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.