The End of the Unlucky Streak

My friend Connor said that whenever Bryan and I travel together, we always get into some ridiculously difficult situation, yet we always seem to get out of it perfectly fine.  Our last trip together faired no different.  I don’t know what it is, but our travel styles mashed together seem to spark disasters that in a flash resolve on their own.

We rode to a rock structure on our bikes.  A friend had told me about this “interesting rock formation near Escuintla.”  Bryan knew where it was, and it is close enough to Antigua to go by bikes for a day trip.  We left after midday, coasting on the mostly downhill highways.  Although buses and cars sped by, I felt safe in the wide the lane to the side of the road.

At around four we arrived to our destination, a formation that looked like a jumble rocks with a point at the top in the shape of a thumbs up.  The man that worked there said he would leave at five, so by the time we came back down, he would be gone.  The hike should take 45 minutes, he said.

To start on the trail, you needed to cross over a large fallen tree that stood in for a bridge over the river.  What did they do before the tree fell and what will they do when the tree decays, I wondered as a crawled across.

The hike could have easily taken 45 minutes as the man had mentioned if the path to the top had been clear.  We had no idea where to start and figured we could follow the path of garbage strewn on the ground.  I normally get so frustrated to see the litter all over the roads and sidewalks, but I was surprised how little they look after a park in which you need to pay an entrance fee.  Bottles and food wrappers led us in the wrong direction, and by our third reroute--and 30 minutes in--we had made it on the right track.

At a fork on the path, we thought we should continue straight rather than turn because the other path seemed too steep.  Once we entered a field that led away from our final destination, we  turned back around.  The correct way up became so steep at certain points, I had to rely on the trees’ roots to hoist myself up.  Create a mix between rock climbing on a very easy angle and hiking and you have our trip to the summit.

We walked close to the top to see an unspectacular view of corn fields cut through by highway.  I convinced Bryan to head back down since it was dusk and soon it would be pitch black.  Especially with the unclear path and steep slope, I did not want to risk any problems.

We made it down perfectly on time right before it was too dark to see your hand in front of your face.  Success story!  I was so happy that for once Bryan and I had a problem-free trip.  Right as I wanted to pat ourselves on the back, Bryan said, “Oh no, mate.  We have a problem.”  The key to our bike lock broke in half inside the lock.  We were stuck two hours by bike from Antigua.  Although buses passed by, we couldn’t leave the bikes because Bryan had borrowed his from our roommate. 

Bryan’s innovative mind put a rock in his hand, and he began to smash it against a tree with the lock resting against it.  No luck.  We broke the plastic, but could not get through the metal.  With no other option in mind, we stood on the side of the street, waving our hands to the cars that passed.  We had no idea we were on a dangerous part of the highway and no cars would stop for strangers.  The ones that would stop are probably those that you don’t want to help you.  Again, we were stuck, unsure what to do.

 Our calls for help on the side of the street came with no answer.

Finally, Bryan realized the masons from my work lived in a town nearby.  I called him and frantically rambled about our situation.  The moment Carlos heard we needed a ride and a saw, he said, “I’ll be right there.”   He came with Mario another Constru Casa mason, and together they broke our bikes free.  

Saved!

 
It would not have been a good ending to our travels if we had passed the trip carefree with no problem.  Nope.  Bryan and I had to live our tradition through until the very end.

Want to learn Spanish?

My friend Ron just launched an online Spanish language school with live video instruction from native speakers in Latin America. Perfect for home schoolers, or as a tailor made alternative to Rosetta Stone. Check it out and please spread the word: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3BrP4enmUs or www.HomeschoolSpanishAcademy.com.

A Case for the Shorties

In the United States, tall is in.  We like our leggy models and it is not uncommon to hear girls  complain about their height, making us shorties fell like we, well, come up short.  However, for all the other short stacks out there, a sparkle of hope shines south of the border.

Life is much easier for me and my five feet in Guatemala.  For starters, I stand out enough with my light hair and features, I don't need my height to shout out, gringa!  Plus, the country was made for people like me--Guatemalans average around my height.  The benefits of being a short foreigner are most obvious when you use public transportation.  Ride a chicken bus for just twenty minutes, and you'll be wishing you had that same magic powder that shrank Alice, getting her into Wonder Land.

One of Guatemala's cultural hubs sits right inside American's hand-me-downs, altered with a slight face lift. The same yellow buses we rode in elementary school are painted bright reds, blues and greens, adorned on the inside with the clashing images of American children cartoons and a repeated figure colored in black of a barbie-shaped woman, sitting naked with her large breasts sticking up. However, when it comes to one's vertical (and horizontal) size, the most consequential of the bus' transformations are the seats.

Since American school buses are made for young children, it would make sense to replace the seats, but instead, they are changed to create less room rather than more. Why such a counter-intuitive alteration? To fit more people. This may lead to overcapacity and ignoring any safety measures, if there are any.  But most importantly, more people means more money.

The seats are replaced with longer versions to fit three people, creating little room to get by in the aisles.  On busy routes, the buses fill with three people to a seat and the aisles crammed with squished strangers. Those with claustrophobia beware, personal space is of no concern. If you are sitting in the aisle seat, be prepared to have any body parts slam right in front of your face with nowhere else to go. 

While my traveling counterparts, usually tall lanky fellows that can almost hit their heads on the top of the bus' ceiling, usually struggle to fit in the seats on an empty bus, I'm sitting untroubled with the three inches of leg space in front of me. I can even lean back, push my knees forward a bit to rest my head on the back of the seat. Talk about perks. I have decided god made me short so I could travel the world easy-free. I may not be able to reach the top of the cupboard alone, but I can get a step stool to get me to the top. My tall friends will never fit easily in a chicken bus--there is nothing they can do, short of chopping off part of their legs, to change that. For that, I can stand up tall (well, short) and say, I am proud to be a shorty.

Todos Santos Video

Check out video footage of the horse race by my friend Connor:
http://vimeo.com/16521009

Don't Drink and Ride

Every November 1, the men of Todos Santos prove time and again why it is a good idea that the town keeps its no alcohol policy.  Although Todos Santos is a dry town, it is legal to consume alcohol on el día de los muertos--the day of the dead.

On this day, people throughout Guatemala go to the cemeteries where deceased family members rest.  They remember the dead and bring food and drinks to their graves.  They also fly kites as a way to honor their family members.  The towns of Santiago and Sumpango are the most visited on this day, and hundreds of giant homemade kites line the sky.

I, however, took a different route for día de los muertos.  In Todos Santos, a town about seven hours from Antigua, they celebrate día de los muertos with a drunken horse race on November 1 and visit the cemetery the day after.  The tradition is very dangerous, and men have died in the past.  They say if someone does die, the harvest will be good that year.  So either way, it is bad news.

We woke up at 5:15 in the morning to get to Todos Santos from San Pedro on Lake Atitlan.  After about seven hours in three different chicken buses, we arrived.  The center of town was reminiscent of an American town fair.  A Ferris wheel rose high above any other building, merry-go-rounds operated as men pushed them to turn and tents with games and food occupied the majority of the area.

 

People played games in the tents until late at night.

Mmmm.  Chocolate covered strawberries.

We heard of one event for the night, a dance in the town’s gymnasium.  However, we left quickly after learning men had to pay 40 quetzales and women 20.  We decided to walk around town, and would have gone home within the hour if we hadn’t run into Anibol, a Todos Santos native.  He told us of another dance where all the men who would participate in the horse race were.

The party was far from the expected.  From a distance, you can hear the marimbas playing, which sound cheerful and somewhat childish.  But the moment you enter, you realize you are far from an innocent children’s party.  The men were all wasted.  And when I say wasted, I am not talking about a freshman year college party when half the people don’t know how to hold their drinks.  I had never in my life seen so many people so belligerently drunk in one room at the same time.  Men were passed out, scattered on the floor like litter thrown on the ground.  The ones that were still standing had an expressionless look on their faces, replaced by an alcohol-induced gaze.  One man who could barely stand had such watery eyes that I swore it was the excessive alcohol pouring through.  He fell and tried to reach for someone to pick him up, but the surrounding men hid their arms behind their backs, refusing to help.  A few fights erupted for no apparent reason, and the men would knock over a few of the close bystanders.

The men that would be riding the horses the next day dressed in colorful outfits and donned hats with feathers.  The other men wore typical traje with red and white striped pants that resemble pajama pants and a blue and white striped shirt with a more intricate designed collar.
For the most part, only men were on the dance floor.  Two foreign women danced, but the rest stood on the side watching.  Everyone danced with the basic two steps, but their bodies flopped around like a fish dying because they were so drunk.  If the men did dance with a woman, they only held one hand and continued the two basic steps.  As they danced, the men would scream out hyena calls, particularly at the beginning of a song.

A younger man asked me to dance, and I figured it was harmless.  You didn't get too close to one another and everyone was so drunk that it did not matter whether you were a good dancer or not.  When we stopped dancing, another man came up to me to dance.  Then after his turn on the dance floor, a much older man approached me.  This man was a little more touchy than the other two.  Although it doesn't seem much, he grabbed my shoulder with his other hand and pulled me in closer.  I couldn't tell if he simply needed to hold on for balance, but either way, I was not comfortable.  I kept pushing his hand off, but he would put it right back.  When the song was over, I left him, and immediately two other men came up to me asking to dance.  Turned off by my last one, I said no.  The same touchy man came back, and when I rejected him, he screamed "soooolo uuuuuuna!" the way a child does when he doesn't get a chocolate bar he wants.  "Just one more!"  I said no, and the conversation repeated over for a few minutes until I walked away in frustration.

When I did have a conversation of more than three words, I learned the majority of the men had lived in the United States, even a 21-year-old I met.  He was there for two years working, and now is continuing his education.  When I walked around Todos Santos, it surprised me that most of the houses were nice two story buildings, but after hearing about their stories in the US, it made sense.  The men send back money to finance the construction of these houses, and you can clearly see how far American dollars go in Guatemala.

The next day, the men were just as drunk as the night before, particularly those who would be riding the horses.  The races started at eight in the morning until six at night, with a two-hour break in the afternoon.  The men rode back and forth on one street covered in dirt.  Apparently, someone marks down who wins each time, but I did not see anyone keeping track. 

 

Ready. Set. Go!

"Waaaaahhhaaaaaaa!"

Men close by help a fallen horseman.

All the racers wore the feathers on top of their hats.

Wake up!  You have a race to win!

Men's typical traje.

Despite the race's repetitive nature, you can’t keep your eyes off the race because the men are very interesting to watch.  I also had less of a chance to get bored because I could only stay for the first two and half hours.  I needed to get back to work the next day, and transportation was limited on the holiday.  Each man has his own specific reaction as he races from one side of the road completely inebriated.  A few could not keep their bodies up, while one man sat straight up and held his hands out in the air.  Several screamed in the same hyena pitched voice we heard the night before at the dance.  The crowd would erupt into giggles and chatter when one made his own original scream, "Waheeeeeowwww!"

How he did not fall off, I do not know.

 

Crowds surrounded the street where the horses raced.

 

Just watching, I was scared for them.

 

The face and belly hanging out say everything.

I witnessed three falls.  A group of men would run to pick up the fallen man, and the race would continue.  The second man who fell lay there for some time, and those around me began to scream in anger, "Where is the ronda?!  Are they sleeping?  The ronda needs to pay attention!"  Luckily, this year no one died.  Let’s hope the crops come out better than the fallen men.

Atop the Indian Nose

Saturday morning, I sat at a restaurant with Connor and Bryan on Lake Atitlan, overlooking the mountain nariz del indio--Indian Nose--that we would stand on top of in just a few hours.  The restaurant seemed to be in no rush to serve us, and we waited impatiently for the food to arrive.  We joked that we could climb the mountain and come back before our food would be ready.  Little did we know the difficulty I would have to reach the summit.

El nariz del indio boasts the best view of the lake and its surrounding volcanoes.  As you can guess by its name, the mountain is shaped like a nose.  The area also sometimes acts as a ground for Mayan rituals, although we did not come across any on our hike.

 

Can you spot the nose?

Within about five seconds of our climb, I was already panting like an old lady who just walked up a flight of steps.  I felt, to say the least, pretty pathetic.  I downed half of my first of two bags of water so quickly that I had to watch myself and make sure I didn't finish both within the first few minutes of the hike.

 

Replenishing on liquid fuel. 

Although the view was picturesque, I mostly concentrated on how tired I felt.  I mean, really, how pitiful!  Every time I do reasonably tiring exercise I realize how much more often I should be doing it.  I felt slightly dizzy, and memories came back from all the times I have almost fainted from pushing myself too hard.  (Emphasis on almost!)  I thought about the one and only capoeira class at New York Sports Club that made me never return again.  My early morning bike ride in which I had little food in my stomach and ended up sitting on the sidewalk to wait for a friend to come get me.  Or how about my middle school gym class when I ran a mile and ended up resting for the afternoon in the nurse’s office.

I was going to make sure I would not make a fool of myself yet another time, especially because I did not want to force Connor and Bryan to wait for me.  So before I began to see black dots, I stopped following their pace and began to take breaks.  At one point, I had to lie on the ground to recuperate.  It was not too difficult putting my legs higher than my head to get the blood flowing since I was laying on an incline.  After a nice rest on the ground, two packs of Chiky cookies and my two bags of water, I was ready to go--this time at my own snail pace.

You don't have to doubt for a minute how good it felt to get to the top of the nose.  The sweat trickles and weak-feeling leg muscles screamed in delight, “I did it!” Our reward for an hour-and-half long hike that turned into two hours because of my stops?  A full view of the most beautiful lake I have ever seen.  As I’ve mentioned in posts before, Lake Atitlan, in my opinion, looks like paradise.  The lush hills protect the blue waters that from a high distance have no sign of the litter and pollution that threatens the lake.  From el nariz del indio, you can see all the towns that sit on the lake’s shore.  The volcanoes across the way do stand taller than the Indian’s nose, but that did not make the view any less spectacular.

 Our full view of Lake Atitlan

 I wasn't the only one who was pooped.  Bryan takes a quick catnap to recharge.

 The volcano across the way and the view of San Jose and San Pedro La Laguna

 The way down was much easier!

 I got a little off track on the way back down and had a chance to practice some climbing.

 View from below the Indian Nose.

Salsa Groovin'

Last night I went out with a few friends to a salsa bar in Antigua.  My friend Ron has some killer salsa moves, and it is always fun to dance with him to improve and learn new steps.  And by always, I mean the two times I have gone out dancing with him.

We first started as a group of five, a couple and another girl I had never met before were with us.  However, the couple decided to leave when they realized their was a 10Q cover.  It sounds cheap--it equals $1.25--but when you are dealing with quetzales, you begin to think like a native, and 10Q can buy you a full meal at the market.  They hadn't taken salsa classes yet, so didn't want to spend the money when they didn't know what they were doing.

In the end it was two girls and one boy, so we had to trade him off between songs.  Lucky guy, huh?  I did not mind at all, even though it meant I sometimes sat by myself at the table.  I am not sure which I enjoyed more: dancing with Ron or watching everyone grooving on the dance floor.

I would like to say I am a decent salsa dancer.  I know the basic steps and have some rhythm, but I can also get really lost in the footing after a turn or slight alteration.  I was doing alright until Ron wanted to show me a new complicated move--well at least for me it was.  My uncoordinated dancing led to Ron receiving a big blow in the face, sent directly from my elbow.  Sorry!  But despite my short clumsy moment, I still enjoyed myself.

With the next song, it was my turn to sit down.  What I thought was really cool was all levels of dancers that were there, and no one cared how well you knew the steps.  A salsa teacher shook, twirled, stepped like it was nobody's business.  She was definitely the best in the room.  But one couple really caught my eye.  The man was a short, slightly chubby Guatemalan, and his partner a tall foreign brunette.  They kicked the dance floor's butt.  I could not keep my eyes off them because you would never guess they were such good salsa dancers, especially the short chubby man.  They were completely in sync with each other.  It looked almost as if they had practiced earlier, but you knew they hadn't.  And just a few feet away, a good but not great Guatemalan dancer was teaching a foreign girl.

The mix of levels all together just made me happy.  It was just one of those moments in which you feel good for such a small reason.  It may make no sense to someone else, but it really does not matter!

A Quick Look at Garifuna Country

Every three months I either have to leave the country for three days or go to the Capital to pay a fee to renew my visa. I decided to make a trip of it to Belize. Bryan also had to do the same since he had arrive about six months before me.

If there is one thing Bryan and I do poorly, it is definitely planning our trips. It’s not that we don’t do it well. We just don’t do it, which is probably why we usually seem to encounter some difficulties during our trips. Yet, our trips have definitely been more blog worthy because of that.

As usual, our trip to Belize was ill-planned. We hadn’t talked about anything until the morning of, and headed out right away. Our original plan was to go to Rio Dulce, get a boat right away to Livingston and from there get a boat the next day to Belize. However, we arrived at Rio Dulce after the last boat to Livingston left, so we had to wait for the first boat at 9:30 the next morning--much later than when we would have liked to leave. We zipped through Rio Dulce on the boat. I had imagined it as a narrow stretch of river that we would tranquilly cruise down, but it was much larger than expected. We passed islands only inhabited by birds. Otherwise, the boat ride lacked a variety of wildlife. The view, though beautiful, also did not vary much for the two hour ride.

I'll have to go back to go water skiing on Rio Dulce!

Half-way through the ride, a group of children in boats approached us to sell us jewelry. The boat driver told us we could buy whatever we wanted from them, not seeming to mind at all that it was a group of only kids working. If it hadn’t been a Saturday, I would have badgered them about going to school. It is always so hard to see kids working, and it is not an uncommon sight. The kids were working it, screaming “for 20 quetzales! 20! 20! 20!” for about 10 minutes, as if we hadn’t gotten the message the first time.

About 15 kids hung on to our boat to sell us jewelry.

Livingston is known for its Caribbean ambience that is completely distinct from the rest of Guatemala. The Garifuna culture comes from descendants of Carib people and West African slaves that came to the island of Saint Vincent after a shipwreck. In my extremely condensed version of their history, conflicts between the French, British, native Indians and the Garifuna struck the island for years. Eventually the British forced the Garifuna to spread to different parts of South America, including Livingston in Guatemala and Belize. They didn’t want the African majority on an island where slaveowners lived.

Although we were still in Guatemala, it felt l like a different country. Let’s talk food. Oh man, did we eat good in Livingston and later in Belize. To save money, I usually cook the same basic meal or go to inexpensive comedores. Guatemalan comedores are great. I will not deny that their economic prices for a decent meal has not yet led me wrong, but give me fish and an excellent curry dish and I will be mmm’ing from pure culinary pleasure the whole meal through.

Our first dish: A potpourri of crab, shrimp, a full fish, plantain and other delights thrown in a thick slightly spicy coconut broth. No crab cracker to cut the shell open, just our teeth. I was thinking of my dental hygienist shaking her head in disappointment as I ripped the shell apart. Please forgive me, and I beg you not to yell at me at our next visit like you did the last time. (I’ve started flossing!) Personally, I love when food is difficult to eat, makes it ten times more enjoyable when you finally get it down.

Our next plate, a huge slab of yellow rice, salad and a vegetable curry dish that made me gobble the food down in delight. Different sauces! Fish! Vegetables! Variety! (Can you tell I am excited?) I was in food heaven. I had been eating the same meal over and over for months, and I embraced the change with a wide open mouth.

Before.

And after. Hungry much?

Before going to the restaurant, a big Garifuna guy in the tourism trade swooped us off the boat to bring us first to the immigration office to get our passports stamped. He told us the boat to Belize would leave at two, but he would first show us the restaurant owned by a Mexican lady. Despite his hangover (he went out real late the night before), he saluted everyone in the street. If the person wore dreads, he shouted, “Hey Rastafari!” As we stuffed our faces, he cured his hangover with a Victoria beer on the sidewalk across the street. I had liked him until he began to catcall any lady that passed by. Even after all my time in countries where it is very common, it is still my biggest pet peeve. Despite the constant hisses and kisses I get in the street every day, I don’t think I will ever get over it. There is a little something called RESPECT!

Two early morning Victorias chase the hangover away.

We were waiting at the dock by 2pm, and the boat hadn’t arrived. Everyone else that worked at the dock did not think another boat was coming. We began to question whether we should have trusted this guy so easily, but we talked to a man working at immigration and he said a boat was definitely on its way. With our transportation luck in the past, I was not so sure. It would not have been such a problem if we didn't have to be out of the country for at least three days to renew the visa. If we arrived the next day, we would have to take another day off of work to extend our trip or pay the fee in Guatemala to renew the visa. I decided to meditate for a boat to come, even with my lack of skills or any prior practice. I figured sending good vibes would do no harm.

At 3:30 the boat did come. I don't know whether it was going to come originally, my meditation worked or someone was looking out for us, but we made it to Belize on time for our visa renewal to be no problem. The boat ride to Punta Gorda, Belize was nauseating. It was the last boat of the day, so I think the driver was in a rush to get home. The boat bounced up and down so hard I was sure the boat was going to split in two.

Our boat driver's helper waits as we fill up with gas.

As we left our hostel for dinner in Punta Gorda, we met King, our neighbor for the night. He is a tall slender man, with dreads hidden under a head covering and a long, thin beard that has been growing since his teens. He proudly announced in our second encounter that he has never shaved his face. What started as a simple friendly greeting turned into a long conversation about his life. King is in no way typical. Picture a Belizian who received a scholarship from an English University to study law. Where do you see him now? I bet it is not where King is today.

Despite his law degree, he is a self-proclaimed artist. He creates jewelry from coconuts, shells and other biotic objects. 100% natural, just like his beard. He showed us how he cut a small coconut into a ring. To give it a shiny finish, he used pieces from the inside of the shell and sand paper. Although we weren’t too interested, he got us to buy it for a whopping 10 quetzales--luckily we hadn’t changed money yet, so we could get away with the steal.

He does not practice law now. He’s not into the whole suit-and-tie scene. Ideally he would like to just show up in the courts and see what underprivileged person needs help. I am not totally sure how he gets by, but you can tell he is definitely doing what he wants to do. His house is a small one bedroom building filled with books. Political graffiti plasters the outside of his house. The yard, that is also his kitchen and eating area, serves as his workshop, and his materials are strewn all over the ground and table. Despite what little he has, he is very happy.

King was very excited to meet Bryan, and they talked all about England and the cities King saw while he lived there. To my amusement, his accent changed from Belizian to English when he said the British cities he had been to, most notably his exaggerated “o” in Bristol.

Unfortunately, I did not get a picture of King. Instead, I got one of his house.

The next morning we woke early to catch the bus to Placencia, a tourist town on the coast. We walked toward the bus, and all the locals gave us directions how to get there, even without us asking. One man came up to us. He saw us the night before and had wanted to talk to us, but didn’t want to interrupt our conversation. He also indicated where we should wait for the bus. He spoke to us, obviously struggling a little with his English. Although the official language of Belize is English, the people speak Creole. At times, it has English intonations, but sounds like gibberish. Other times it sounds more Jamaican. It felt weird that everyone could understand us when we talked to each other, but we could not understand them. We are used to the exact opposite--in Guatemala we can basically understand everyone else, but we can talk to each other without anyone knowing what we are saying.

Our new friend said the people in Punta Gorda are very relaxed. You won’t be bothered here like you would be in Belize City, he assured. In Belize City our obvious foreign appearance would cause us problems, but not in Punta Gorda. “If you cut us open, we all have the same color blood,” so it shouldn’t matter. He invited us to stay with him for a very cheap price if we were to come to Punta Gorda again. I asked him if I could take a picture of him, but the bus was coming right as I asked. Next time we see each other, he said.

We left our friends behind to the beautiful beach town of Placencia. At breakfast in Placencia we learned that you can drink the tap water. The waitress brought us free glasses of water. “That’s from the tap,” she said. Apparently, they had been drilling for oil and came upon fresh water. Yes! Those of you back at home may not understand how great this is. I would consider yummy water from the tap like gold. I miss a few things about the US, and free water from the tap is high on that list.

Placencia: clear waters, blue sky, sandy beach. It's a hard life I tell you.

We snorkeled for two hours in the morning at a coral reef a half hour off the Placencia coast. Our tour guide led us around a small island, and pointed out the different fish and plants. He would dive deep under, swimming gracefully like a merman, to pick up starfish or get closer to the fish. Bryan and I were able to swim solo at the second coral reef we visited. I preferred this because I could gaze as long as I wanted at the fish passing by rather than follow someone else’s pace. I really liked one fish that was bigger and had a mixture of different grey hues that camouflaged well with one of the coral reefs.

We went straight from snorkeling to biking, or at least tried. We walked the streets asking everyone where we could find bikes. Each person had a different answer or recommended the one place that was closed. It was especially frustrating because everyone owns bikes there. After over an hour of searching, we reached a hotel that said they did have bikes. Finally! However, the two people in charge of renting the bikes weren’t there, and the man we talked to didn’t know the price per hour. Instead of coming up with a random price, he said he couldn’t rent them. Damn! Back to the search. We went to an ice cream shop to ask the friendly American owner who gave free samples galore about where we could find bikes. He said he would call the hotel to convince them to rent the bikes, but he had no luck. Bryan went around the corner to ask people, and found a 12 year old kid who had some business savvy and decided to rent the bikes for five Belizian dollars an hour.

On our bike search we came across this friendly cat climbing between the fence.

It was a shame we found the bikes late. It gets dark early in Belize, so we only could go for two hours. We returned in pitch black.

The road back to Placencia was barely visible unless cars passed by.

We rewarded ourselves with another fabulous meal at Omar’s Creole Grub. A lobster burrito and the fish dish of the night that were just as good as our Livingston meal. Different ingredients, the same mouthwatering reaction. If I may steal a term from Rachel Ray--yum-o!

Hell. Yes.

On our third day, we went to Dangriga, the Garifuna center of the country. At breakfast a man at the next table told us it was Columbus Day and we should go to the western part of the country for an interesting celebration. Short on time, we had to stay in Dangriga and celebrate like the locals--by doing absolutely nothing. Most restaurants and the Garifuna museum were closed, but we were exhausted from waking up very early two days in a row, so we were fine going to the beach to sleep. We later walked outside the center of town, saw a giant tarantula, which was probably the most exciting thing to report about our day in Dangriga.

Garifuna Memorial in Dangriga.

We went back to Punta Gorda to make sure we didn’t miss the morning boat back to Guatemala. We stayed at the same hostel and got a second chance to see our friend King. He was smoking a joint, preparing the fish he caught earlier that day. He asked if we wanted some fish and another piece of jewelry, but we had already eaten and declined both offers.

Smile! You're heading back home.

Our return to Guatemala went through with no problems. However, on the way back to Guatemala City from Puerto Barrios, the other city that you can get a boat back from Belize, took longer than expected. A protest on the street blocked the road. I am not sure what the protest was about, but the bus sat for about two hours waiting to pass. Taking a lesson from our awful Tikal bus ride, we paid a little extra and were in a bus that had full leg rests and played movies the entire ride. So although the wait was frustrating, we at least sat comfortably in an air-conditioned luxury.

Overall, for such little planning, I would say it was a successful trip.

El Pueblo has it Under Control

I remember complaining about the Madison police one night about two years ago because they took about 12 minutes to come to where two men were following a girl in the street. Anything could have happened within the first five minutes, I thought. I was mad since they are always in a hurry when they want to raid a bar or a house party, but when it comes to actual safety, they dilly dally their way on over to the potential crime scene (the death of Brittany Zimmerman particularly came to mind).

Well today, I would give those same Madison policemen a big standing ovation compared to what I just saw last night in Guatemala.

Antsy to get out of the white-wash, English speaking bars in most of Antigua, I decided to go to a bar close to my house that is out of foreigner-radar. The fact that I went with an English speaker, though counterproductive, will be ignored. (We spoke half in Spanish!)

Three men sat at the bar, and later a seemingly tranquil and harmless guy came in and sat at a table by himself. Emphasis on the word seemingly. He was wasted and his tranquility vanished. I didn't even noticed him stand up, and it seemed out of no where when he and one of the three men began to fight.

The poor bartender, a woman alone working with these drunken men, kicked them all out. They left, swaggering in all directions, and she ran to shut the door. Before we could finish our beer, the same drunk kid was initiating more fights, but with the owner of the bar, who I assume came on the bartender's request.

The bar owner brought his posse to make sure the drunk guy caused no more problems. They were not going to sit idly and watch him damage the bar. Oh no, they were taking control of the situation. A heavy-set man wrestled the kid down to the ground, as a lady in her pajamas hit him continuously over the head with a wooden flute. The kid really took a beating, whether deserved or not you can decide. The bartender took his own hits and kicks until his friend held him back. The heavy man kept him in place with a tight neck lock, and sat on the ground with him waiting for the police to arrive.

Only a few minutes after they called the police, they arrived. Now wait-- let's not give them credit just yet for getting to the crime scene in a mannerly fashion. What the Madison police lack in speediness, the Antigua police lack in any sort of usefulness.

It seems as though the ideal policeman in Antigua is one that could be confused as the Guatemalan Homer Simpson. Maybe add a darker hue, cut an inch off the beer belly, replace the love for donuts with tortillas--oh, but keep an affinity for beer. But most important of all--they must, without a doubt, have the same blank dumbfounded expression Homer makes. (Can anyone say "DOH!").

They stood there, listened to everyone's stories. "He hit everyone, even me!" Exclaimed our tough-cookie bartender. And can you guess what they did? These well-trained policemen who clearly have a big concern for the safety of Guatemalan citizens just stood there, as thick-boned man wrestled with the drunk on the ground. Not a single word, not any movement and no notes to scribble down. Picture Homer Simpson as a policeman, and you will imagine what I saw last night--no exaggeration.

And then, finally, a complete sentence! "You need to file a complaint." Well, I think we all know how much good that would do.

They let the drunk man go and if he hadn't screamed, "I'll come back to kill you tomorrow!" he could have been home free. The policemen walked near him, and recharged their gun. I didn't see much after, but I imagine they gave him a scolding, maybe even a slap on the wrist. Bravo! Job well done! You used the same negative reinforcement we use on a six-year old that said a dirty word.

"So, are they going to do anything?" I asked. The bartender's response: The police do nothing here.

No wonder people take matters into their own hands here, even if only with a big man and a wooden flute.

Living the Guatemalan life... even if only for a few days

As travelers, we love to say we were able to see the "real" place where we have traveled. Of course, many realities exist within one country. We don't all live the same, eat the same, speak the same, even within the same country.

Cities like Antigua, my current home, are most definitely not considered part of the "real" Guatemala because it is a huge tourist magnet. The guidebook specifically says if you are looking for the real Guatemala, Antigua is not the place to go. Currently, I am sitting in a cafe, where only one out of six people in the room is Guatemalan. The rest are from the United States, and more keep coming in! Honestly, it is sometimes hard to feel like I am in Guatemala. This has made it more difficult for me to completely surround myself with a pure Guatemalan experience, although I think I have definitely made an effort to meet and spend time with Guatemalans. It is so easy to meet Americans or foreigners that speak English because they are everywhere and I can communicate 100 times easier. BUT I am NOT here to meet Americans in Guatemala. If I wanted to do that, I should have just stayed in New York.

Luckily, I have my job that has let me see how the majority of Guatemalans really live. Yet I still feel like an outsider, peaking my head into their lives. I ask questions, take pictures, sometimes eat with them. And then I leave. The interaction is short lived and at times unfulfilling. The best experiences I have had with the families we work with are when I can talk with them for several days, not just in a short few hours in one day. When I went to Xix with my first and so far only big volunteer group, I had an amazing time going back and forth to the houses to talk with the families, interacting with the school children and speaking with the school director. I decided this past week to go back to visit the houses in their newly constructed homes, not only to see how the families are, but also to give them the pictures I had taken that they were so excited about.

The trip ended up being much more than expected. I don't know how else to explain it. Much more exciting? More interesting? More frustrating? More "real"? More informative? The list can go on. Read on and you will understand how much more ____ it was.

Bryan and my Scottish friend Suzanne joined me to Nebaj, the largest city in the Quiche area that is en route to Xix and another village Tzotzil where we built one house. Bryan tagged along to see Domingo's house in Tzotzil since he had raised money for the house while he still worked in Constru Casa. It seems whenever I travel with Bryan, we have little luck with transportation. On the way there, our bus broke down and we had to wait about an hour for a bus from the same company to come our way. This didn't cause much of a problem, we just arrived later in the evening.

The next day we woke early to get to Xix. We had to take a minibus to Rio Azul, and thought we would be able to eat breakfast there. Unfortunately there are no restaurants or comedores, so we went to a tienda, a regular store with basic canned items and cookie type goods. The owner had his mother make us eggs and opened canned beans so we could eat a decent breakfast. We hiked about an hour and a half uphill to Xix. The scenery is just as stunning as my first trip to Xix, but I got to see it at a much slower speed. We greeted each person we passed, and the children either stared, giggled or ran when they saw us.

Striking a pose in our hike to Xix.

When we reached Xix, Jose the APRODEFI school director, gave us the same tour of the school I had seen two months ago. After the tour, we went to see the houses. We first visited Mario, the little boy that was a little ham and wanted me to take every picture of him. The moment he saw us walking up the hill, his face lit up, but he hid his emotion with a shy smile. When I showed the three pictures I printed of him, he proudly showed his brother and sisters, and they all pointed at his face in the pictures and happily giggled. I felt a little bad that I didn't have any pictures for them, but no one else wanted to be in the pictures when I took them. All the families reacted the same when they saw their pictures.

We went back to the school and sat by the Civil War Memorial as Jose told us part of the war's history in Xix as I translated for Suzanne. The Quiche area was the most affected in all of Guatemala. The army came into the villages and slaughtered the villagers. Xix is no exception. The plaque is "in memory of the over 113 massacred, assassinated, and disappeared people. For those who died of hunger, thirst, and for those who suffered psychological traumas in the village of Xix during the armed conflict. From February 16 1982 to 29 of December 1996."

Plaque outside APRODEFI school in Xix, Quiche, Guatemala.

Xix's history is as brutally sad as ones in many other surrounding towns, but that does not make it less horrific. The army came to the village and forced everyone in town into one wooden house. They burned that house and the entire village down, killing over 100 people. Those that survived fled into the mountains. Jose was part of that group of survivors. They lived off whatever they could, and had to move locations every 15 days so the army could not find them. For three years, they remained out of their home village, eating the animals and plants they could find, with no salt, sugar or any added spices or seasoning. About 150 people, or half the population, returned after three years. The army was still in place, and whenever anyone left for work the army had to check their belongings to see what the villagers brought out and back into the community.

Now, Jose said, problems still exist. "Oppression without guns," added Bryan. Exactly, Jose said. The guns are gone, but now they don't give the indigenous communities the roads, schools, transportation system and general infrastructure they need. We had seen the lack of buses that pass by to go to Xix. Although we preferred to go on our hike, locals have no other options even if they need it. Xix, may even be more developed than other areas. They have two schools, one public and one private, and a fifteen minute walk leads to a health center. Some places don't even have a school or a health center near by.

The public school does not teach the whole history since it is run by the government. Bryan asked if people still hate the army. Jose said a without a doubt, "Yes, people hate the army."

Jose talked with a somber expression. His face showed no sadness, remorse or any kind of emotion. It was as if his expression said, this is what it is. We all sat listening, with the same blank expressions. "This is horrible," Suzanne said, shocked. "It really makes you appreciate what you have at home," a statement she repeated many times later in the trip.

After the Xix visit, we moved to Chajul, one of the other bigger cities in Quiche. It is a very traditional city, and I have never been so uncomfortable walking in the streets before. Everyone stopped, turned around to stare at us. We created a wave similar to ones you see in sports stadiums, but it was of confused faces rather than a joyful arm lift. It felt almost threatening. One lady asked us, "What are you looking for?" in the tone that didn't say, can I help you, but instead what the f*** are you doing here? Other women only approached us to sell us textiles. Although the city is mentioned in the guidebooks, the people acted as if they had never seen a white person before in their lives.

The next day we woke up early to make a bus to Tzotzil to visit Domingo at his house. We were prepared to stay the night because Jose said the bus that returns to Nebaj only leaves early in the morning and we would not be able to make it. When we asked about getting to Tzotzil, people had told us every possible time the bus could leave and where it would depart. "It leaves at 9 am from the second terminal (bus station)." "It leaves at 10." "10:30." "There is no second terminal." "There is only one bus that leaves at 12." "You have to find a pickup truck." "It's a minibus that leaves at 11:30 in the street."

And the actual way to get to Tzotzil? (Drum roll please.)

To get to Tzotzil, a pickup truck leaves from the second terminal at supposedly 9am. On Thursday morning, they decided to wait til the last minute to add two spare tires and had to move them various times in the back of the pickup truck. We left an hour late. When we arrived at Chajul to pick up more passengers, they waited again another hour for what seemed to me to be no reason. Again, they moved people's bags around. The guy asked me to get up about 10 times so he could put the same bag in a different spot each time. Frustrated, I got up to go for a walk since I knew it wouldn't leave anytime soon. I went to the church around the corner and stopped in the closest store for my favorite chocobanano.

Finally (!) an hour later, the bus was on its way to Tzotzil.

Traveling in the back of a pickup truck through the mountain ranges with a group of Guatemalans makes it sound romantic. It was far from it. Usually I like a back of the pick-up truck ride, but we were jammed in packed. I first sat down below everyone, but the smell was unbearable that I had to stand. The bars I held onto shoved into my stomach and arms, and my feet were stuck in ballet fourth position between various people sitting and standing. I would switch from one position to the next, but each time found an equally uncomfortable spot. The unpaved roads made us constantly bounce up and down and back and fourth. I kept thinking about the idea of "oppression without guns." There is no other way for people who live in these communities to get to the market and back home, except in an awfully uncomfortable ride on unpaved roads. Next time I visit Tzotzil I highly doubt I will return by public transportation. If the locals ever want to leave their town, they have no other choice. After two hours, we arrived at our destination with some bruises from banging into the bars.

Bryan and I are happy campers sitting squished in the back of a pickup truck.

Domingo's house was on top of a hill that looks out to the other side of the village. He hasn't moved to the new house yet because it has been too difficult to get the windows and doors to Tzotzil due to the recent rains and mudslides. We found it difficult to connect with Domingo, particularly because his Spanish was not the best. His first language is Ixchel, a Mayan dialect. The communication difficulties became very humorous when we asked Domingo any question, and his answer was always a shake of the head and "si." Domingo, why have you not moved into the house yet? Yes. Domingo, when will you move to the house. Yes. Domingo, when does the bus come? Yes. Domingo, would you please jump up and down and wiggle around for us? Yes. For yes or no questions I wondered if he actually meant his response.

Since we had come with no food and there were no places to eat nearby, we asked Domingo to prepare some food for us. To pass the time while we waited, we kicked a soccer ball around in the new house with Domingo and kids that live nearby. I wondered if we were being rude, but Domingo didn't seem to mind. He kicked the ball as hard into the walls as the kids. The boys wanted to kick the ball extremely hard in my direction. They erupted into laughter anytime it almost hit me. After kicking the ball around for about an hour, they gave us bowls of broth with pasta. I would say the nutritional value equaled about a two on a scale from one to ten, and didn't fill us up as much as we had hoped. How can they live on this, I thought. I'm hungry already and I ate a big breakfast.

We went for a walk through the town, and again were welcomes with stares, giggles and unexpectedly a massive following of children. One child after another joined our walk until we looked like the town parade, led by some strange looking white people. They all stared at us, but the moment we looked at them to talk, they blushed and turned away.

Suzanne started taking pictures of the kids, and they got just as excited as the Xix kids to see their faces in the camera's screen. I have never seen anyone so intoxicated by seeing their pictures. They huddled around whoever had the camera and pushed their way in to see the image. All of a sudden a burst of high-pitched squeals rose at the same time. They posed for us and whenever the camera came out they were ready for their beauty shots. I am surprised anytime the kids are so excited about getting their photos taken. I heard the indigenous population does not like you to take pictures of them because they believe it takes away their soul.

We went back for dinner at Domingo's house when it started to become dark. The children turned around with us. You could tell they trusted us more. They began talking to us and even held my hand. It began to downpour as we walked back, and they mostly wore short sleeve shirts and did not have umbrellas.

We passed an old man that asked us if we had seen his house. "Yes, It's very nice," Bryan said. But the man replied, "no, it serves no purpose." Apparently, he found out that the people who build houses arrived to town. It is very common for people to ask for a house whenever they hear their neighbors are living in a new brick home. The need is so much bigger than we can ever give, which is always frustrating.

Dinner that night was another light meal of eggs. I have never been a huge fan of the tortillas here. They are very popular and everyone eats them at almost every meal. But I find them pretty bland. However, that day I realized the appeal of tortillas. Although they have little nutritional value, they fill you up. When you don't have much food, tortillas can make you feel like you are satisfied. We sat talking with the family for a little before bed.

That night, hungry and tired, we slept on wooden planks. They family gave us blankets and shirts to act as pillows. I am a fussy sleeper and I had trouble falling asleep. I sat there exhausted but unable to pass out. I also was paranoid I was surrounded by bugs, and constantly scratched my legs, face, arms, and stomach. I did eventually fall asleep, but I woke up with many bites all over my stomach.

A wooden bed with no mattress is not my first choice for a bed, but at least we had a roof over our heads!

We got up at 5 to make the 6am bus Domingo and his family had told us about. Domingo came in the room and said two trucks had already passed and another one wouldn't leave until 8. Hmph. We began to walk, thinking if we got closer to a main road, more cars would pass by. We imagined an hour or two hour nice hike. Instead, we hiked for five hours. It began to drizzle a few minutes into our walk, and slowly increased to a steady down pour.

At first, I didn't mind. I came to Quiche not only to visit the families but also because I wanted to go hiking. By the time my shoes were soaked through, I had enough of this adventurous hike. My legs were exhausted, my stomach rumbled and no cars were in sight. I had officially turned into a crank-pot. By 10:30 we reached houses that had a store in front. We bought four breads and ate them like we had never seen food before in our lives.

They invited us into their house to warm up by the fire. Although the heat was exactly what our soaked selves needed, the smoke from the fire was almost unbearable in our eyes. Most houses do not have stoves, but use an open fire with no chimney, which causes many of the families' illnesses, especially for young children. Yet, they barely notice the smoke.

With only bread in our system, our stomachs grumbled for more food. We asked the lady if she could make us something to eat and offered to pay. They shut the door to keep out the cold wind and started heating up water for coffee. Five minutes after sitting down, I heard an engine vroom outside. We opened the door just in time to see a pickup truck pass by, and the lady didn't put much effort into trying to make it stop.

This is when my breakdown kicked its way out of its shell. I wanted to cry. I felt like screaming on top of my lungs. How could we have walked for five hours straight and not a single car passed, and within 15 minutes of sitting in a warm house the one and only truck goes by without us in it? My breakdown took form in hysterical laughter as I shakily said, "I want to cry. I just want to cry. How could this happen?!"

So instead of getting home earlier, we sat and ate our one egg per person with a cup of coffee. I walked back and forth between the fire and the doorway to make sure we would not miss the next truck or bus that passed. Within an hour, six trucks came heading toward Tzotzil, but nothing came that was going to where we wanted. We ate our eggs and dried off as much as possible until a big truck came our way. I waved it down like a madman. Finally, a spark of hope came our way that we wouldn't have to walk another 3 1/2 hours to Chajul.

The truck was used to transport goods and several people sat silently on sacks that probably held rice or beans. It looked like the trucks you see in movies that haul illegal immigrants. It was not the most comfortable ride. We were pushed up and down like we were in a bouncy house any time we went over a bump, but compared to what we had been through the last five hours, we were very happy with a tarp over our heads.

Give me a bumpy ride on the back of a truck over a soaking wet 5-hour hike any day.

We arrived to Nebaj with only enough time to quickly change into dry clothes and then ran back to the bus terminal to get on the last bus that would take us to Quiche. In Quiche we caught the last bus to Chimaltenango just by a second. In Chimaltenango we made the last bus to Antigua. It seemed in a moment our luck had flipped.

A medley of the last two weeks

My mind has undoubtedly turned to mush. This past week I have lost anything of importance. It started with my passport. I tried to find it one night to show a friend my visa picture I had for Spain that looks like a mugshot. I searched my room five times over with no luck. I figured it may be at work, although I had no memory of leaving it there. Luckily, in the morning before going to work I found it jammed in the back of my case that holds all my adapters. The night before I had opened the case each time I searched the room, but the color of the passport almost matches the case's color.

Next was my keys, which was nothing more than an annoyance just because I would have to shed some cash to buy the copies. That was until I realized that the key to my New York bike lock was attached. I would have had to saw off the lock and buy my fifth lock purchase when I returned back to the States. But it wasn't necessary since I found the keys under a pile of clothes in the corner of my room and immediately removed the key to my bike lock.

On Guatemala's día de independencia (Happy independence day a few days late!), I almost lost my umbrella in a minibus, but someone gave it to me as I was leaving. The next day, I put money in a mini-wallet. It probably held no more than $10, but that has yet to be found. And my most recent absent-minded loss was a scarf that I left at a construction site. Good thing volunteers left the site after me, and it is now sitting safely in my room.

I would like to know why my brain has diminished to one of an old lady with dementia. It would be nice to have some sort of excuse, like for example, an extreme intake of drugs. At least then a reasonable solution could maybe change this obnoxious pattern that has started... I could stop taking the toxic brain-eraser and all would be well. However, I have not inhaled, swallowed or absorbed any form of drugs beside alcohol, which I have not even had in large quantities (for the most part). Hopefully this is a weird phase of the week that will quickly disappear. Seriously, it's getting old REALLY fast.

Besides my bird brain, everything has been going well. This past week we (finally!) had two volunteers arrive after a three-week hiatus. A volunteer coordinator without her volunteers is a lonely life, especially because it meant I spent about 80% of the past weeks in the office sending e-mails to spread the word of Constru Casa to alternative spring breaks and possible volunteers. Let's just say this was not the most thrilling job, and any chance to get out of the office was a welcome field trip. I did get to visit a few communities to meet families that either have received or will be receiving a house in the future.

One of the trips was around the time I realized the flea problem in my other house had not gone away. I woke up stressed to find more bites that made me want to rip my skin off. The whole day I was plagued by thoughts of how to get rid of the little devils. I felt trapped and had no idea what to do. I felt like whatever I did made no difference and I would be stuck with them the rest of my life. It put a damper on a day that I could have otherwise really enjoyed.

My coworkers Stefan, Ranferi and I drove to a town close to El Nispero, which was our final destination. We met Nina, the director for an organization that provides health, education and social work services to remote communities, including El Nispero. Since the roads had turned to a muddy mess in the rainy season we had to take a different pick-up truck toward the town that could pass the roads with no problem. However, the truck could not take us directly to the houses because the roads basically were nonexistent halfway through our trip. The rain washes this road away every rainy season. We had to walk the rest of the way. Not a problem, I thought. The view was incredible, so it was like a day of hiking while I worked. I did not realize we would have to hike for about six more hours going from house to house.

Nina pointed out a waterfall that is El Nispero's main water source during the dryer summer months. She told us to pay attention to how much more we had to walk to reach the first house. About a half hour later, we arrived at the house of Sara, one of the women who works on Nina's project. From there, we had another half hour walk to meet the first of five families that would receive a Constru Casa house. Our day of hiking that was a hassle is the reality for these families that have to walk a long distance during the dry season to get their most basic need, water.

This family's house looked like many I have seen since working in Guatemala. It was a two-room structure that included a kitchen and a bedroom where the whole family crams in to sleep. They did not even have a bathroom of any sort. As far as I know, I had never met a family before that completely lacked any form of a toilet. The other four houses we visited that day had at least a hole in the ground that made up for a toilet, but this family did not even have that.

Despite visiting the families and seeing all that they do not have, I still was preoccupied about my bug issue. I realized how obscure my problem was compared to the daily problems these families face. If the worst thing they had to deal with were fleas, I have a feeling they would be extremely thankful. I felt selfish and foolish, but I couldn't stop thinking about what to do. I was like a bratty child that could only think of herself amidst other people's suffering. What impresses me so much about Guatemalans is that no matter their circumstances, they always give the impression that things could be worse. Whether they actually feel that way or not, I am not sure.

Since the volunteers' arrival last weekend, I have been to the work site every day to visit them, except Wednesday, Guatemala's Independence Day. Constru Casa works with a school in a town called El Esfuerzo. They built a house for the director of the school and his family. Miriam the director's wife is talkative friendly lady who felt it her duty to make sure that me and the volunteers stayed safe this week. She walked us every day to the site, even when I said it wasn't necessary. She insisted, saying it was not safe and Ranferi would get mad at her if anything happened to us. She invited me back to her house a couple of times for food. It still amazes me that although these families have so little, they always try to give back to friends and guests. It almost makes me feel guilty, but at the same time I don't want to be offensive and say no.

On Tuesday, I asked Sarbelio one of the masons how he planned to celebrate independence day. I did not get the answer I expected. "What is there to celebrate?" he said. "We are independent from Spain, but we aren't independent." He said the only people who have power are the small percentage at the top. "To me it's a day that I don't have to work, and nothing more," he said. I didn't know how to react. I wondered what he thinks of me, a well off American who has the luxury to travel all over the world and see places in his own country he will never see in his lifetime.

Although Sarbelio did not think much of Independence Day, I was excited to break up the week with a day off. I went on my first trip to the coast in Monterrico with Bryan. We woke up at 4am, since they had told me the day before that the direct chicken bus to Monterico leaves at 5 in the morning. They apparently did not think it was important to mention that the bus does not leave on holidays. Instead, we had to switch buses three times, which, according to the guidebooks, is such a headache you should instead pay over double the price for a private bus. In actuality, it was slightly annoying, but not as difficult as they made it seem.

We spent most of the day as most Guatemalans, relaxing watching the parades go by. It's mostly students wearing different outfits, dancing or playing instruments. Guatemala also seems to love fireworks that don't actually have a colorful explosion. You can hear the fireworks throughout the year, not just on Independence Day. Personally, I can't stand them. They are in no way beautiful since they have no color and they sound exactly like gunshots. The first time I heard them in Guatemala, I froze in a panic, thinking someone was shooting.

Since we were on the coast, we naturally thought we could go for a swim. However, Monterico has violent waves that drag you under, and it is pretty dangerous. One of the waves pulled me in and dragged me right into Bryan, and I knocked him over like a bowling pin. By the end, we were full of sand. Later, we could wash off and go for an actual swim when we went on a boat tour through Monterico's natural reserve. We went through a shallow river that was covered by trees that made a túnel natural. My one disappointment of the day was we never saw the turtles that Monterico is famous for. But overall, it was a very successful Independence Day.