Hello Honduras. I like you, I feel you should know that. I like that your people are friendlier than Guatemala and that the visa officials seemed to like my name a lot. I like that you are slightly cheaper than Guatemala. I really really love how the buses are not those crowded minivans but the old yellow school ones, and that I don't have to argue to get a better price. I pay the same as everyone else, and don't have to worry. But oh, Honduras, you could be treating me a bit better.
It's nothing big, as traveling affairs go, and I won't bore you with the details, although complaining about bad journeys could be raised to the level of a sport among backpackers. Just a few wrong buses one day after a early early start; the next, the one hotel in town that might have fitted my budget looking extremely condemned; a lot, a lot of walking with a backpack that I know has got heavier since Texas; and today, it is raining. And my hostel moved. I think that there should be a rule that when a hostel moves, it notifies Lonely Planet, who use their extreme superpowers to magically change the map in every one of their guidebooks. So this particular set of circumstances has meant that most of my time in Honduras so far has been spent inside a bus. Not lounging on the beach as I would like to, although hopefully that will come soon. Not in this weather though.
In a further note, I think my Spanish is actually getting worse. I wonder how this is possible. Maybe my brain has turned to mush.
Honduras has been particularly beautiful though, from the bus windows. Lots of pointy blue hills with trees on them, the tops obscured by clouds. In Omoa, a beautiful bay with a calm dark sea. Today, gashs of red earth between the hills. And a church with a basketball court. Odd. This is old pirate country, exciting times. Back then, this area of the world was bursting with riches and ripe for the picking, overrun with outlaws and slightly-more-legal outlaws called privateers. All the Europeans seemed to be at it; Spain in the lead, but competing with England, France and Holland, all who wanted a slice of the rich fruit pie called America.
Tomorrow, if it hopefully stops raining, I will take trip to a Garifuna village. Hopefully there I will be able to track down some of the culture that I've read about but seems hidden, below the surface. All I've seen of the Garifuna so far are people on the buses that have darker skin than the rest and a few sellers of coconut bread. It's been hard to pin down any sort of culture, even in Livingston, although there I saw some of the older people dressed in gingham and hats. It was very cool in a Doctor Dolittle sort of way. If it is still raining, maybe I could continue the policy of comforting myself with chocolate, crochet and the internet.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Water and walking; or, Guatemala for now.
My Lonely Planet Guide to Central America makes the walk from Livingston, Guatemala, to Los Siete Altares sound very easy. It does say that it takes one and a half hours, but I scoffed at that. Who takes one and a half hours to walk somewhere? They must be dawdling. I´m a Wellingtonian. We eat long walks for breakfasts, literally sometimes.
Lonely Planet did not mention that although it is a ´beach walk´, there is actually very little beach to walk on. Also, about every 20 metres or so, there´s a little inlet that is bridged by extremely dodgy bits of driftwood. This makes the whole thing a lot more like an obstacle course. The weather as well, may not in fact be Carribean, but involve a light gale coming off the sea that reminds one of Wellington on a better day. And it is one and a half hours at a good solid pace. It may have been pleasant, apart from the above, and the rubbish strewn along the shore. There seemed to be a lot of single shoes.
There was, however, a nice waterfall at the end. And then I had to walk back.
Herein lies the pitfalls of solo travel. Traveling alone as a female does indeed raise eyebrows in this part of the world, including from other backpackers. And of course random guards at ruins and places, who question, "Donde esta sus amigos?" No, solo una. But this doesn´t really bother me. So far I´ve felt surrounded by others, quite safe, and actually glad to be able to go my own way. It´s just the little things, eating meals alone. And not having anyone to be grumpy at when I get tired and hungry and have to walk a really long way. It´s like what they say about atheists and God.
Anyhow, I better be fast. I feel like they want to close the internet place. So, Rio Dulce was large and wet. I went paddling on it and saw birdlife galore. And an otter! Wow. Livingston is a seaside town that´s pretty nice for a few days. It has the Garifuna culture, which I´m expecting a lot more of as I head down the coast. Let you know about it then. Which is what I´ll be doing tomorrow at 5am, catching the old ferry to Honduras. Oh joy. For now, back to my hammock. Yes, I sleep in it. Saves money.
Lonely Planet did not mention that although it is a ´beach walk´, there is actually very little beach to walk on. Also, about every 20 metres or so, there´s a little inlet that is bridged by extremely dodgy bits of driftwood. This makes the whole thing a lot more like an obstacle course. The weather as well, may not in fact be Carribean, but involve a light gale coming off the sea that reminds one of Wellington on a better day. And it is one and a half hours at a good solid pace. It may have been pleasant, apart from the above, and the rubbish strewn along the shore. There seemed to be a lot of single shoes.
There was, however, a nice waterfall at the end. And then I had to walk back.
Herein lies the pitfalls of solo travel. Traveling alone as a female does indeed raise eyebrows in this part of the world, including from other backpackers. And of course random guards at ruins and places, who question, "Donde esta sus amigos?" No, solo una. But this doesn´t really bother me. So far I´ve felt surrounded by others, quite safe, and actually glad to be able to go my own way. It´s just the little things, eating meals alone. And not having anyone to be grumpy at when I get tired and hungry and have to walk a really long way. It´s like what they say about atheists and God.
Anyhow, I better be fast. I feel like they want to close the internet place. So, Rio Dulce was large and wet. I went paddling on it and saw birdlife galore. And an otter! Wow. Livingston is a seaside town that´s pretty nice for a few days. It has the Garifuna culture, which I´m expecting a lot more of as I head down the coast. Let you know about it then. Which is what I´ll be doing tomorrow at 5am, catching the old ferry to Honduras. Oh joy. For now, back to my hammock. Yes, I sleep in it. Saves money.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Blessed limonada
Guatemala is really good looking. I had no idea I would be staring at beautiful waterscapes all day. So, I´m not complaining. Although I also had no idea that so many things are negoitable; bus fares are rountinely ten quetzales less than what they tell you.
First stop for me was Flores. As an island on a lake, it´s certainly pretty, but also tourist filled and slightly santified, like real life is left behind across the bridge. Tuk tuks frequent the city, little scooter-carts that buzz around like insects. The most fun ever on a ride to the bus station. So, from Flores I took a (typically overcrowded) minibus to the town of El Remate.
El Remate is described in my guidebook as a "two street town". I only counted one. It´s right on the shores of Lago de Peten Itza, smaller than Flores and more genuine. Most tourists only pass through at full speed on their way to Tikal. The location meant that my palm-leafed hut had a picture perfect view of the water. Horses grazed on the green field by the shore, broken down docks strutted out into the water, mooring water-filled wooden canoes. I spent a lot of time hanging out at Comedor La Benedicion, a little restaurant (of sorts) with a grandmotherly señora, one outside table and a lot of chickens running around. Wobbly handwritten signs proclaimed the menu. The licuados there were amazing; who knew fruit whizzed up with ice and sugar could be so good? I would walk over hot coals to get another licuado con fresa. I will have such fond memories of sitting at that table, maybe playing Scrabble with some friends from the hostel, and watching the dusty lane opposite. Occasionally it would be traversed by a mother chicken leading her children in single file, or a couple of dogs, or a bicycle.
Since I just happened to be in the area, you know, I thought I´d pay a visit to Tikal. One of Guatemala´s biggest tourist attractions, Tikal is the former Mayan capital set in the jungle. The Hotel Sak-Luk gang (two doctors, an architect and a journalist, all American, picked up at the hostel) set off at 5.30am. As we wound our way through the jungle, the night got lighter and turned into a grey grey dawn. I´d heard that if you arrive early enough, you don´t need to pay to get in. But at the gate the guard seemed very interested in seeing my ticket, and he had a gun, so I wasn´t going to argue. Tikal was green and grey sky and a lot of very old stones. Most of these stones were in large piles. I sat on one of these large piles, Temple II, and ate breakfast. There was no one else around at that hour, except the bird calls and the mist around Temple I. It was pretty cool. So were the massive ants that sat on my discarded banana peel, they must have been half an inch long.
Other highlights of Tikal include: the cute raccoon-ish animals that move in packs, running up and down the trees and snuffling. Climbing to the top of Temple IV and emerging above the jungle, an island in a sea of green, broken by the tips of a few other temples in the distance. The monkeys in the trees at the top of Temple IV, the guard who let me jump the fence to get closer and who put up with my terrible Spanish. The crocodile lazing in the pond at the entrance. He looked sleepy. I was sleepy too at that point - Tikal is Big! - and had to return to Comedor La Benedicion for some restorative vegetable soup. But it was sitting in El Mundo Perdido (The Lost World) that I thought about the dead city, and the dead people, and all the villagers whose homes have not survived. Their huts weren´t made out of stone, and they´ve been forgotten, the population that would have made Tikal bustle and live. Must have been quite the place to be, back in the day, I guess.
After Tikal all anyone was capable of was lunch and swimming in the mirrored lake from a palm-roofed hut. We watched the sun set out there, eating ice cream. The next morning, I found the energy to pack my things and head to Comedor La Benedicion once again. It also functions as one of the local bus stops. Our adopted señora was making the morning tortillas. The two doctors tried their hand, found it difficult (I´m proud to say mine turned out the best). Just as my mini-bus pulled up, I said goodbye for the last time and the señora handed me a bag of just-cooked tortillas, too hot to touch. The bus pulled away from El Remate.
Through more jungle, I am now in Rio Dulce. More water, a river, and a bridge crossing it (the longest in Central America). Tomorrow I will take a boat down to Livingston, a Garifuna town on the coast. It´s rained a lot already today. The rickety old hostel I´m staying in is right on the water. It´s pretty special; everything seems a big sketchy, like it´s about to fall into the water. Touch wood. Plenty of jungle around too. Typical. There has been a lot of jungle in the past few weeks. The rest of the world seems a very very long way away.
P.S. I would just like to mention that this post has been riddled with computer disasters. I have had to rewrite it in full. Oh, life.
First stop for me was Flores. As an island on a lake, it´s certainly pretty, but also tourist filled and slightly santified, like real life is left behind across the bridge. Tuk tuks frequent the city, little scooter-carts that buzz around like insects. The most fun ever on a ride to the bus station. So, from Flores I took a (typically overcrowded) minibus to the town of El Remate.
El Remate is described in my guidebook as a "two street town". I only counted one. It´s right on the shores of Lago de Peten Itza, smaller than Flores and more genuine. Most tourists only pass through at full speed on their way to Tikal. The location meant that my palm-leafed hut had a picture perfect view of the water. Horses grazed on the green field by the shore, broken down docks strutted out into the water, mooring water-filled wooden canoes. I spent a lot of time hanging out at Comedor La Benedicion, a little restaurant (of sorts) with a grandmotherly señora, one outside table and a lot of chickens running around. Wobbly handwritten signs proclaimed the menu. The licuados there were amazing; who knew fruit whizzed up with ice and sugar could be so good? I would walk over hot coals to get another licuado con fresa. I will have such fond memories of sitting at that table, maybe playing Scrabble with some friends from the hostel, and watching the dusty lane opposite. Occasionally it would be traversed by a mother chicken leading her children in single file, or a couple of dogs, or a bicycle.
Since I just happened to be in the area, you know, I thought I´d pay a visit to Tikal. One of Guatemala´s biggest tourist attractions, Tikal is the former Mayan capital set in the jungle. The Hotel Sak-Luk gang (two doctors, an architect and a journalist, all American, picked up at the hostel) set off at 5.30am. As we wound our way through the jungle, the night got lighter and turned into a grey grey dawn. I´d heard that if you arrive early enough, you don´t need to pay to get in. But at the gate the guard seemed very interested in seeing my ticket, and he had a gun, so I wasn´t going to argue. Tikal was green and grey sky and a lot of very old stones. Most of these stones were in large piles. I sat on one of these large piles, Temple II, and ate breakfast. There was no one else around at that hour, except the bird calls and the mist around Temple I. It was pretty cool. So were the massive ants that sat on my discarded banana peel, they must have been half an inch long.
Other highlights of Tikal include: the cute raccoon-ish animals that move in packs, running up and down the trees and snuffling. Climbing to the top of Temple IV and emerging above the jungle, an island in a sea of green, broken by the tips of a few other temples in the distance. The monkeys in the trees at the top of Temple IV, the guard who let me jump the fence to get closer and who put up with my terrible Spanish. The crocodile lazing in the pond at the entrance. He looked sleepy. I was sleepy too at that point - Tikal is Big! - and had to return to Comedor La Benedicion for some restorative vegetable soup. But it was sitting in El Mundo Perdido (The Lost World) that I thought about the dead city, and the dead people, and all the villagers whose homes have not survived. Their huts weren´t made out of stone, and they´ve been forgotten, the population that would have made Tikal bustle and live. Must have been quite the place to be, back in the day, I guess.
After Tikal all anyone was capable of was lunch and swimming in the mirrored lake from a palm-roofed hut. We watched the sun set out there, eating ice cream. The next morning, I found the energy to pack my things and head to Comedor La Benedicion once again. It also functions as one of the local bus stops. Our adopted señora was making the morning tortillas. The two doctors tried their hand, found it difficult (I´m proud to say mine turned out the best). Just as my mini-bus pulled up, I said goodbye for the last time and the señora handed me a bag of just-cooked tortillas, too hot to touch. The bus pulled away from El Remate.
Through more jungle, I am now in Rio Dulce. More water, a river, and a bridge crossing it (the longest in Central America). Tomorrow I will take a boat down to Livingston, a Garifuna town on the coast. It´s rained a lot already today. The rickety old hostel I´m staying in is right on the water. It´s pretty special; everything seems a big sketchy, like it´s about to fall into the water. Touch wood. Plenty of jungle around too. Typical. There has been a lot of jungle in the past few weeks. The rest of the world seems a very very long way away.
P.S. I would just like to mention that this post has been riddled with computer disasters. I have had to rewrite it in full. Oh, life.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Oh, Belize!
Yes, my last post was kind of all over the place. You´ll have to excuse me. I´m easing myself back into the use of a computer. Computer=communication with people I have previously known in my life=what? So now I will write about Belize for fifteen minutes or so, before I detatch myself from this amazing piece of machinery for a few days.
Belize! You place you! I feel a little sad that I wasn´t able to do more traveling in the country. I would have liked to see the south coast. But Belize is the odd one out of Central America. It´s the only country where the official language is English (and what a relief that is!). It´s also a lot more expensive. Belize dollars are worth half that of US dollars, and given New Zealand´s current exchange rate, it gives the most easy currency calculation you will ever have: 1=1. A bit depressing, yes.
In Belize they speak Creole, and their national bird is the toucan. As soon as arrived on the bus from Mexico I was lead onto a series of yellow school buses rumbling along dirt roads. One of them was playing reggae.
This will be continued!
Belize! You place you! I feel a little sad that I wasn´t able to do more traveling in the country. I would have liked to see the south coast. But Belize is the odd one out of Central America. It´s the only country where the official language is English (and what a relief that is!). It´s also a lot more expensive. Belize dollars are worth half that of US dollars, and given New Zealand´s current exchange rate, it gives the most easy currency calculation you will ever have: 1=1. A bit depressing, yes.
In Belize they speak Creole, and their national bird is the toucan. As soon as arrived on the bus from Mexico I was lead onto a series of yellow school buses rumbling along dirt roads. One of them was playing reggae.
This will be continued!
The jungle did not eat me
Computers are so weird after nothing but trees for two weeks. And the Guatemalan internet won´t let me check my emails. I´m in Flores, it´s an island in a lake, and tomorrow or the day after I may go to Tikal. Then onwards and southwards, making a snakelike line towards the coast down to the bottom of Nicaragua. And back up.
That´s the future. So, Barton Creek Outpost. Lack of civilisation. Hmm. How about that? Where to start when one is sleepy from lunch? With the Mennonites or the dirt road out there, or the snakes (that I never saw) or the toucans (that I first saw today). Or the green green greeness of it all. Maybe I will just have to tell you when I see you, about hunting the iguana and the rangers up the creek, and the canoes. And the cave! Oh the cave! Joy and wonder!
So now I am back where normal things happen, and people speak Spanish, which I don´t really. I have spent much time standing looking incredibly dumb while thinking of something to say. There are so many white people all over the place! I must run away from them! I shall go the Carribean, where the Garifuna live, and laze on beaches and avoid malaria.
I will also write again soon.
That´s the future. So, Barton Creek Outpost. Lack of civilisation. Hmm. How about that? Where to start when one is sleepy from lunch? With the Mennonites or the dirt road out there, or the snakes (that I never saw) or the toucans (that I first saw today). Or the green green greeness of it all. Maybe I will just have to tell you when I see you, about hunting the iguana and the rangers up the creek, and the canoes. And the cave! Oh the cave! Joy and wonder!
So now I am back where normal things happen, and people speak Spanish, which I don´t really. I have spent much time standing looking incredibly dumb while thinking of something to say. There are so many white people all over the place! I must run away from them! I shall go the Carribean, where the Garifuna live, and laze on beaches and avoid malaria.
I will also write again soon.
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