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.

Photos up on Facebook

If you want to see more pictures from Guatemala, check out the link on facebook: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2768486&id=8643076&l=b0706625ee.

They are completely out of order due to some uploading problems I had yesterday on my home internet, but you get the idea.

Tikal Trip Cont.

Pardon the post delay! I had a busy week filled with family visits in the communities, a bike purchase, and (very unfortunately) I was STILL removing my bed critters. I just moved into a new apartment with Bryan, my old coworker who joined me in Tikal, and three other Guatemalans. After three washes, a doctors appointment, one fumigation session, my own spray down with a store bought leave-me-alone-bugs spray, a move and almost $200 spent, I truly truly truly hope this story comes to an end.

The first night I slept in the new house, and I woke up with bites that I didn't remember from before. The nights after, I have tucked my shirt into my pants, my pants into my socks so they couldn't bite, and I have not had any problems. I'm hoping I am being paranoid. If not, I am just screwed. On behalf of my readers who probably don't want to keep hearing stories about bugs in my room, I will kindly ask them to get moving so I can share more exciting and pleasant stories. If you have been in a similar situation, please let me know what you did to save your skin. I would like by next week not to look like I have some sort of skin disease.

On a happier note, and before I continue with my Tikal story, I would like to give a big thank you to Mr. Peter Deisinger who bought my beautiful bike Betty in Madison. It is with your help (ehem, cash) that I could buy Betty's successor: Bob, yet another cheap, used bike. Although Bob lacks Betty's style and is definitely her less equal successor, he sort of works. The gears are slightly broken. But hey, you can't ask much from a bike that costs less than $50. Bob and I just went for our first ride on Saturday and I think we will share many more lovely sunny days together.

Ok, now back to Tikal...

After our sketchy ride from the policemen, we went searching for the hotel with the cheapest accommodation. Tikal has only three hotels, so they can jack up the prices as they wish. We stayed in a tent that costs $10 a night, per person. That may not sound extreme, but when you think about how much we spent on an overnight 10 hour bus ride ($18.75), you realize how expensive that actually is in terms of Guatemalan prices. It was good we were exhausted because the heat and somewhat comfortable air mattress did not stop us from passing out right away. Unfortunately for our sleepy bodies, we woke up at 4 in the morning to watch the sunrise from the tallest pyramid.

Our alarm went off and I was warmly greeted by a pounding headache and a talking stomach. We had bought snacks the night before, but couldn’t get sandwiches because everything was closed by the time we realized we should get food for the next day. We clearly did not plan well as we also forgot to bring a flashlight, a necessity when you are going for a walk in the middle of the night in a place where street lights are about 17km away. Luckily, we could not enter without a guide that early in the morning, so we relied on another group's flashlights.

We walked in complete darkness, only able to see a few feet ahead. I asked the guide why we consider the Mayans one tribe when today there are many Mayan dialects throughout Guatemala. He gave me a very brief overview of the history, explaining the Mayans split into many different tribes to what have now become the various dialects. In his extremely brief version of the history, first came the Olmecs, then the Mayans, then the Aztecs. He said he would explain more later, so I didn't ask why they are still called Mayan communities when the Aztecs lived after them. However, I didn't realize we would later not be part of the group since we didn't pay for a guide--we just had to enter with one at four in the morning.

We climbed to the top of the tallest pyramid via a staircase, which was somewhat anti-climatic. I expected to walk up the actual pyramid, but I don't think it is even possible since part of it is still covered by the ground.

At the top, everyone sat silently, looking ahead into the dark emptiness. Any sound was abruptly shushed. Sitting in silence in the dark probably does not sound like the time of your life, but it actually was really incredible. You could hear the jungle wake up all around you as the gorillas roared their morning wake-up call and birds chirped and flapped their wings not far from where we sat. The gorillas and monkeys sounded incredible and their voices echoed throughout the jungle.

With the sun, the fog slowly rose, and our view evolved from pitch black to dimly lit fog covering blurred out trees to the entire jungle ahead of us. Sometime in, our tour guide pointed out one of the visible pyramids directly ahead of us in the distance. Little by little, more of the pyramids became visible as the fog lifted and the sun came out. When the view was clear, you could see the expansive jungle that looked like it never ended.

Our different morning views of the Jungle at Tikal

Bryan and I split up with the tour group and hiked the pyramids. Although our only educational guide was our tour book that gave us limited information, I think it was better we went on our own because we were able to hike all the pyramids we wanted and go at our own drowsy pace. I was happy that the other pyramids did not have a staircase that led to the top so we climbed the pyramid that was actually built thousands of years ago. One of the pyramids had a rope in front with a sign advising us not to pass, but an American guy told us to go up when no one was around. He climbed it the night before to watch the stars come out and he said it was worth it. He was definitely right. The view from the top was better than even the tallest one. You had a perfect 360-degree view of all the pyramids around.

Up to no good and climbing the forbidden pyramid. Shh... we were never there.

One of the pyramids was basically at a 90-degree angle with a ladder to climb to the top that was just as steep. I am usually not so scared of heights, but looking down from the top made my stomach drop. I made sure to keep as far from the edge as possible. Climbing back down was worse than going up.

The steep ladder to the top.

I smile for the camera as I carefully make my way down.

It’s such a cliche to say, but I’m going to go ahead and say it: I can’t even imagine how the pyramids could have been built at that time. I know it’s what everyone thinks and says, but really, how can you not wonder. That feeling is completely intensified when you see them tower over the jungle’s tree line in person.

A Tikal pyramid in all its glory.

By 11, we were beat. We toured all the pyramids, except the furtherest one that the tour book said did not compare to the rest. We ate lunch from a food stand, a much cheaper alternative to the overpriced restaurants. We were like zombies, and definitely needed to pack our body with more calories for some energy. As we enjoyed our desert of a cut open coconut, a tour guide approached us to sell us tickets to the zip-line. We calculated that if we went, we would have no money for the bus, but we decided to go and use a debit card or take out from the ATM later.

We went in the afternoon, which was not the smartest idea since it’s rain season and rains every afternoon. In route to the zip line, it began to downpour. The rain continued when we arrived, but stopped a half hour later. It didn’t cause any problem, but the monkeys all went to hide from the rain. The guide said you usually don’t see them, but you can usually hear them while zooming through the zip line. The monkeys started to come out on one of our last lines.

Bryan and I both had an awkward start. We stopped ourselves much earlier than necessary and needed to pull ourselves part of the way to the next platform, but after some time we got the hang of it. Our instructors showed us how to go upside down, but when I needed to pull myself up to stop myself, I lost balance and helplessly flopped around. On the longest line, we both went with an instructor so we could go face forward, “like superman!” This was my favorite because we had a great view looking straight down at the jungle.

Our next stop was El Remate, a city we passed on the way to Tikal that is right on the lake. This time, we easily got a free ride just as we left the zip line area. It was the first of several problem-free hitched rides for the rest of the weekend, a welcome change to the extreme difficulty we had the day before.

El Remate is a tranquil town, with little activity. We walked around after arriving in search of food. We saw more foreigners than I had expected in such a small town, but because it is on the way to Tikal I can see why we had so many gringo spottings. By the way, the term gringo here is not used offensively. It has pure descriptive purposes, so don’t be offended!

We ended up at a comedor, a restaurant that has typical Guatemalan food at an economical price. It is not abnormal that a comedor is located at a family’s house, and this one was no different. However, we did not expect our food to be prepared at homestyle speed. The lady did not have anything pre-made as most restaurants and comedors do. She cooked everything the moment after we ordered, so we waited about an hour for our food. The huge portions made up for the wait.

The next day we rented bikes and followed the main road toward the Belize border. The bikes were $7.50 for half the day, so you can imagine the shape they were in. The gears did not work, which at first was not a problem on the flat terrain. However, my body got a hard wake-up call when we hit a hilly area. With my bike on a high gear, I couldn’t make it, and I had to walk up the second half of the first hill. I know a good workman never blames his tools, but I am not a good workman. My weak, unworked-out legs were as much to blame as the old broken bike. Bryan and I switched bikes since his was on a lower gear. Although it was easier going up the hills, the bike was too high and I had trouble reaching the pedals, so we switched back soon after.

The easy flat terrain was a good warm-up before reaching the monster hills.

After a good ass-whipping from the hills, it was time to head back toward a small lake we had passed earlier. We went for a swim to cool off our sweaty bodies and then it was back to the road. After some time on the road, we were ready to eat, but there was no food in sight. We stopped at the side of the road for a coconut that young boys were selling in front of their house. They told us if we wanted to eat at a restaurant we would have to turn back around or bike another 30 minutes in the direction we were going. Interested in seeing what was further, we kept going and kept an eye out for a place to stop and eat.

A quick cool down in this small lake was warmly welcome after biking the hills.

Before we could find any food, Bryan’s bicycle pedal fell off. He said he could somehow attach it and keep going. I trusted his creative abilities and went ahead, but I was stopped by a couple on a motorcycle that told me he was stranded. I turned around and found Bryan continually attempting to cycle as his pedal fell out after a few seconds. With no other choice, we had to hitch a ride back to El Remate. We ended our day with a swim in the lake, and then it was time to go back home.

Bryan enjoyed a late afternoon swim before going back to Antigua.

I would like to say our way back to Antigua was uneventful and carefree. I would have loved to write about a comfortable bus ride in which I passed out and rested well, but we had no such luck. Like the great savers we are, we decided to go for the cheapest bus ride. It was 40 queztales cheaper than the bus we took to get to Flores, which sounds like a lot, but that equals $5.

As we ate dinner, a nice coach bus passed by, and Bryan said, “Take a look at luxury, because it is the last time we will be seeing it tonight.” We did not know how opposite of luxury we would be getting ourselves into. The bus was an old tattered wreck. It was basically the coach bus equivalent to a chicken bus. To make matters even worse, we had the most uncomfortable seats on the bus--all the way in the back with no reclining seats. The chair in front of mine was broken and leaned at an angle, so I had no leg room whatsoever.

We were hysterically laughing at first. The situation was just so ridiculous there was nothing else to do. Our laughter stopped as soon as the bus started moving. The seat in front of me jiggled and constantly hit my knee. Plus, the driver was an absolute lunatic and drove extremely fast on very curvy roads. I cringed anytime oncoming traffic came our way because I was sure we would hit something. I couldn’t stay in place and struggled between not swaying into the seat next to mine and finding a comfortable position for my legs.

A seat opened up three hours into the drive, and I moved to leg space and relative comfort. Unfortunately the man next to me decided he needed more room and took up almost half my seat. I tried to forcefully push him off. I poked him, shoved him, nudged him, but he slept soundly. Finally, he woke up and I told him I couldn’t sleep because he was in my seat and I had no space. “Me?” He replied. No, the man sitting completely on the other side of the bus, I wanted to scream, who else but you! If there is one thing that gets on my nerves is stupid questions, and he decided to push my buttons even more. “Are you tired?” What do you think, sir???? I’m on the bus ride from hell with a man next to me that is determined to push his way into my personal seat, making me extremely uncomfortable and in no way able to sleep. “Yes,” I said. “I am very tired.”

I did finally get some sleep, but I was in no way well rested. Note to self: never take a bus that is $5 cheaper for an eight-hour ride. In Guatemala, $5 goes a LONG way.

How to exhaust almost all forms of roadway transportation in three days

The end of the flea/bed bug/pest dilemma came in good timing. The smell of my room right after it was sprayed, sterilized and free of the little critters creeped out the door even when it was closed. Residue of whatever they showered my room with stayed on the floor like a thin slimy coating, and my mattress was still damp from the spray down. Luckily, I was gone all day for work for Constru Casa’s 400th house celebration and came home quickly after just to pack my bags for my weekend trip to Tikal, the site of famous Mayan ruins.

My coworker Bryan and I had planned on going for about a week, but since I was plagued by the attack of the mysterious night biters, I had done little research. Bryan, as far as I know, had no such excuse. So after the 400 house celebration, we ran to the office to figure out when the last bus left Guatemala City for the eight hour ride to Flores, the alternative trip to boarding a more expensive plane.

Form of Transportation #1--The Chicken Bus
Our well-organized journey began at 6:30 pm when we jumped on the chicken bus to Guatemala. The driver and the bouncer/doorman (official title unknown) cram as many people in as possible to make the most money. This means you are in for an extremely uncomfortable ride. People try to pass through the tiny aisles, so if you are sitting at the end, you most likely need to constantly get up to let them by. The awkward crotch-in-the-face situation happens every now and then as the bouncer/doorman pushes his way through the crowd to get money from the new passengers. It’s not the most enjoyable ride, but its bearable because it only lasts 40 minutes.

Form of Transportation #2--The Negotiated Taxi Ride
The moment you step off the bus, the taxistas hound after you. Before leaving, we had asked the bus driver about how much a cab should cost to the Flores terminal--30 Quetzales ($3.75) he said. The first taxi driver that got to us told us he would charge 50Q. Arguing that it was too high, we talked to the next driver who coincidentally Bryan had talked to about soccer on an earlier Guatemala city trip. He offered us 30Q. We walked to his car when taxista #1 threw himself in front of the door, pushing taxista #2 around. “You’re stealing my customers,” he yelled. “25, I’ll give you 25!” Thankfully taxista #2 looked like a bear in facial features and size, and he easily pushed taxista #1 away. Bryan later told me that taxista #2's bear features were how he remembered him. It’s not every day you meet a Guatemalan of such stature. After the scurry and halfway through our drive, taxista #2 said, “You know, it’s 30Q per person.” I was not too happy about that, and I argued until I realized I was getting nowhere. While I sat agitated in the backseat, Bryan, always the “football” enthusiast, chatted the driver up about soccer the rest of the way. When we arrived, we paid 30Q in exact change with no complaints from taxista #2.

Form of Transportation #3--The Semi-Luxury Coach Bus
Our overnight bus ride was uneventful. We fell in and out of sleep as cheesy 80s Spanish rock played in the background. We woke up to a completely different landscape in the background. Antigua is surrounded by mountains, whereas the northern Peten area is flat and dotted with random hills that look like humps of a camel. I loved the area, and tried to find an excuse to come back for work. However, most of the houses we saw were intact and stable brick structures. It seemed as though Constru Casa’s help was not desperately needed in the areas we passed.

I was instantly struck by Flores as we got off the bus. Flores has a very distinct ambiance from Antigua. Although both have a very tranquil feel, I personally think Flores’ streets have much more flavor. Yes, Antigua’s colonial style is beautiful, but to me the view is what makes it really striking. Flores’ surrounding lake gives it a beach town atmosphere and its buildings have much more varied style. They stand at different levels and do not all have the same facade as the buildings do in Antigua. Both Flores and Antigua are very colorful cities, but Flores’ buildings have much more vibrant colors. However, the activity in Flores is lacking. We saw few people as we walked the streets.

We ran into a man who made Rastafarian figures made from coconut.

The beautiful streets of Flores are quite a sight.

Bryan models in front of a colorful wall in Flores.

We walked around the city in search of breakfast then went for a swim. Bryan swam to the other side of the lake as I did small laps back and forth. After about 10 laps I was out of breath and would take breaks. With Bryan’s intense workout and my warm-up under our belts, we dried ourselves off and went to find more food to fill our hungry bellies.

We thoroughly enjoyed our breakfast after a 10 hour bus ride that we asked for a second portion.

The water was perfect temperature--a great way to cool down from the extreme heat.

Form of Transportation #4--The Almost Unsuccessful Hitch-Hike Ride
We stopped in the bus station for information to Tikal, but decided we’d try our luck to hitch a ride. With our thumbs in the air, we walked toward the main road that led to Tikal. We were having no luck, but once we got on the main road, we knew we would be fine. The strong sun beat down on our shoulders, so I took out my umbrella to protect my fair skin. Once on the main road to Tikal, car after car after car passed and we were rejected time and again. For about two hours, we stood by a gas station, hot, sweaty and pissed off for waiting so long.

We went to the airport down the road sure a bus would depart at some point. Instead, we talked to cab drivers willing to give us a ride for a hefty price, of course. So it was back to relying on our thumbs on the road.

Inching down the highway, we were drained from the sun and lack of sleep. A few men at another gas station informed us to wait by a nearby mall entrance to find a car much easier. That was probably the best advice we received all weekend. Within 5 minutes of waiting there, a car picked us up.

Form of Transportation #5--The Public Minibus
The truck dropped us off halfway to Tikal because they were headed in the other direction. Quickly after, we were on a public van, or a minibus, that went to the entrance of Tikal National Park. Unfortunately, that was another 17km to where we actually needed to go. They said they would take us for 40Q/head, but of course we were too cheap to accept.

Bryan wanted to walk it. I was not too keen on the idea, but figured a passing car could pick us up on the way. However, the guard at the entrance said it was forbidden because jaguars could hunt us down. He told us to wait for the next minibus. Although he wasn’t sure when it would arrive, he was sure it would come soon. Well, a bus did pass by within 20 minutes, but it was a private tour so we weren’t allowed to join.

Even after only a month of being in Guatemala, I have quickly learned when a Guatemalan says he is sure another bus is coming, you should trust your instinct that it is not. I don’t know if they outright lie, they truly believe what they say or they just don’t want to admit they don’t know. Either way, I do know not to listen. When a bus is supposedly coming in 10 minutes, that means it’s coming in a half hour to an hour. If it will “come soon,” an hour later you will learn that the last one of the day already passed. Therefore, after the private bus drove by without a care that we were stranded, we asked a man nearby at a restaurant if he would drive us in exchange for some cash.

Form of Transportation #6--A Ride from Guatemala’s Finest
The man didn’t seem to want to drive, but he talked to two policemen who said they would give us a ride on the back of their motorcycles. I was a little wary when I asked how much they wanted and one responded, “whatever you like.” “Well, how about nothing!” I said. Our options were minimal, so we climbed on.

Lucky for me, I rode with the chubby, sketchier policeman--not by choice. As we rode away, he said to the men we passed, “aren’t you jealous.” That earned him one point for a certified stand-up policeman. He drove slowly, far behind the other guy, which made me even more nervous. He earned another point when he said, “don’t be afraid to hold on tighter.” Ick.

Thankfully, Bryan’s policeman stopped every now and then to show him the monkeys and toucans in the jungle. Officer Creep began to do the same for me and told me how lucky we were to be getting rides from them. According to him, it was like our own personal tour.

We were so lucky that just before entering our final destination, they stopped because “the guard won’t like to see us ask you for money.” Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the fine policemen of Guatemala. I thought it was whatever price we wanted, but I wasn’t going to argue with a man with a gun. I don’t even know how many points these truly kind and selfless policemen earned for charging us. In total, we paid 5Q more than if we had just taken the simple direct bus. As Bryan put it, we have more than 5Q worth of memories.


More on Tikal and our many more forms of transportation, coming soon...

The plight of my mysterious "amiguitos"

With over two weeks being back from Xix, I have a daily reminder of my cheerful trip to the far away town in the mountains. While the memories remain pleasant, I can't say so much for their reminder. Since then, I have woken up every morning to an irritatingly uncomfortable itching sensation that increases daily as red bumps line my legs, stomach and arms. It's as if my bites are the microscopic form of the mountainous ranges of the Nebaj area that introduced these buggers into my life. That may sound poetic, except I'm red, itchy and down right annoyed.

My first thought: bed bugs. So coming back from Xix, I isolated my bag in a corner of the room and took everything to the cleaners as soon as possible. We have no hot water in my house, so the washer is basically useless for solving the problem.

Still, the bugs were feasting while I was fast asleep.

Next stop, the doctor. I went to a nice private hospital to figure out what exactly I should do. I could keep going by trial-and-error to see how I could get rid of them, but that costs money. The doctor examined my bites and said I have fleas. I thought fleas were just for pets? She also looked at my head to make sure I didn't have lice. I felt the humiliation kids do on their first day of camp during head-checks. Thank goodness I was lice-free.

So I asked the doctor what to do. She instructed me to clean all my clothes, bedding, etc. in hot hot water. Fine, but what about the mattress, I asked. She evaded my answer, telling me I have to get rid of it. There is a spray, she said, but it is toxic to use. I kept pressing her for the name of this toxic spray, since I will be away this weekend, but she would not give in. I felt a sense of dread, not knowing how to completely get rid of my fleas. It would be a vicious cycle of cleaning my clothes, but the bugs would stay and keep biting me. To make me even more stressed, she said if I don't fix the problem soon, I could get an infection from being bitten so much.

I walked out of the office, wanting to cry. I get to the register to pay for my visit and they told me with the medicine, my total was 500Q. The sound of 500 made my heart sink. Even though that's about $60, the price just sounded so exorbitant. I walked out on edge, with tears running down my eyes. Now, of course, I could have thought rationally. I could have easily asked someone what the spray is, called an exterminator or just bought a new mattress. However, I was in the middle of a panic attack, and rational did not quite register. I'll skip the details of my hysterics, but I did eventually call the exterminator.

He came to my house yesterday 2 hours late, and told me I did not have fleas or bed bugs. It's some other bug that stays in the ceiling and walls and comes down to feed while I'm asleep. He says it probably came from Xix. Well, whatever this bug is, tomorrow he should be arriving at 8 in the morning to fumigate my room. This morning I lugged my entire wardrobe and bedding to the cleaners thanks to the help of my nice coworker. He carried the heavy bags, and I struggled with my pillows and blankets.

Wish me luck! Hopefully tomorrow I will be free of my "amiguitos." I have no need in my life for "little friends," I am small enough as it is!

The grass is greener in Guatemala

Last weekend, I only had time to go on a trip for a day because Saturday was the Xix group's goodbye party. On Sunday I headed out with four couchsurfers to lake Atitlan. As we were on our way, we decided to go on a big detour to Chichicastenango for the famous Sunday market. Two of the girls on the trip were only in Guatemala a few days and wanted to see as much as possible in their short time here, so we allotted only an hour at the market. I wanted to stay much longer. The colorful fabrics and animal face-shaped masks were so beautiful, but I could only quickly glance at everything I passed. My wallet thanks the others for only allowing me to stay for a short time, but I will be back to empty my pockets to the Guatemalan economy.

After maybe less than an hour, we boarded back on the pickup truck to San Pedro, a city on Lake Atitlan. We exited the highway, passing small towns. We headed uphill until we were in the clouds. Once we were at the top, we drove down the other side of the mountain, and suddenly we were hit by an incredible view of the lake. At the same time we all sang our "ooh's" and "aah's." Picture paradise, and you will see Lake Atitlan. It is one of the sights that blows you away, and as we drove further down the mountain, each angle of the lake is just as beautiful as the next. One forested mountain after another surrounds the lake that glows a bluish-green tone. Although the lake is actually not very clean, from above you could never tell.

One of the girls and I hopped in the back of the pickup to take pictures, which sadly came out mediocre because of the moving truck. We passed through towns around the lake, and every single person we passed, we happily said, "Hola! Buenas tardes!" They all responded with a hello and a smile, and I don't think we missed a single person we passed.

Our first stop in San Pedro was an Israeli hummus store with not so impressive hummus. We ate and chatted, when it began to downpour. Lucky for us, the rain stopped soon after we finished, so we could walk around the city and go swimming in the lake. San Pedro is a very hippy tourist city. Many of the buildings are made from bamboo and shoeless hippies line the main road to sell hand crafted jewelery.

We had come to the lake for a swim, but I of course, forgot my bathing suit. I decided to swim in my underwear, which was slightly difficult because my bottom was a thin material and basically see-through. To make matters a little more difficult, a group of boys were listening to music right where we went for a swim.

I strategically covered a wrap around my waist, and threw it on the rocks as I jumped into the water. I was so relaxed swimming backstroke to look up at the sky and see the mountains in the corner of my eye. It was a moment of pure bliss.

We left at 6:30, just as it got dark. With just minutes in the car, it again began to downpour. The rain was so hard, it was almost impossible to see outside. With no choice, we headed back up and down the mountain. The rain made the dirt roadway into mud, and we passed through a few rain rivers. Glad to not be driving, I fell asleep to the sound of the rain.