up as you turn the page of a fresh notepad and fantasize about that first stroke of blue ink.

So, we set off. Packs settled comfortably, on an uphill toddle through the small village where our hike began. The wide dirt road soon gave way to a smaller and much steeper track through a wooded hillside, muddy and slightly slippery from last night's rain. After almost an hour straight uphill we stopped for a small pause. I was a little winded, but confident that I could continue uphill for a while longer (our guide had previously informed us that it was about two hours uphill, before some flat walking, then some down and up for the remainder of the day - sounded pretty easy really).

Half an hour later, sooner than expected, we crested the hill and a vista of rolling green fields stretched away over the wide expanse of the mountain top. Long grass, wild flowers, purple thistles and fields of corn rendered an image that sparked my imagination, with thoughts of simpler times past and the repeating pattern of day-to-day life that existed for the mayans on this mountain top. We walked for a wonderful hour or so through this spectacular area which also encompassed breath-taking views over the mountains ahead (mountains which it didn't occur to me at the time that I would have to climb).

Unfortunately, after an hour of heady elation and easy walking, we started heading down. Down, and down, and down, for about 2 hours. That's one of the misleading aspects of hiking. One would assume that down would be easier than up, alas it is not. While it may not require the athletic output of an uphill climb, it is far more taxing on the feet and legs, with each step jolting up through your thighs like an elastic band pulled to breaking point.

By the time we reached the bottom I was feeling well and truly drained, with a small tingling pain between by big and second toes on both feet. We continued on.

An hour or so more of easy up and down hill and we stopped for lunch - already 5 hours had passed of walking and overall I was feeling happy with my performance and confident of the coming day's hiking. But, when I removed my shoe to see what that wee nagging between my toes was, I discovered a blister formed on the inside of each big toe, from rubbing against the next toe. Also, my big toenails had the initial pang that comes from constantly pushing up against shoes on a downhill walk.

None-the-less, I felt I could go on for a few more hours, so when our guide announced after lunch that if we soldiered on for two more hours we would reduce tomorrow's walk substantially I did not hesitate in my agreement.

It seemed I had sealed my fate.

We set off again around 12.30pm, so by my calculations we would arrive at our overnight resting point around 2.30pm.

At 1pm the sky attempted rain, but I didn't bother protecting myself as I was mightily hot, welcoming the relief provided from intermittent showers. At 2pm the rain set in somewhat more heavily. I put on my water-resistant jacket, and hoped for the best. My legs were now straining with the downhill, aching toes and painful blisters completing the picture, but if only 30 minutes remained I would make it in one piece.

2.30pm and the rain had started in earnest, a monsoonal downpour that verily tumbled from the heavens in sheets, rendering my jacket useless in a matter of minutes, and soaking through to my underwear for good measure. Plus, the downhill section was an endless treachery, and, once we finally did finish it, there would still be 25-30 minutes of steep uphill before we would arrive at our overnight stop.

I was wet, I was unhappy, I was in pain, I was swearing out loud by this stage and willing myself to put one foot in front of the other over and over, telling myself that tomorrow I would hop on a chicken bus and make the rest of the journey in relative comfort. Why I had decided a three-day hike was a good idea I could no longer recall.

When, in a wave of relief, we reached the bottom of the valley I was close to tears, in incredible pain, and so wet my fingers had turned pruney. Then I saw the bridge, small and rickety, with no hand rails, over a roiling brown river, swollen with the water falling relentlessly from the sky.

If I fell in I'd be royally screwed, and possibly badly injured. I tried to pull myself together and with a mammoth effort stumbled, wobbling at the knees and praying for my heathen soul, across the bridge as the guide told me "despacio, despacio" (slowly, slowly - he'd already seen me scrambling down the hillside like a drunkard after a week-long bender).

Then, uphill. Steep, narrow, with lashings of water cascading down the path in a coffee-coloured torrent. I knew we were almost there, and by an effort of mental determination started my way up, scrambling in the sodden earth, grabbing handfuls of plants and vegetation to ease myself up an incline that would be considered difficult without the addition of a temporary waterway.

Our guide had wandered off ahead, as he had been doing all day, and when the path spilt in two I almost sat down and cried. But, stopping meant getting no closer to ending the unexpectedly hellish situation I had put myself into, so I picked the right-hand path and set off.

I slipped in the mud, got a handfull of dirt up my sleeve for good measure, and finally saw the end of the path, through a corn field and into a village. We trudged the rest of the way, dumped our packs on the porch, and took in our surroundings; A small village in the middle of nowhere, a cement-floored shed to sleep in, and a string from which to hang our sodden clothes, that had no hope of drying overnight. But, we made it. Nine hours later.

Luke and I changed into dry clothes and sat on a small bench on the porch, dazed and confused, not sure what to do with ourselves. Our guide had once again wandered off after informing us where we were to sleep and letting us know that dinner would be at 6.30pm. It was 4.30pm, so we sat, talked, hoped tomorrow wouldn't be as bad, and managed to while away the few hours until dinner.

Afterwards, I fell into an amazing deep sleep, unhindered by the lack of padding between myself and the cold cement, not thinking or caring about tomorrow until it should arrive.

And, arrive it did. At 6am our alarm went off. Packing, breakfast, dressing in wet clothes, and finally putting on squishy, cold sneakers and damp, smelly socks. The small comfort of artificially flavoured porridge warmed my heart somewhat. Add to that the thought of only four hours walking and my mood lightened at least a little.

Two hours uphill passed with only relative discomfort as my pain and injuries were all related to downhill walking. But, after two hours, when we started once again downhill I decided enough was enough. I removed my dripping sneakers and socks, tied them to my pack, and continued for the last two hours of the day in thongs - God bless Havaianas.

We arrived as scheduled for our overnight stop at 12pm; A small, quaint house in a village named Santa Clara. Sure, I could barely walk, and sure, we were sleeping on cement again, without the possibility of a shower. But, there was a view of trees from the drop toilet out the back, and I was watching my clothes and shoes drying in the heat of the midday sun as I waited patiently on a plastic chair for our lunch to be delivered by our ever-silent and seemingly unenthusiastic guide. One of the small rewards of constant pain is the moment when it finally ceases, as it seemed to have done for the moment.

That afternoon we explored the town somewhat, slept, and had a sauna in a tiny brick box out the back of our lodgings. For 10Q each we had the pleasure of inhaling smokey air, sitting just off the ground on dirty wooden benches and scrambling in and out of a sauna that had obviously been made with mayans in mind, rather than 5'11'' westerners. But, there was a giant pot of hot water inside, so I took the opportunity instead to clean myself, and exited smelling of smoke, but still rather happy.

The next day we set of at 5.15am to catch the sun rising over Lago de Atitlan. We sat on our packs on a corner of the bush track at 5.45am and silently took in the pink clouds, turning slowly to orange, the light shimmering off the lake as roosters called out the daybreak and dogs barked in agreement. Lights twinkled in the villages below, turning off one at a time as the sun peaked over the distant mountain. It was spectacular.

Half an hour more and we stopped for breakfast in a shelter with a vista over the small village of San Juan which was our destination. When we started out after breaking our fast I knew it was only an hour more, and with each step my legs groaned in refusal, but my mind knew the end was close, so I plodded along happily in the early light of day.

San Juan. Villagers heading home with plastic tubs of tortilla dough, dogs scratching themselves in the shade of buildings as they decide whether it's worth the effort of getting up as the sun creeps to their sleeping place, and Luke and I knowing that just around the corner there is a pick-up truck waiting to take us to San Pedro La Laguna where we would hopefully spend the day sleeping, tending sore and sorry bodies, and relaxing to our heart's content.

The pick-up, loaded with our packs, us, and locals also needing a ride between villages, took us smoothly to our final destination, and let me tell you, with the wind in my face, and the fact that I was traveling somewhere under the power of something other than my own two feet, I was feeling incredible. Elation the likes of which is rarely experienced flowed through my veins as I thought about that first coffee or a room with a hammock or a small glass of wine while the sun sets.

We made it, in one piece to be sure, but slightly scarred in the process. Our backpacks with the rest of our gear were two hours away, so we set up at a nearby cafe, ordered that coffee I had been dreaming about, and whiled away a few hours.

More soon...

Day 89 - The day the earth moved...

Central American Travel | August 31, 2009

It sent chills up and down my spine, like nothing I'd ever experienced. I could feel it coming like a distant train you know is imminent only due to the slightest tingle at the very tip of your toes. It started building and I didn't just have one butterfly in my stomach, I had an army of butterflies, all wearing Doc Martins and doing their own interpretation of Riverdance.

As it got closer, the tension built to proportions only encountered in bad romance novels. And then, the earth moved. It was as if the room itself shook with the force of what I can only call one of the most unbelievable occurrences of my life. At that final moment, shaken to the depths of my soul, I knew I had experienced something very special - my first earthquake.

It was 9.30am on a lazy Thursday morning. We had spent the previous day lounging to our heart's content at Fuentes Georginas, the most hot, steamy and incredibly relaxing hot springs right near Xela, Guatemala. We'd gotten up at 6am that day for an early swim, to have the pools to ourselves, before shuttle buses full of tourists and pickups loaded with locals arrived to steal our serenity. After our early morning enthusiasm it was back to bed to stack up some more zzz's. At 9.30am I was woken by a small earthquake (good timing really, since I'd meant to get out of bed then anyway).

It was a strange sensation because you could literally hear it coming from a few miles away, a small rumbling in the distance, like an angry, empty stomach protesting for food. When I heard it I sat up in bed and looked around to figure out what in our room could be making such an odd sound. I quickly ruled out my own stomach and turned to the fireplace questioningly. It sat silent and ashen to my inquisitive glare. Then, just as my brain started to wake up, our little cabin shook right down to it's Guatemalan foundations. It's unimaginatively-constructed entirety wobbled like red jelly on Christmas Day. I was excited, but afterwards prayed that another of the quake's larger cousins wouldn't come for a visit...

To take our mind off potential impending disaster, we headed to the restaurant overlooking the pools and had eggs and beans for breakfast.

More soon...

Day 87 - Fading Spanish & a Little Bet to Spice Things Up

Central American Travel | August 25, 2009

After only leaving Antigua and Spanish School four days ago, I feel I am already starting to deteriorate. Part of the problem is that as Luke and I are always talking to each other in English, we don't often find the need to speak in Spanish, other than saying, "Quiero un cafe negro por favor," (I'll have a black coffee please). Or, "Tiene una capa por la lluvia?" (Which no-one could understand anyway - I was asking for a rain coat and I never did get one...)

So, starting today some bets will be laid. We are going to hold ourselves to only speaking Spanish to each other for certain periods of time, for example, from 4pm-7pm this evening. If we don't know a word, we have to look it up. If we can't figure out how to say something we have to keep trying until we do. If we can't figure out what the other person has said we can ask them to repeat it, and have to keep working until we know what on earth is going on.

And, just to keep things juicy, we're going to pay each other 1 Quetzale each time one of us lapses into English. We will keep a tally for the entire trip, and at the end, hopefully one of us will have to buy the other a present of some sort. (I know what my present will be - more jewellery please!)

This little game was actually my Spanish teacher, Juan Luis's, idea. I thought it was a cracker, and he said another couple that had tried the same tactic had excelled - hopefully we do the same!

I'll keep you updated on who's winning :)

More soon...

NEWSFLASH: Pullman buses snot on the Greyhound

Central American Travel | August 23, 2009

In breaking news, it has recently come to light that the second-class buses in Guatemala, also known as Pullman buses, snot on the Greyhound.

Greyhound, North America's leading provider of horrendously scarring and mind-bogglingly painful bus transportation, was contacted to comment on this story but declined, stating only that it was unfair to compare one of the poorest countries on the planet with the world's leader.

A representative from Pullman bus was unable to be reached, but a recent traveler, Miss Bay Oliver, spoke up for the Guatemalan transport system.

"Pullman buses are unbelievable," Miss Oliver enthused.

"They snot on Greyhound in so many ways, it's actually incredibly embarrassing. One small example is that, none of the patrons are clinically insane," she said.

"On top of that, the air-conditioning doesn't recycle 5-hour-old farts as you can open the windows, the drivers only stop to pick up passengers then keep moving (unlike Greyhound drivers who spend 20 minutes smoking, looking around and scratching their nuts) and there are food vendors that jump on and off providing tasty, locally-made treats to passengers."

After arriving safe and sound in Xela from Guatemala City Miss Oliver declared she would definitely ride the Pullman bus again, and would even consider a chicken bus if the trip was short.