To keep you busy...

To make up for my extreme absence I have just added more pictures on facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2889395&id=8643076&l=f33f741ad0

 

Stories coming soon, promise!

The End of the Unlucky Streak

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saved!

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

Want to learn Spanish?

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

A Case for the Shorties

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

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

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

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

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

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

Todos Santos Video

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

Don't Drink and Ride

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

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

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

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

 

People played games in the tents until late at night.

Mmmm.  Chocolate covered strawberries.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Ready. Set. Go!

"Waaaaahhhaaaaaaa!"

Men close by help a fallen horseman.

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

Wake up!  You have a race to win!

Men's typical traje.

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

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

 

Crowds surrounded the street where the horses raced.

 

Just watching, I was scared for them.

 

The face and belly hanging out say everything.

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

Atop the Indian Nose

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

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

 

Can you spot the nose?

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

 

Replenishing on liquid fuel. 

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

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

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

 Our full view of Lake Atitlan

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

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

 The way down was much easier!

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

 View from below the Indian Nose.

Salsa Groovin'

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Quick Look at Garifuna Country

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before.

And after. Hungry much?

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

Two early morning Victorias chase the hangover away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hell. Yes.

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

Garifuna Memorial in Dangriga.

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

Smile! You're heading back home.

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

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

El Pueblo has it Under Control

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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