Guatemala, North then East then West

Pictures to follow in the next few days, currently at a very bad internet connection. Again no spell check on this piece of @!#$ (junk)

I had heard that Guatemala was a very popular spot for young hopeful American families to come adopt little Guatemalan babies, but the reality didnt set in until I woke up and walked down to breakfast in my hotel in Guatemala city. As I entered the small covered courtyard of 15 or so tables, there sitting down were about 7 different white bread American couples mainly in their 30's each with their own little dark skinned Guatemalan baby. Every single couple, can you imagine? Amdist the baby crying I managed to get some decent yogurt and fruit, and while I ate, I read that over 4,500 babies get adopted every year from Guatemala (a country of only 13 million) with 95% going to the US. I still couldn't figure out why there were so many in my hotel until I went for a run after breakfast and ran smack dab into the middle of the US Embassy next door to our hotel, Duh... They were all there trying to get their papers cleared next door. The disproportionatly high Guatamalan adoptions were do to the fact that until last year they had virtually no adoption laws. See a kid and like it? Buy it from its mother and take it home! Now that’s one hell of a souvenir if you ask me! The laws have changed now somewhat and it takes up to 3 months to get a little baby of your own.

Time spent in Guatamala city was brief, arriving at 9 the night before, and leaving at 2:30 the next day, but I did get a chance to go out for a drink in the trendy Zona Rosa, and take a walking tour of the more dilapidated and dangerous downtown area.

The more I travel, the harder I find it is to pick out generalized cultural differences between countries and their people. The more you travel the more you have seen, and thus when you see something in a subsequent country you are more likely to have seen it before. It is also too easy to slip into the modus operandi of projecting your own presumptive opinions onto the chosen culture. However, in an attempt to describe Guatemala, I would say that that Guatemala city's downtown has yet to experience a downtown revival the way that much of other central American capital cities have undergone. The narrow allyways that seperate the 4 story tall dilapidated buildings are cluttered with powerlines, trash, street vendors, and people. This spreads out in all direction from the central plaza, with some directions being even more dangerous than others.

I was staying south of the city in a nicer neighborhood where all the embassies, nightlife, and international businesses tended to congregate. As I left my hotel to go downtown, the desk attendant warned me not to go more than one or two blocks away from the central square, take only what I was willing to loose, and wear my backpack in front of me! Granted I have always taken similar precautions and didn’t need her to tell me this, but it was the first time I have actually been told that by a local! So I set off around downtown and wrapped my camera securely around my wrist to prevent having it snatched out of my hands.

That afternoon I caught a shuttle to the city of Antigua, about 1 hour southwest of Guatemala City. The city means "Ancient" and was actually the Spanish capital of Guatemala from the late 1500's until the entire city was destroyed in a series of earthquakes, culminating with the grand Kahuna that leveled the city in 1776 (I think). The Spanish subsequently decided not to risk it all again and moved the capital about 60 km northeast. A few remained in Antigua, renovating and restoring the old colonial buildings, and creating a cultural tourism destination for weekending Guatamalan city buisnessmen and women. To accuratly quote a guidebook in an attempt to paraphrase the city, "In the discussion about what is real Guatemala, Antigua was never brought up; this is a city where powerlines run underground, trash doesnt stay on the street for more than an hour, stray dogs mysteriously dissapear in the middle of the night, and it's safe to walk around by yourself." The city center remains much as it was when originally built, with strict covenants about what can or cannot be done with the buildings. Small single story adjoining bulidings line huge blocks, each with their own courtyard and characteristic red clay tile roofs. The streets are all narrow and one way, and the cobblestone stretches for miles across the valley underneath the backdrop of volcanos. The city really does have a feel like no other in all of central America, with a historical character combined with an impressive size and economy. It is easy to tell that Antigua is not only the home to traditional tourists and weathly Guatemalans, but Europeans who can afford to spend several months a year in another town. This being said, there is actually an impressive glut of small cheap hostels and budget hotels. Finding a cheap bite to eat was another issue. The only place where I could find a lunch under 10 dollars was the open air local market, where a lady served small heaping tacos for a dollar a piece, while you sat on plastic stools on the sidewalk next to the bus station and breathed in piles of black smoke put out by 20 year old diesel school buses. I got my daily dose of carbon for sure!

The volcano backdrop to Antigua was hard to see due to the burning going on all around Guatemala associated the slash and burn agriculture. I spent the three days I was there mostly touring an impressive series of museums showing everything from contemporary modern art to ancient ruins.

Highlights:

-I paid a tour guide 3 dollars to show me around the ruins of the ancient cathedral, only to find out 1 minute into the tour that he was staggeringly drunk.

-I checked out the the ruins of the orginal fountain in the center of the town square; they depicted 4 mermaids, each postured up with one exposed breast and out of that bossum came a stream of water for people to drink...

-I watched a violent street fight and subsequent arrest.

-I saw latin americas largest (not working of course) water fountain.

-I got lost while running, and spent 2 hours finding my way back into the city from one of the suburbs.

-I ran into travelers I had met in Panama and Costa Rica, and ended up having a great time with them.

Overall Antigua was an incredible city if a little different from the rest of Guatemala.


After 3 days I caught a night bus headed north out of Guatemala City to the low lying jungle region of El Peten. It is the least densely populated region in all of Guatemala, and is also home to the world famous ruins of Tikal buried deep in the jungle. The bus that left Guatemala city at 9:00pm arrived into Flores, Guatemala 8 sleepless hours later at 5 in the morning. The bus put me out on the side of the road by myself in the early morning darkness in a city I knew nothing about in rural Guatemala... Fortunatly this was an often traveled tourist route, and a minibus driver was waiting there to take me to a hotel in Flores, or continue north for another hour in time to be at the ruins of Tikal when they opened! It was 40 dollars, and I was hesitant about paying all that money, but he explained that their was going to be a riot/strike in Flores in about 3 hours, and if I waited for the bus I would never get out of Flores. I didnt believe him, but I was half asleep and just wanted to get there, so I gave him the dough and we were off again. Sure enough the guy was right! I met two tourists later in the day, and the entire city had layed down in the street in front of the airport, preventing Tikal tourists and their busses from getting out. They were protesting the fact that none of the tourism dollars were coming back to the local economy and all sidelined for Guatemala City. Eventually the military came in that day with tanks and evicted the protestors.

The protest gave me a morning free to roam the grounds of the massive city of Tikal without a bevy of other tourists. First "discovered" in the middle of 19th century by British Anthropologists; they have been actively uncovering the Tikal ruins for over 100 years, and they still have a large portion of buildings that have yet to be uncovered. This includes a 66 meter high temple that you can only see the top of. The size and scale of city were unfathomable, it takes over an hour just to walk from one side of the ruins to the other, and there are countless small structures strecthing out for 10 miles all around the main city that are not part of the excavation. Tikal was part of the same civilization as the Copan ruins, but reached their prime a few hundred years later than the Copan city. Both Mayan cities collapsed with the region wide collapse of the Mayans in the late 10th century. The descendants moved north into Chiapas Mexico and closer to the coast, leaving the ruins subject to the forest that eventually grew out of a grassland to once again cover the city. Tikal boasts a rich and active history, occupied for over 1500 years, with large temples stecthing from to the 3rd century to the 10th century, and populations possibly reaching 100,000. They gained their military predominance using a technique where they flanked the enemy's troops and attacked them at a distance with large spears. There is evidence that they fought and occupied Caracol in Belize, and Palenque in Mexico. Tikal was no doubt the center of Mayan universe in this part of central America, and its size is just astounding.

Walking around the ruins, you climb the great temples, and then descend back into a dense jungle with a 30-40 meter tall canopy. It is a neat dichotomy pairing thousand year old stone with a living breathing forest, but believe it or not during the Classical Mayan period the entire region for miles and miles had been cleared for homes and agriculture. I couldn't help but think how fast our cities would return to jungle if we simply abandonded them and left them for the forest. Maybe we should think about doing this to some states, ahemm Texas, Ahemm.

The large pieces of stone that were used to build the great temples of Tikal stand as just the foundation of the superficial structure that has long rotted away. At one time these massive temples were covered with a dark red paint, and had elaborate murals and designs around their top, with wooden structures hanging off the sides. Remanants of this rich red paint still cling to portions of the temples and buildings.

The main temple at the center of the grand plaza of Tikal used to be climbable with a steel chain until many injuries and several deaths (tourists falling down the stairs) forced the park to close it. You can still climb several other of the large temples to get a view above the forest canopy.

The reality of how impressive and awe inspiring these structures are does not sink in at first; I was too busy running around looking for a new cool temple or uncovered buildings. But after a while when I slowed down and sat atop Temple IV, staring at the sunset behind these giants I felt the closeness to history. It is a harmoninzing experience, to be so close to such tangible pieces of history, to realize how time can become so compressed.

That night I stayed in the park gates at the "Jungle Lodge," suitibly overpriced since it was only one of 3 hotels in the park gates. The place was neat because it had some history, as it was originally built to house archeologists excavating the park. A simple small room with a fan, a bookshelf, glass blinded windows, shared bathrooms, and a shared roof were all I got, but it was neat to be staying in the same place as the famous archeologists who had once opend up Tikal to the world.

The next morning I left Tikal and got back out on the road, headed east this time to the ex-british colony of Belize, headed for a brief respite from Hispanic culture and a change of pace. I felt the difference the moment I crossed the Belize border, and the guy that stamped my passport starting talking the King's English! He also spoke a more common mix of criole, but must have figured I didn’t look too criolla... The customs building itself was a dramatic example of modern architecture and money, neither of which any central American country had much of. Belize was going to be the most expensive country that I had visited to date, the coastal regions being more expensive that US.

The last time I was in Belize was as a 11th grader at Indian Springs School with my biology teacher, Bob Pollard. He had shown me a wonderful country while we spent a week on Ranguana Caye and the town of Placencia. It was a place of cool reggae vibes, beautiful coasts, and even more impressive sea life. I was more than eager to get back to the country.

Having already been south to Placencia, and eager to get out to the beach, I got into Belize City and bee-lined it out to Caye Caulker, an island about 30 miles north-east of Belize City. The most famous caye out of all in Belize is perhaps Ambergris Caye and the town of San Pedro located on the very northern end of Belize next to Mexico. San Pedro town is a situated on a picturesque Carribean beach with access to all the same diving and snorkeling spots as Caye Caulker, but with fame comes money, and Ambergris Caye is also the most expensive city in all of Belize. I have heard Horror stories of not being able to find a room for under 70 dollars! Caye Caulker is Ambergris Caye's poor cousin, about 20 miles south and a good deal smaller, and so I chose this as my first and final spot to spend the weekend in Belize.

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Coming into Belize City after a 6 hour bus ride from Tikal, I was reminded of how Belize city stands out as an urban jungle in contrast to the rest of Belize. The city is full of trash, run down housing, rastas rolling around the streets on small bikes, giant dredlocks, dirty canals, and general poverty. It is the biggest city in Belize, but since the capital was moved to Belmopan in the jungle, this city fails to get a lot of the government funds it needs. One of the most dramatic things about coming to Belize from being in latin America so long, apart from the english language, was huge african demographic making up more than half of the population of the country. It of course stems back to the fact that Belize was an English Colony until 1981 (they still have the queen on their money) and the slaves that land barons brought in to grow sugar cane. Alongside the african comes a good mix of obvious hispanics, and even a bit of chinese.

We got through Belize city directly to the water taxi that would take me and 50 of my soon to be closest friends out to the islands. As we roared out of the harbor onto the crystal clear blue and green waters I was instantly relaxed, a mere 7 hours out of the dark jungles of Guatemala.

Caye Caulker is an island about 3 miles long and anywhere from 1/4 to 1 mile wide. It was split by a hurricane in the mid 1990's into a north and south island. The north island remains almost entirely undeveloped, while the southern mile long portion is home to the 3,000 year round residents. The island has three roads called (not surprisingly) front, middle, and back road each running up and down the island to an airstrip at its base. There are no cars on the entire island, but a slurry of golf-cart taxis waiting to take you the 1/2 mile to your farthest destination. Bikes are also popular. All the streets are hard packed sand, and most people go barefoot, or if they have to sandals. It is totally legitimate to walk into the nicest restaurant in town for dinner wearing nothing more than a pair of ratty shorts (for guys); I myself didn't wear a shirt for three days straight.

I got together with two guys I had met on the water-taxi and a golf-cart taxi cab driver who found us the cheapest digs on the island at about 20 dollars a night. I had my own cabin with my own bed and a spot right on the ocean, but apart from that it was pretty basic. The desalinated water that was used for the sink and toilet emitted this foul odor which would have been unbearable were it not for the 24/7 constant 30 mph breeze coming off the ocean. I had a key to lock my room, but it was by and large pointless since the "windows" were fixed metal blinds that you could open from either side to reach in. The place was also a good mile from downtown Caye Caulker, throwing in an extra 4-5 miles of walking a day to the 4 that I ran every morning. And to run 4 miles every morning required running around the whole island, twice.

Through the 4 days I would spend at Caye Caulker, I ran down a trail that wrapped around the southern end of the island and then came back up to "civilization" on the three main roads. The trail posed many difficulties that I have yet to run across while living down here, the first of which was the tide. I found out the second morning that the most southern portion of the trail deep within the bushes is actually a tidal pool, so when the tide was in, I ended up running through 2 foot deep saltwater turning my running shoes into 5 pound bricks for the rest of the run. The second problem was that the trail uses the 4,000 foot asphalt runway as part of the only way to get back to the main portion of Caye Cauler. I figured: hey its an island, how much traffic could they possibly get? Turns out a lot... They have a Cessna Caravan fly in and out on the hour. I also said: I will just look in the left hand traffic pattern (because of the wind they only used one runway) for approaching planes and on the rare occasion that one does come I can dive out of the way. They used a right hand traffic pattern... The wind also made it so loud that it was impossible to hear the engines until they are right behind you. So the second day there I was, running down the runway in my 5 pound saltwater brick shoes, dutifully looking for traffic when I barely hear an engine and turn around to see a (relatively) giant Cessna Caravan on short final at the numbers! I dove into the muddy saltwater pond next to me just in time to get out of the way. By the time I finished running down to the FBO now covered in mud and saltwater, I found out that they are used to people running on the runway, and often have to buzz the iPOD wearing ones to get them off. I'd count myself as pretty lucky.

On the third day I went Scuba Diving for the first time in the two years since I got certified, and fortunately for me it was like driving a car. I really didn't know what I was going to do if I had forgotten everything... Belize is home to the second largest Coral reef in the world, second only to Australia, and getting down to see it at 70 feet was amazing. The visibility was pretty bad so we didn't see any big fish, but I didn't let that phase me. Every color you could imagine was covering the sponges, brain coral, fire coral, things that look like giant leaves (Amanda help me here), and the fish. Half the fun for me was still getting all the gear on and going diving regardless of where we were. I was still a relative rookie, and my inexperience showed after I had used up all my air in 30 minutes and had to go back up. It got a little better on the second and third dives; I even got to brush up against some Barracudas.

After some blog work and reading the next day I figured I needed to get off the island before I wasn't able to leave at all. With a little less than a week left before I had to be in Mexico City, I left Caye Caulker this past Tuesday. An hour long water-taxi ride at 8:30 am was followed by learning my bus north to Chetumal, Mexico at 10:30 am had been cancelled. Sweet. So I hitched it over to the local bus station and rode a local bus (read old school bus) north for 6 hours stopping every 30 feet in what should have taken 2 without stopping. Arriving into Chetumal, Mexico about 5:00 that evening, I bought a ticket on a 14 hour bus direct to San Cristobal de las Casas, leaving at 8:00 pm and getting in at 10:00 am the next morning (Yesterday, Wendsday) without incident, 23 1/2 hours after leaving Belize.

After a little rest and recuperation I have spent yesterday and today exploring San Cristobal de las Casas, a gorgeous colonial mounatin town set up at 7,000 feet, and capital of the Chiapas region. Chiapas was made famous in 1994 by the Zapatistas, who came in and seized the regional governement, the town of San Cristobal de las Casas, as well as several other cities in the Chiapas region. They were driven out by the Mexican army in the weeks that followed, but they drew international attention to the plight of this poor region and its indigenous farmers. EZLN is the name of the group, and they are still around and have a voice in local govnernment throughout the Chiapas region.

If you went to Sewanee, Chiapas has also been made famous by the stories of one Fort Bridgforth, as this is where he spent many of his formative years.

Despite it being May now, the town still gets down to 50-55 degrees every night due to the altitude, the thin air also makes it quite an endeavor to run my usual distances. The cold air, imcomplete combustion, and smoke from the farms all brought back vivid memories from living Quito, Ecuador for 4 months, and at times I have felt like I was there.

I head out this evening at 8:00 pm on another 14 hour bus ride for Mexico City to the north. After that I am heading west to Zamora-Jacona tomorrow evening, just in case you dont hear from me until the middle of next week.

Signing Off,
Merrill Stewart

Wow, where do I begin

I first just want to apologize for taking over a week to let you know what has been going on, but after I left the Island of Ometepe I began this marathon week and half long blazing trail through the rest of Nicaragua, Honduras, and Guatemala. I will now try to retrace my steps over the last week and half and clue you in as to what has been going on in my life.

After the relaxing night's stay in the Finca Santo Domingo, I woke up early to catch the 7:00 am bus across the island to Moyogalpa, the big city on the island (pop. 3000) where I was going to catch a Lancha across the Lago de Nicaragua and then continue north from the mainland. The road to Moyogalpa wasn't more than 20 miles, and yet the trip took 1 1/2 hours, and yet again we have another anecdote about traveling by bus in Central America. From the signage on the side of the bus I was riding, I could tell that at one time (probably early 1970s) the bus had belonged to the Rochester District School System. This beast of a bus probably spent many years ferrying little American kids to and from school across icy salted roads in upstate New York. Then many years later, probably in the late 1980s, the school board decided that this bus was unfit for further service and unsafe to transport kids anymore. So what do they do? Sell the bus of course to the government of Nicaragua where they don't value their lives as much as we do and don't have "inconvenient" safety standards for public transportation. And here the bus has worked for the past 20 years, overtime gathering colorful ornamentation endemic to central America such as 6 foot tall 8" diameter chrome tail pipes, pink carpeted ceilings, lawn chair driver seating, bright purple tassells, and custom graffiti grills.

During the hard service in Nicaragua over the last 20 years, the bus had somehow lost all of its gears except 1st, and so I sat on the bus breathing in healthy exhaust in the hot Nicaraguan sun as we roared along at 7 mph. For 2 hours.

There were two options to get across the lake from Moyogalpa, a large comfortable ferry that crossed 3 times a day taking cars, people, and a full service bar for 5 dollars, or... The hourly infamous Lancha. I had heard stories, detailing the necessity to wrap you entire bag in plastic because it would surely get wet, and then a burlap bag around that to make it less enticing to steal by the hoards of people who crowded aboard this 50 year old 40 foot relic of a boat. I took my chances and did none of this as I got on, but I was able to put my bag on the deck and got a small seat up top where I could watch the bag the entire time. The trip began fine, but as we got away from the island the waves got choppier, and captain was choosing to take these 8 foot swells from his broad side. The boat rolled, ohh did it roll. I firmly clenched my seat not out of fear, but to avoid falling across the deck of the boat and into the water as we heaved back and forth 30 degrees at time. Smoothly but precipitously this boat rocked from side to side, each time bringing the top just a little closer to the water that was surely going to be our doom. My bag was fortunately strapped down or it would have met the same watery fate I foresaw the boat doing if we didn't turn into the waves. Not a moment too late, our captain turned into the waves to catch a 12 foot rogue and we made it safely to San Jorge, where I shared an hour long taxi to Granada with a 7th grade science teacher from New Hampshire taking her spring break.

Granada is the jem of Nicaragua, like a island of colonial peacefulness amidst a very poor and undeveloped country. Set on the northern shore of Lago de Nicaragua, Granada has been a cultural capital of Nicaragua since the first Hispanic invaders came in the 1500s. It is uniquely located in the western half of Nicaragua, and yet via the Lago de Nicaragua, and the river forming the border with Costa Rica, you can actually reach the Caribbean by boat. This strategic location made it a prime location for lucrative trading and a prime target for English pirates; the city was sacked several times during the 17th and 18 century. When central america won their Independence from Spain in the middle of the 19th century, there were two cultural centers in Nicaragua: one at Granada, and 2 hours to the north in Leon. These two cities both wanted a piece of the pie, and the situation ended up the way so many do in Central America, in a civil war. After much fighting and bloodletting, they gave up and picked a random small city about half way between the two to be the capital. That capital city today is the largest city in Nicaragua; Managua is an hour north of Granada, but not high up on the list of any body's travels, because a massive earthquake in 1976 leveled the city entirely.

Granada (pop. 80,000) retains a bunch of its colonial charm, along with a good schmattering of tourism and wealthy Nicaraguans. Poverty still abounds no less than 7 or 8 blocks away from the center of the city, but the 10 by 10 block section of the center is a beautiful pedestrian friendly gem of a town. Most of the small 200-300 year old buildings are one-two stories tall, and are all edged with vibrant red clay tile roofs. Each one of the original colonial structures has a beautiful courtyard of some sort, creating little havens of residence among dirtier and noisy streets. The town square is about 100 yards in each direction, and covered by tall leafy trees.

The instrument of war that killed tens of thousands in the civil war 20 years ago is now cutting prices!

For 8 bucks I found the nicest hostel I had ever stayed in, with giant Sandinista murals, decor resembling that in the movie Casablanca, a giant leafy courtyard, hand carved wooden columns, red clay tile roofs, and a custom tiled pool built into a rock wall. There I ran into two guys , Nathan and Dwight, whom I knew from the Finca Magdalena on the Isla de Ometepe. These two 30 year olds had both said to hell with life in LA, and were traveling around trying to find the right place to open a bar. They were both also over 6', which was great walking around so I didn't feel like so much of an awkward giant down here.

Here's one way to chill out...

I have really enjoyed running every morning for several reasons. One it keeps me in shape and provides some regularity to days spent in different cities. 2nd: I run with nothing on my but my shoes, shorts, and a shirt, i.e. nothing to steal. So through this I am able to run in some of the shady poorest neighborhoods and not worry about loosing anything of value besides the clothes on my back. These are places that everyone tells you not to go, but these are the places where the people of Nicaragua live and as such I think is a necessity of responsible traveling to see them. I don't have my camera so I cant capture the experience through this medium, but I can relay to you though writing the utterly basic the living conditions of many. Most of the"houses" in these shanty towns have a roof pieced together from various scraps of tin, and in the "richer" neighborhoods you find block concrete walls with metal bars for windows. In the poorer neighborhoods, you have nothing much more than a dirt floor and walls made from wooden scraps. In these shelters people live, hard working equally intelligent (usually less educated) individuals. Babies sit outside the houses in the dirt and stare at me as I run by, dogs bark from behind the barbwire that delineate the 20 foot square piece of dirt that is a yard. Each of the streets are lined with trash two or three pieces deep, blown off the road and there to remain for many years as the government doesn't care to take care of trash in the poor neighborhoods. If the families are lucky they will have a tree hanging over their piece of dirt that gives them some shade during the day, and an area to cook under. If not, then it is the hot sun and brown dust blown off the dirt road that coats everything they own.

Granada has its fair share of these shanty towns, and I keep my wits about me when I'm running through them. The other morning I was walking after a run and noticed a ratty looking guy about 25 who I had seen behind me three times during the walk at different locations, obviously following me maybe just out of curiosity. He had something in his had, but I couldn't figure out what it was. He would take the jar up to his nose and then bring it back down. Then I realized that it was jar of some kind of green glue or petroleum product, and he was sniffing it to get high. I went back to running.

Drunk old men... at 8:00 a.m.

I ran down to the beach on the giant lake of Nicaragua, and realized that I had never really seen a polluted beach up until that point. There was a giant park the city had built all along the water front, and families would come out there on the weekends to set up a picnic underneath the giant trees lining the sand. And here's the kicker: then they would all go swimming in the lake, but they took their sandals with them. Why? Because there was so much trash: metal, plastic, glass covering the beach and underneath the water that they would surely cut themselves if they didn't.

Where does it all come from? A day does not go by down here that I don't see someone their car (maybe even stopped at a light in the city), open their window and just drop whatever trash they have on the ground. Not small plastic wrappers, giant Styrofoam to-go boxes, bottles that break, plastic cups, everything. It approaches the point of ridiculousness, all out the window and onto the street where the government cant afford to pick it up.

I caught an early bus out of Granada to Managua about 1 1/2 hours away, and after a sinfully delicious and expensive ($8) breakfast at the Cowne Plaza of Managua, I was on a 8 hour bus to Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras. While on the bus, we made a brief 1 hour excursion into part of El Salvador, so I can check that off the list of countries I have been to, right? The bus arrived at Tegucigalpa at 10 at night into a neighborhood that the US Embassy describes as only slightly safer than a dark alley in Baghdad. So I got a taxi driver to take me as far away as he could from there, and got a hotel room in a real hotel for one night because I was going to be out the next morning bright and early headed west across Honduras. I ended up getting a room in a hotel called Gateway to the Angels (translated from Spanish), haven forgotten how nice it was to have amenities like an ice machine, television, curtains, a desk, private bathroom, and a mirror!

Navigating my way through the narrow allies the next morning and trying not to look to conspicuous (get mugged) with a 30 pound backpack, I found my way to the bus company's terminal. If I have not said it before, most of these cities do not have a actual "bus terminal" like we would think of with a train station or airport in the states. Instead you have anywhere from 10-30 different companies each going to different routes, each with unpublished departure times, and each with their own terminal located in different parts of the city. Needless to say, acquiring a bus can be quite an ordeal. As luck would have it, I missed the direct bus by 30 minutes that was going to take me all the way to the other side of Honduras to the town of Copan Ruinas. This was the only company that went there, and they only had one bus a day! Not wanting to waste an entire day back in Tegucigalpa, I pulled out a map and picked the next biggest city, asked if they had a bus, and bought a ticket getting in at 10 that evening after a 9 hour bus ride.

I had chosen to skip much of Honduras due to the fact that I had overstayed my welcome in Panama, and get a head start on Guatemala then Belize. Traveling northwest through Honduras that afternoon, I got to catch a good glimpse of the countryside from the seat of my bus, in the place of actually visiting the different towns. We were just east of the major mountain range that runs through Honduras, in an area not unlike northern New Mexico with dry stubby shrubs, sporadic rain, and a overall dry cowboy climate. Small sheds that dotted the roadside served as ever present reminders to the oppressive poverty plaguing this country. Peace core volunteers served as sources of information instead of other travelers, as there is precious little tourism to support this country's struggling econonmy that was devastated by a hurricane several years ago.

I also saw something that I hadn't seen to date since I left Peru... Pine trees! I really was coming home! I did a little wikipedia research having never taken a forestry class at Sewanee, and this was no figment of my imagination; it turns out the furthest south pine trees grow natively is 12 degrees north in latitude, or just at the Nicaraguan Honduras border.

The town I wound up in that night was called Santa Rosa de Copan, and it was 2 hours away from my final destination of Copan Ruinas. Santa Rosa de Copan was a town of 30,000 people, at the western foothills of the Honduras mountain range, and with an altitude of 4-5 thousand feet, I was afforded another night of cool weather before I sank into the jungle the following day. It was a small colonial town, and it reminded me of how nice it was to visit cities off of the tourist radar, or for that matter off anyone's radar. Santa Rosa de Copan was a traditionally built colonial town with foot tall sidewalks, narrow single lane cobblestone streets, blind corners, and a large leafy central plaza. That night I discovered their main industry was cigar making, and here is where many refugee cigar rollers escaped when the communist took control of Cuba. The town exports nearly all of their product, but that night I got to grab one while sitting at a bar just outside the colorfully lit colonial square and white plaster church.

It was here in Western Honduras that I first began to notice a perpetual smoke that limited visibility and filled the air with the slight scent of a campfire. I would see it in several cities that followed, but it seemed to be constant across the entire country and into others as well. I have since come to find out that I was traveling just during the beginning of the burn portion of slash and burn agriculture. I had heard the term countless times during my environmental studies classes, known it to be a pervasive form of forest degradation, but now the reality of the problem no longer seemed so far away as it once had. This was not in a jungle in some far off South American country; the problem was right here, and I was literally breathing it in everyday.

I left Santa Rosa de Copan early the next morning after a jog and a little street breakfast (hot dogs with mayonnaise). Two changes and three rickety bus ridden hours later I was in the town of Copan Ruinas, in time to throw my stuff down at a hotel and walk the 1 km outside of town to the massive complex of Mayan ruins that dot the valley all around Copan. Begrudgingly paying the 20 dollar entrance fee, I was off into the middle of the jungle to explore the first Mayan ruins I had ever seen.

The Mayan empire was in fact not one empire in the traditional sense such as the Roman Empire, or Austro-Hungarian empire. It was actually a collection of different kingdoms each ruled by a different king, and they were often at war with one another towards the later half of the Classical Mayan period (200AD -900AD). They did share a common culture, scientific advancements, and similiar geographic location. They spead from what is now southern Mexico and the Yucatan Penninsiula, to Guatemala, Belize, and Honduras. The civilization first began to spring up and form rudmentary cities aroun 800 BC, slowly growing until around 200AD when there was an exponential growth in the sizes of the cities and their dominion. Then around 900AD there was a sharp decline in the sizes of all cities, and the people just dissapated with the great cities and temples becoming building material for new houses. Most archeologists point to several years of intense drought, and a unsustainable growth in population.

Copan was not the largest of any of the Mayan kingdoms, despite a huge fertile valley, relative isolation from other kingdoms, and few natural disasters. It also does not have the huge temples constructed at places like Tikal, Guatemala. What Copan does have is the most amazing collection of sculpture and intricate carvings out of any in the Mayan world.

I walked into the main plaza and you could tell that much of the 20 dollar entrance fee had gone into the upkeep of the grounds, because spread out before me was a giant green blanketed lawn of finely cut grass unlike any I had seen in all of central America. United Statesians tend to care more about their lawns and grass than just about any other country in the world. Set on this plaza of grass were 12-10 foot tall square statues called stellae, and each one depicted a story or a great king of the Copan Empire. It was late afternoon by this point, and most of the other tourists had left for the day, leaving me standing here alone staring at the shadows from these giant creatures cast across the ground. They were 1400 years old, mementos of a culture long ago destroyed and left abandoned, all writing burned by the spanish inquisition. The plaza speaded out south, featuring a 6 story stairway with each step comprised of 40 hyroglyphic pictures showing the story of the great kings that ruled Copan. Large portions of the entire structure were covered with trees, dirt, and vegitation. It was still a work in progress, and there were parts that were actively being excavated from the massive forest around the ruins. Despite the thick jungle that surrounds and encumbers the ruins and the entire valley, at the time of the Mayan empire there was not a single tree standing in many square miles. The size of the city demanded an intense amount of food production, and they had to farm many miles around the city to supply the needs of the population. Without cheap and reliable energy like we have today, there remained a limit as to how far out the city farm and still collect the crops. This is one of the suspected reasons for the dramtic decline in the 10th century; they had simply gotten too large.

Being so close to such tangible pieces of ancient history was a dramatic experience. With enough imagination you could close you eyes and picture what the city would have been like in its day. I knew I was standing exactly where the people of that generation stood, touching the exact same pieces of stone that they had painstakingly carved out thousands of years ago.

I spent one more day in the city of Copan Ruinas, a village of about 3,000 people, and a good mix of travelers and ex-pats that chose this little highland nook as their home. It was a comforting welcoming place, yet with a distinct foreign/tourist vibe much different than similar sized cities off the gringo trail. These things might have changed it from its traditional base, but it still very much retained significant character, along with good restaurants and museums.

Barbwire Laundry

After a day of rest, it was back on the road headed west this time towards Guatemala, Guatemala City, Antigua, and the Tikal ruins. Im hoping to get that entry up soon, so stay tuned!

San Carlos and Isla Ometepe Nicragua

Muddy and Foggy, here I am at the top of the 4,000 foot Volcano Maderas in the middle of Lago de Nicaragua.

Moving north out of Costa Rica, I found myself on a small boat going up the Rio Frio, headed towards the boggy town of San Carlos on the southern edge of Lake Nicaragua. We debarked the boat, taking about as long to unload the cargo as it did to get there. Right away I knew I was in a different country; the customs office was a four room wooden shack on a dilapidated pier on the edge of town. The wooden slats that constituted the walls of this customs house were so shabbily put together that you could see through each one, not even tight enough to keep the bugs out I'm sure. Ducking down into the 2 foot by 4 foot hole that had been cut into the side of the building, I handed my passport to the customs official, and after 15 minutes of filling out paperwork he handed it back.



This brings up another point about life down here that will be particularly relative to people of my generation. Our generation has never really known life without computers infused into every wedge and corner of businesses, heck now the DMV even has the newest flat screen monitors. But life and economics march to the tune of a different drummer in Central America, and technology is not as pervasive and ubiquitous as we behold it in the United States. While they do have good computers and internet access in the cafes of many small towns across all of Central America, the connections are usually comparable to dial up and early ISDN. And the costs of such computers still remain too high for any government office and some businesses. As a result, all of my information was dutifully scribed in triplicate by the customs official whose whole job was to do this all day, every day. This process produces mounds of paperwork, and takes what seems like ages for the line of 40 people who would be there for the next 3 hours. Through situations like this, you begin to understand how Latin American culture in general moves slower and is never in a hurry to get things done ; it is a development of necessity because otherwise they would die of hypertension before they turned 30 waiting for stuff to get done.



I had heard that San Carlos was often a hot bed of mosquito activity, and not wanting to risk picking up a nice case of Dengue or Malaria (I hadn't taken my Malaria meds in a while) I opted for a little upscale place with air-conditioning. The AC was great, less because it was really hot, and more because it was going to keep the mosquitoes out.



San Carlos is town of about 10,000 people, and not really high on anyones list of places to visit, making it a refreshing change after Costa Rica. The town is on a hill overlooking Lake Nicaragua, which because of its size looks more like an ocean than a lake, and at the very top of the steep hill there is a domed central park of sorts with a typical church, police station, and surrounding shops. All of the streets here were on a steep 15-20% grade, except the ones running along the lake, which made walking around town quite of a task. There was no doubt about it, San Carlos was poor, and there was not a lot of change in site as the main income came from boats passing to other locations and sporadic small fishing. But the poverty also gave the town something more, it gave it an authenticity and purity. In towns where tourism has been allowed to run rampant you have kids, old men, and cripples asking for money on every street corner. With the easy money that tourism can give to some you get large drug problems, and with drug problems comes significant crime. Here in this poor town, there was a strong sense of community that provided social support and structure in ways that money cant. It was perfectly safe to walk around at night, simply no crime to speak of, and if someone did try to rob me all I would have to do is yell and people would come out of their houses able to identify the face of the robber. At night families sat around in their living rooms, which were usually the first room in the first floor facing the street. There they watched TV, ate dinner, and conversed for all to see. The doors were usually open to let the cool air in, and the windows gave you a perfect picture of what was going on. It was an openness in a comfortable community unlike any I had found before.



In the suburbs we build massive brick fortress right next to one another, and never come out but to mow the law or walk the dog. Then we retreat to our little castle on the hill, aghast if anyone calls after 9. What would we think if an unexpected guest rung the door bell at night? Probably grab a gun. The huge grass yards that we spend thousands mowing and maintaining create such distances between houses, that if you want to see someone who doesn't live in the immediate 10 houses, you have to get in your car and drive there. They are isolating places. In contrast could you imagine a suburban scene, or even a semi urban scene where people left their doors open at night, or the curtains off the windows?




Walking around the village that evening as the sun set, I ran into a 6'3" German and his girlfriend whom I saw on the boat from Los Chiles. They were doing a little traveling themselves, and an instant bond was created by our mutual physical freakishness compared to the average Nicaraguan. It was a celebration of fair complexion, blond hair, and ungainly height. After spending two hours in San Carlos, I confidently deduced that they were the only other foreigners in the town, and so I grabbed a bite to eat with Jentz and Mierka that evening. I turns out that they were in San Carlos as well to catch the ferry the next day to the Island of Ometepe. We both agreed that the small towns, while they lacked the restaurants, nightlife, or flair of the larger towns, were refreshing in their authenticity and simplicity.





The next day after a run, workout, and some picture uploading to the Ipod, it was time to catch the 2pm ferry. That may not seem like a lot to do in one morning, but prepare yourselves as I launch into another parable about doing business in Central America. You see... I have an Ipod that is programmed for a Mac computer, and while I could install the appropriate PC software for the Ipod, this would erase all of the music that is sustaining my sanity amidst a sea of reggaeton. I had planned on using my Ipod as an external hard drive to store all of my photos, and did not find out until I got down here that my Ipod will not work straight up with PC. AND there are no Macs in all of Central America because you cant install illegally copied software on these computers (there is not a single legal piece of music, film, or software in this whole subcontinent.) So I found a program that interfaces on PCs for Mac Ipods! I was saved right? Wrong? Once you find a connection that is fast enough to download said program in less than three hours, you have to find a computer that allows you to install software. 4 internet cafes later, I find one that allows me to install a program, so I'm saved again right? Wrong. For said program to work I have to restart the computer... I also did not know until I got down here that when most of these computers are restarted they erase the entire hard drive and start from a template. So now I have been through 4 different internet cafes, three hours of downloading a program, and it just erased itself! At this point I have to bargain with the Internet cafe owner to try to get them to change the setting. Half of the people running these shops have no idea how to change it, and the ones that do basically tell you to go screw yourself.



I have done this 4 times for uploading pictures to my Ipod, but there are week long gaps in my picture taking where I have spent several days trying to find a place to upload pictures... Welcome to life in Central America!


With all that behind me, I boarded a two story, 90 foot diesel steamer bound for the Volcano Island of Ometepe and debarked San Carlos at 2 in the afternoon. It was going to be another 10 hours until our midnight arrival on the docks of Ometepe. I paid the extra dollar ($5.30 total) and got a first class ticket, that had an air conditioned cabin, badly dubbed loud American movies, and a nice topside deck. Totally worth it. I took the opportunity to read up on a little Nicaraguan History, and listen to the entire discography of Bob Marley that I downloaded before I left. I also got to watch a beautiful sunset while sitting in a hammock overlooking the water. Later in the evening I caught up on a little Family Guy and Lost TV shows. I downloaded all the seasons to my Ipod before I left, and I have been rationing them as I go along so I will always have something to watch when I get really, really board. (like on a 10 hour boat ride across a lake in the dark)

Hauling fish onto the Ferry for the trip to Granada after Ometepe

Jentz and Mierka, the Germans, hooked me up with a really cheap hostel so we wouldn't have to look for one when we got in at midnight. The first night was spent in Altagracia, and the hostel will be one to remember! It was only 3 dollars a night, and so I should have been a little suspect. All 20 "rooms" of the hostel had a door that opened to the outside, and a nice wooden double bed. The problem was that the walls between the rooms of the hostel were actually just one, thats right, one, piece of sheet rock and exposed wooden framing. No paint, no mud, nothing, so I had one sheet rock wall on one side of the bed, and exposed wooden framing on the other. This too would have been livable until you get to the best part - there were no ceilings. All 20 rooms shared a common exposed roof, that was patched with trash bags. This was actually worse than dorm rooms, because the walls gave couples the illusion of privacy while at the same time I could hear every single whisper. Whispers aside, much worse was heard during the night I spent here, and so I thanked god again for my trusty Ipod!



There are actually two volcanoes that make up the island of Ometepe, which means "land between two volcanoes" One volcano, Concepcion, is active and the other, Maderas, is inactive with a lake inside the crater. The first night was spent in the city of Altagracia, pop.2000, underneath the fuming Concepcion, and the next morning I got up and went to the other town, Moyogalpa pop. 3000, to do some blogging. From Moyogalpa I caught the last bus at 430 across the land bridge to the inactive volcano of Maderas and the small coffee plantation of Finca Magdalena. It was from here that I was going to begin my muddy assault on the volcano of Maderas the next day at 7.


Finca Magdalena was equally rustic to the other hostel, but had enough character to more than make up for its faults. It is a working organic coffee plantation that is actually a cooperative between 20 or so families that have lived on the same part of the island for 4 generations. In addition to the coffee plantation, they grow Cacao, Bananas, and Mangos, and have taken their two story 10,000 square foot barn and converted it into a hostel. They rented out Hammocks ($1.50), dorms and single rooms ($4). My small 5' x8' single room had two sides that were part of the original 100 year old barn, and two added sides. They had placed a twin mattress on a 2 foot wide frame, and so I had to try not to get to close to the edges at night lest the mattress collapse in on me. Besides character, the Finca had some of the best views of the valley and the other volcano in all of Ometepe. They also had a restaurant right in the barn, with delicious meals prepared straight from ingredients grown on the farm, and 5 dollar bottles of Flor de Cana rum. That night I sat and played Gin Rummy with two steller guys, Dwight and Nathan, from California, and polished off a bottle of Flor de Cana. Turns out I would run into them again in Granada as the story goes, but I will get to that later.

Late to fall, early to rise, I shared a guide up the Maderas with an Austrian girl named Andrea at 6 the next morning. We were both in pretty good shape, but I can tell you now we weren't mentally prepared for the hike we were fixin' to get ourselves into. Guides had been required ever since a German guy died here 8 years ago after he slipped and broke his ankle. Our guide, Mario, said it was going to be a 8 hour hike round trip, which at the time it seemed like nothing. He neglected to mention that we were going to go from 50 Meters to 1,500 Meters, or almost 4,000 feet in elevation, and then we would have to go all the way back down. He also neglected to mention that halfway up it becomes a true could forest, and everything we touched would be covered in mud. So for 5 muddy hours we scrambled up the muddiest, wettest, rockiest, and steepest trail that I have had the pleasure of climbing while in Central America. Apparently in the evolution of Nicaraguan intelligence, they never discovered the great architectural feat of switchbacks. And so for 5 hours it was 2 feet forward, one of which would slip and one foot back... There are no pictures from this portion of the ascent because I was covered in mud and did not want to risk a muddy camera to add to my worries.



Mario had warned us that there would be no views from the top because it remains perpetually shrouded in clouds, which was fine, and as it turns out the last 1,000 feet or so reminded me of the lush cloud forests of Monteverde, Costa Rica, with green life everywhere on everything.



The lake at the top turned out to be more of a mud pit with water out in the middle, and to get to the water would require getting waist deep in mud. I was fully prepared to dive in until Mario said that underlying layers of water tended to suck you down like quicksand and I could die. I reconsidered. 3 more muddy and rocky hours later, we were back at the bottom, and got to see some monkeys back at the Finca, after we had just spent 8 hours looking for them on the mountain.


That night, exhausted and dirty, I decided I wanted a little more creature comforts than the barn at Finca Magdalena had offered, and so Andrea and I both decided to head down the road to the piece of land that bridged the two islands together. There was a small pretty beach called Playa Santa Domingo, and a cheap hotel of the same name where we both got rooms with private shower, hot water, and our own fans: it was heaven. The beach also had a perpetual 20 mph wind that blew constantly throughout the night, making it difficult to read on the beach, play volley ball, but perfect for cooling off from a hot day of hiking.





The next morning I was up with the sun to catch the first bus down the road, back to Moyogalpa where I had been two day prior, to catch a notoriously dangerous lanca across the lake to Rivas Nicaragua, where I was going to catch a bus up to Granada, one of Nicaragua most beautiful colonial towns.



For all the Sewanee folk out there who got to go Spring Party Weekend this past week, this is why I couldn't come, so I hope you understand.

M3

Sad News San Jose and back on the road

Trying to do a little catch up job, I also put a large blog up yesterday about Stewart's backpack getting stolen and then fishing in Jacó Costa Rica, so if you get a chance to read down you should check it out as well. If you have any advice for ways to better this blog, please just drop a comment down at the bottom. I have been getting a few spam comments with links saying "see here," advertising some computer programs, so please ignore this and don’t click the link because that will just make them keep spamming me. I don't know whether I should be flattered that I’ve gotten enough hits to warrant spamming, or pissed off?

While traveling it seems as though just when you think that you have seen it all, something comes along that blows your mind and changes your opinion of what different countries are like. This is particularly true in Latin America where randomness seems to be the norm, and it happened to me again that night in Jacó.

After a day of fishing, we decided that we would take a stroll around the city to admire some of the night life and see what this supposed party town was all about. I didn't fully understand the way that tourism, money, and irresponsible travelers had perverted the small economy of this town until walking down the street on the way to the bar. In the 200 yard stretch from our hotel to the bar at 9:00 pm in the evening, I was literally offered "weed, cocaine" or "ganja and white" no less than 10 times. Kids on bicycles no older than 13, old men sitting in the alleys, 30 year old street thugs, and plastic prostitutes all wanted to sell you drugs. This continued throughout the night and even in the morning as I went out to buy a cup of coffee; the drug dealers were on every corner in this supposedly safe city. You felt like you were being watched everywhere you went by the sunken eyes of addicts amidst an underworld of depravity. Everyone around just wanted to use you, and they saw you as only one thing: a meal ticket or another potential way to get their fix. The real true disturbing thing about the whole sub-culture is that its entire existence is due to white travelers like myself. And the more tourists that come in search of a good time continue to propagate and support it even today; simple irresponsibility does not do justice to how their actions destroy the people of this town.

The night only got better, for the next bar we went to was called "The Beetle Bar." It was a bar about 50 feet wide and 200 feet deep blaring loud reggaeton over the speakers while colored lights flashed off of mirrors and faux black leather seats with chrome edges in a dimly lit scene. There were maybe 20 other white men like ourselves, 20 local looking Costa Ricans, and no less than 150 girls in short colored plastic mini skirts with small skimpy tops. Every SINGLE one was a prostitute, and each one of them walked past you like a starving animal digging for trash, trying to get their own fix or next piece of food. We decided we had seen enough and high-tailed it back to the hotel for bed.

After a day of surfing and play on the Jacó beach, we got on the 3:00 pm bus headed back to San José. Craig had a flight to catch taking him back to his job in Birmingham, thereby ending our week of Costa Rican adventure. Craig made his 7:00 am flight and it was back to just Stewart and I for the remainder of the trip. While we regrouped for a few days, we had a chance to stay in possibly the nicest hostel in San Jose, located in a quiet neighborhood east of the city with embassies and universities. Called Bekuo, this place had their own wine list, a Japanese styled meditation garden complete with stone sculptures, all the cable TV, billiards, a huge California style kitchen, and furniture straight out of Ikea.

I did some blogging and Stewart went to the Embassy that day to get a new passport, but came back with some bad news. He could have gotten an emergency passport that day, but it only works to leave the country, and would not have been nearly sufficient for the trip to come. The real passport was going to take 10 business days (over 2 weeks at the time) and cost 100 dollars. He opted for the real passport, which meant we were both going to be stuck in Costa Rica for two weeks, with precious little time left after we had waited longer in Panama for Craig to get into Costa Rica. That night he also did some budget crunching and realized that he didn’t have the money to finish the trip all the way back to the US like he had originally planned. On top of this, taking buses all the way back the US from here would have cost more than a plane flight out of San José, and possibly taken 8 days. So... Stewart bought a plane ticket directly out of San José bound for the US in two weeks after he got his passport.

I was left with two options: stay in Costa Rica with Stewart for two weeks while he waited for his passport and then book it north, or split then and head north on my own, making my way through Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala, Belize, and Mexico solo. I wanted to finish the trip that I had started, and see all of the countries standing between me and the motherland. So Stewart and I said our goodbyes, I gave him 20 pounds of stuff from my backpack I didn’t need, promised to write, and I boarded a bus headed north out of San José towards Los Chiles, a small town on the border between Costa Rica and Nicaragua.

I was about 2 parts excited, 2 parts apprehensive and 1 part sad to leave Stewart for the open road of Central America.

Traveling solo is an entirely different animal than traveling with another person, family, partner, or tour group; not wholly better or worse, just very, very, different. The traveler is forced to interact and engage the local population and other travelers; when they go to eat, sit on a bus, hang out at a Hostel, walk on the street, or take a boat, their solitude makes them a natural target for the conversational hooks of others. The isolation also works to make most travelers more outgoing simply to have basic conversations, to tell someone about the places they have been and things they have seen. The judgment of foreign culture becomes an entirely different process, because all of a sudden you don't have someone to bounce your ideas off, or another presence to enforce the social norms of home. It is the traveler and the traveler alone who will decide how to perceive the new and strange. It is a more impulsive friendly type of traveling, because of a total lack of discussion about where the next stop will be. I have spent hundreds of hours discussing new potential places with Stewart and other people I have traveled with, weighing pros and cons, but now I can simply pick up and go when the wind blows too strong on my back. Then there is the obvious potential for loneliness and fondness for home, without that other traveler to hold up the reminder of familiar and comforting culture. In that sense it is a purer and more enriching type of traveling, no easy retreat to the known and familiar.

Staying in hostels makes the trip easier, despite the sometimes horrid conditions, because of the other young travelers from mostly western nations who you meet. With them you can have a good civilized English conversation, or go out to eat at a restaurant without having to bring a book. All of the travelers have different stories, but most are decently educated, interested in broadening their horizons, seeing the world, and having a good time. There are also more of these than you think in every corner of the Latin American world.

I headed out on a 5:30 am "express" bus to the hot humid border town of Los Chiles Costa Rica. I say "express" because that is what was advertised, but I have found that no bus is express unless all of the seats, and aisles, are jam packed full of people so that the driver can make as much money as possible. For 6 hours while headed north, the bus would stop every 2-5 minutes to pick someone up or drop them off. The trip could easily be made in 4 hours in a car, but would have cost a good deal more than the 3 dollars I paid for the bus. We got into Los Chiles just before noon and I found a nice comfortable place with air conditioning where I could veg out for the day and wait to catch a small boat up the Rio Frio to Nicaragua the next day.

Los Chiles was a remarkable little town out on the vast tropical plains that are northern Costa Rica, a border town with character which was a first for me. The giant nicely paved and marked road that had taken us all the way from San José to here ended about 6 miles north of the town at the border between Costa Rica and Nicaragua. Despite the beautiful condition of the massive highway built all the way to the border, the Tico government refused to let anyone cross to Nicaragua by land here. Go figure? I mean this road is like only 10 years old, equipped with mile markers, roadside telephones, giant concrete gutters, and reflective lane markers. It is the Rolex of roads for Costa Rica. The last 6 miles sit completely unused, servicing the border guards and 20 so family farms, out in the middle of the hot sun like the vestige of a once great power (I ran to the border for some exercise is how I know that no one uses it).

Los Chiles is home to another testament from the past as well, for just east of the town is a 5,000 foot concrete runway (Google Earth it, it’s longer than the whole town itself!). Some might ask, now why would a town of 3,000 need a 5,000 foot concrete runway? The answer is that they don’t! This is a secrete runway built by the CIA in the 1970's to provide air support for the Contras fighting a civil war in Nicaragua that they ultimately lost. For the art majors out there, google "Iran-Contra affair."

This was my first night out of San José and alone in a dusty, hot border town with not another gringo in site. It was good. It was real good. Los Chiles reminded me of how I love small towns when I'm traveling down here. There are usually only 2 or 3 basic cheap options to choose from for a hotel, maybe 7 different places to eat, and 1 or 2 bars that are open at night. It really takes a lot of the guess work out of trying to decide where to stay or eat, and you can be content that everything is pretty much the same. It is also hard to get lost, because there might be 8 blocks combined in the whole town. The people stare at you because they haven't seen a gringo in a while, which is fine and helps to remind you that you are somewhere authentic by Costa Rican standards.

Los Chiles is a town of wide dusty dirt roads, and a town square that is actually a giant dry crunchy soccer field. Different groups of men and children were sitting underneath the various trees that lined the sides of the soccer field, not in a hurry to do much besides sit there and try to avoid the heat in the middle of the day while catching up on idle conversation. The kids would scream "HELLO" while riding by on their bikes and then quickly hurry away giggling to their friends. You could tell that everyone in town knew everybody else, and it had been that way for a hundred years. The town had one church, which doubled as the town's only school and faced the giant soccer field in the center. One to two story buildings in various states of repair/construction surround the soccer field, selling clothes, pots, pans, and just about anything they could get their hands on. There was a sign advertising Internet, but upon inquiring I found out that it wasn’t working: They said: “Come to think of it, we haven’t had internet for over 2 months now.” I said “Oh that’s swell, how’s business?” They said, “Well, now that you mention it, it has been a little slow.” Go figure? Nothing moved fast in Los Chiles...

The next day I woke up, went for a run, and hit up the customs office literally right across from the hotel where I was staying. If you think that a 6’ gringo is a site to be seen in a remote border town in the northern portion of Costa Rica, you are right, and I got many merit worthy stares to compliment this fact. Now imagine a 6’ 3” gringo wearing only his bathing suit and a pair of tennis shoes, blinding passersbys with his paleness, covered in sweat, and running down the street in the middle of town. Now THAT is a site to see, and every single other townsperson agreed. I no longer have any shame in Central America. I have decided that I am going to run every day until I get back to the US to give my constantly changing environment some regularity.

After getting my passport stamped in Costa Rica, I asked the border official what time the boat left for San Carlos, Nicaragua, my first stop in the next country. He replied, “When it’s full.” Great. After much prying, I finally convinced the boat company to give me a time, and they said not before Noon. Now I at least had 4 hours where I knew that the only boat for the day wouldn’t leave me!

I headed down to the boat docks about noon and boarded a 5 foot wide, 40 foot long fiberglass excuse for a boat that was going to take me 1 ½ hours up the Río Frio to Nicaragua and the small mosquito infested port town of San Carlos where I would sit for another day and wait for the bi-weekly ferry to the volcano island of Ometepe in the giant fresh water lake Nicaragua.

It turns out that boat drivers are a lot like bus drivers, and the more people they can fit on their boat, the better. This is disconcerting for obvious reasons, but I still got on the boat amidst the sacks of fruit, TVs, chickens, clothes, and dogs that people were taking to San Carlos to hock. The boat drafted maybe a foot before we loaded on, and after the 60 or so people, countless giant bags of god knows what, and livestock were on, we were drafting at least 4 feet, or 6 inches from top of the sides where I was sitting. I looked up, I had a life vest, I hoped to god I wouldn’t have to use it and loose all my electronics. The river and Lake Nicaragua were also home to the worlds only fresh water shark, a type of bull shark that migrates seasonally from the Caribbean up the same tiny river we were on and into Lake Nicaragua. This was also another good reason not to fall in the water!

Somehow the 300 pound man that was steering us down the river with a 60 horsepower motor skillfully glided the boat away from the dock and out onto the dark muddy river without getting any water in the boat. I could tell that he had done this before. Slowly we puttered down the narrow 50 yard wide river while exotic birds and monkeys played in the giant trees leaning over the banks. I was very much in the heart of the Nicaraguan jungle, and loving every minute despite the threat of capsizing. About halfway up river, the driver instructed us to all put on our life vests, which initially got me worried, until I realized that we were simply passing the guard shack at the Nicaraguan border, and there was a law in Nicaragua that you had to have life vests.

I knew that we had changed countries immediately upon staring at the guards standing on the 30 foot tall banks over the side of the river. Their guard shack was on stilts, and completely covered in camouflaged paint with camouflage plastic cloth pulled out from all sides, like they were hiding from planes. What? Were they at war? All 20 guards were decked out in complete camouflaged fatigues and each had a sub machine gun slung around their shoulder with their hand on the trigger, and the barrel pointed a little close for comfort towards the boat. The boat captain handed him our passenger manifest and sure as rain we were back on the river, able to take off our life vests (I didn’t).

One hour later the river slowly widened until the banks retreated behind us, and we entered Lake Nicaragua! Spread out like an ocean in all directions, the sun was just beginning to set and I could have sworn we were anywhere but on a giant lake in the middle of Central America. The waves picked up, and the last few treacherous kilometers to San Carlos were not easy ones.

They are fixing to turn the internet off where I am working (Nicaragua suffers from frequent and long power outages and right now I am on a generator), so I’ve got to go, but if I get some time this evening I will tell you about San Carlos, a small town on the southeastern tip of Lake Nicaragua.

Travel Safe!

Merrill

Jaco Costa Rica and fishing!

I got a chance to work on my surfing skills while in Jacó

With Craig in tow, Stewart and I were in "intense travel mode" since he only had a week to spend in Costa Rica, and this required maximizing every moment of each day to its fullest. This was done so that as Craig went back he would have volumes of memories, and it reminded Stewart and I of the importance of time while traveling. Long term travelers such as us often forget the blessing of time in these foreign places, something fairly easy to do. Sentiments such as "oh another giant active volcano," or "oh another extremely rare endangered bird, another idyllic Caribbean beach, another quaint group of indigenous locals, another amazing cloud forest, another 200 year old colonial church..." may not be said overtly, but are thought. The majority of travelers that I have met will most likely return to some western nation in months' or a year's time, and the traveling experience needs to be one that stays with you for the rest of your life; hopefully enriching everything that follows. However, maintaining this sort of appreciation for everything that you see is not easy, it requires a diligence and almost work like ethic. The veil of apathy is something that I see in myself at times, but as long as I remain aware of it I can take measures to remind myself of the opportunity in front of me. Stewart and I often did things called "reality checks" i.e. "Reality Check: we are sitting on lava rocks in the middle of the Costa Rican Rockies in pitch black darkness watching an active volcano hurl lava hundreds of feet in the air only to have it explode in giant balls of fire flowing down the mountain" or "Reality Check: we are sipping beers over a gorgeous sunset while watching a German ship pass through the Panama canal on its way to Japan." I think you get the Idea.

Some travelers unfortunately just travel so that they can avoid responsibility or whatever the next stop is on the road of life . This is particularly present in beach towns where you see people in their 20s and 30s who have been at the same hostel for months at a time. They have saved enough money to live in the Hostel, go out every night and get hammered, wake up at noon to grab a bit to eat, start drinking at 5 and get hammered again. They will do this for weeks on end. At least I know I don’t have it that bad.

Keeping these thoughts in mind, we left Monteverde on the 6:00 am bus to Puntarenas, from where we would change and catch a bus to Jaco. This bus, like many before it, had maximized their profit by fitting as many seats as possible in the 30 feet from the front of the bus to the back. This is fine if you are a 5 foot tall Tico, but when you are 6 foot 3 inch Nordic Viking it poses serious problems. To fit in a seat such as this, I have to sit up as straight as possible and literally wedge my femur bone in between the seats. Then the person in front of me tries to recline and can't because my leg is butting straight up to the metal in both seats, so they tell me to quit it... Quit what: being me? having a femur that is twice as long as theirs? Quit sitting in the seat? Eventually they stop because I am twice as big as they are and would win a fight. HAH! The sitting predicament leads to other problems such as bruised bottoms, prolonged numbness in my legs, tremendous lower back pain, and an inability to sleep. But good things come out of hardship: 2 dollars as opposed to 200 hundred for flying, great views of the countryside, and a memory that will last when other fade into the years.

5 hours later we were in Puntarenas, soon to be called Puta (son-of-a-bitch) renas. As we got off the bus, Stewart dove into the baggage compartment to grab our big bags, and as he did he put his small bag on the ground so he could fit in the compartment. I was watching it and had a good view of the general area when a large man (taller than me which is unusual!) came up and started telling me/yelling something about how we were not at the bus terminal. I was trying to figure out what he wanted and just as soon as that he was gone around the corner. Stewart came out from underneath the bus to see what was going on and we both realized that his small green bag was gone... We frantically looked around, on the bus, around the ground, around the corner to find the guy, but it was to late. The bag was gone. It must have been a two person deal, so while one distracted my attention from the scene, the other grabbed the bag. In the bag was Stewart's credit card, his camera with pictures from the entire trip, money, ipod, passport, and journal: basically his life for the past 2 months.

We ran through the market to see if the thieves were already trying to sell their new found goods, but it was a fruitless gesture. After dashing to the police station we realized that this too was going to come of nothing. The bag was gone and Stewart came to this realization fairly quickly. All that was left to do was cancel the credit card and file a police report to get a new passport. Life can change so fast, something that is easy to forget in the safe complacency of home. This is a generalization, but I feel that the people of many countries I have been to have a closer connection with the tenuous nature of normality, not surrounded by as many of the safety blankets that tend to come with life where I grew up.

Stewart was more up-beat about it that Craig or I, taking a "these things happen" approach, something that is always easier said that done. And he was right that these things do happen, there is a saying that there are two types of people in Latin America: those that have been robbed and those that will be robbed. It is a fact of life when there such disparity of wealth, and poverty is the norm not the exception. Craig and I were quick to not be downers and so we tried to cheer up as quickly as Stewart had. I can also count my blessings from this experience and hope that I will never be in a position where poverty or addiction drive me steal from another.

Not Stewart's actual face after it happend, but general representation on his outlook on life.

Even after filling a police report, we still made the bus to Jacó that we had planned on, and back on the road of traveling.

In the 1960's Jacó was a small fishing village on a western coast of Costa Rica with a relatively large pretty beach and not much going on besides great fishing. It saw the occasional traveler, and both walked away with a content feeling of beneficial cultural exchange. Then like a great tidal wave of wealth and local cultural white-out, the American came, and they came, and they came. Jacó became the pacific coast destination for vacationing Americans and other wealthy foreigners. They came to beach, they came to fish, they came to spend money, and just like that Jacó was no longer the domain of the Costa Ricans but now a colony within a county. High abundances of prostitutes and drugs would soon follow this gringo inundation, further solidifying its colonial status.

This is what we had heard, and after passing a mile of billboards and signs without a SINGLE Spanish word, I decided that it might be true. Best Westerns and Subways lined the main road that comprises the town center and runs along the beach. A giant resort called "Los Suenos" anchored the town to the north, and was home to the richest gringos who had help to move Jacó towards its present condition. I was okay spending my Latin America time in such an un-Latin place for several reasons: 1.) We knew what the town was going to be like before setting out on the road towards here, with no false beliefs that it was real Costa Rica. 2.) I had spent the last few months traveling through many other "traditional" towns and could competently recognize the difference. 3.) They had some of the of the best/cheaper sport-fishing on the pacific coast, and that was our real purpose for being here.

Yes, Craig, Stewart, and I were going to go 30 miles of the coast of Costa Rica in search of Blue Marlin, Sail Fish, and Dorados, and then use our innate manly power to fight them in for the catch. And then release them. Many people our age don't get the opportunity to fish like this, and so the experience was going to be all that more special.

Craig, Stewart, and I splurged and got a cheap hotel room with air-conditioning now that we could split the cost 3 ways in an effort to forget about the events earlier in the day. After a stroll around the local fish guides and little bit of bargaining we got the best deal we could on 30 foot center console, scheduled for 7 am the following morning.

The following morning we shared the van ride with another man from US going out to fish for the day. He has a really interesting story that I am not going to include on the blog because he is hiding in Jacó from the US government, but ask me and I will send the links to a few Vanity Fair, New Yorker, and recent Washington Post articles written about him. (On a side note: Stewart and I had read in the liberal lonely planet that all of the sports fishermen were down here for the legal prostitution in addition to the fish, and that their hotels were "high class brothels." We both reacted with skepticism, and both knew enough guys who fished to know that this was some kind of backpacker editorial contempt for rich fishermen. ) Then the guy from the US looks out the window and points at some 20 year old girl walking down the road and goes: "that is what I'm really here for, the young girls." We were both wrong, turns out that the Lonely Planet is always right!

Our captain and 1st mate were both native Jacóians, and were relatively younger, but we were assured that they were good at what they did and would catch us some fish. Out of the Los Suenos harbor 10 minutes later, we were boring away at the morning sky towards our objective: a sunken volcano crater 30 miles off the shore where all the Blues and Sails were known to hang out. We used the trip out there to catch up on a little bit of sun bathing in the morning rays before we all started to sweat like it was going out of style.

It seemed like not a few minutes later, our first mate was throwing out the lines. We had two sitting on the surface and 5 more at varying depths tied to the outriggers, a total of 7 lines for this 30 foot boat, a pretty impressive feat. The "fishing" that Stewart, Craig, and I had been doing up to this point consisted of pretty much sitting on the front of the boat in the sun. I don’t get the opportunity to go deep sea fishing that much (this might be the 5th time in my entire life) so I really enjoyed having a first mate there to tie up the lines and rig the entire set up, while the captain was in charge of finding our fish. I am sure I could learn how, but just haven't had the chance, although this will be the goal of the next trip I go on.

We watched as he rigged the boat and waited...

The sun got hotter and we waited...

and then and hour later it was like AHHH scream AHHH a bunch of stuff in really fast Spanish that boiled down to: get back here and reel in this fish. The drag of the reel was whirring like a siren Bweeeeeeeeee, a sound of excitement and call to action for all sport fishermen. Craig, Stewart, and I looked at each other to decide who was going to reel this one in, and somehow it was ME! 9:30 in the morning and we already had a sail on the hook. Dash like a flash I flew to the fighting chair, rod in hand, prepared to do battle with the beast.

The fish jumped and flew across the water, fighting the line, and sailed to its namesake. It was a back and forth for about 15 minutes, and then the fish started to loose will power, and I spent the next 15 slowing pulling it in bit by bit. The fight was complicated by the fact that my reel wasn’t secured to my rod, and so it swiveled around the rod as I reeled, hence the shot of 1st mate having to hold the reel in place for me. We got the leader and bill, but the fish had lost a lot of blood, and so we decided not bring it into the boat for the photo-op, hence the above shot Stewart took with my camera. One great fisherman (dad) once told me that after every catch, an obligatory round of celebratory beers were in order. And so at 10:00 am, we all cracked open our first Imperial of the day, and toasted to the captain and his 1st mate.

First catch day out of the way, the hesitation was off of our chests and we no longer had to worry about going home empty handed. Like clockwork we had the lines back out ready to catch another big one. Less than 30 minutes later another WEEEEEEEEEEEE on the drag, mad screaming in Spanish, and we knew we had another on the line. All of the dreams we had about pacific coast bill fishing were coming true. Again Stewart and Craig stared at each other, and Stewart said that he wanted Craig to have it since Craig was a fairly big fisherman. So Craig jumped to the hot seat with rod and reeled like there was no tomorrow. A good 30 minute fight with some aerial action on behalf of the fish, and we had one in the boat. A round of celebratory beers later, and it was 11:00, with 5 more hours of fishing ahead of us. It was shaping up to be a great day.

Captain Craig, and Stewart reverting to the basic medical school instinct of studying when bored.

Unfortunately these would be the only two sails we would see, but we counted our stars when our captain radioed the other two boats in the fleet to learn that those two boats had caught nothing so far! We took advantage of the breeze provided by the trolling to simply enjoy being in the pacific ocean out on the water. The 1st mate turned out to be a great fresh pineapple and watermelon cutter, washed down with some more Imperial. We did get to see some dolphins, a sea turtle, and lots of Sails who for some reason were not biting our bait.

Savoring a bit of Pinnapple

The end of the day came, and we headed back to shore with two sails under our belt, taking the evening cruise as an opportunity to enjoy some more delicious Imperial.

That evening we decided to continue living the sport-fisherman lifestyle, and headed over to the ritzy bar at Los Sueños resort to chum it up while watching the sunset over the yachts in the harbor.


While sipping scotch at the bar, we met a Canadian Real-estate agent who lived in Los Suenos and sold a lot of the houses there. This big cheery guy named Marcel Gauthier was as nice as he could be, and owned a company called "Costa Rica Dream Makers" http://costaricadreammakers.com He invited us back to his house where we spent the rest of the evening finishing a bottle Crown Royal with his sister, Dina Gauthier, who runs the business with him.

Productive day out of the way, we had one more day in Jacó to enjoy the beach before it was time to catch Craig’s flight out of San Jose, and try to get a new passport for Stewart!

Take care,
M3

Costa Rica part deux

While Monteverde is not Costa Rica's biggest, most diverse, or oldest protected forest, it more than makes up for this fact by being it's coolest (awsome, not temp.). Situated on the western edge of the mountain range that runs through the country, Monteverde is a could forest in the truest sense of the word. Warm pacific fronts bath the country with moiture, and slowly rise to dump tremendous quantities of water all over this part of Costa Rica. Cool temperatures and high altitudes converge on this place to create a humid haven for all kinds of plant and animal life.

As we rolled in on our Jeep-Boat-Jeep excursion from La Fortuna, the sky was clear and the clouds had dissipated as they do every day about noon. We were warned however that the coulds would be back the following morning, because you can't call it a cloud forest if there ain't any coulds. The jeep/van we took from the Lago de Arenal was perhaps the nicest van that I have had the pleasure of riding on while in Costa Rica, a testament to the many foreign tourists that pass this way each year. As it bounced along the horrible rutted dirt road, I admired the faux leather interior, windows that worked, and best of all, the miniture DVD screen (1.5" x 1.5") wedged in the dash. What else could be playing but a ripped off DVD of MTV2 videos from the early nineties featuring Meatloaf, Poison, and other power ballad favorites. We sang along best we could, taking care not to miss the rolling alpine hills that passed by our window while we wailed.

Monteverde was a weird mix of small town, rural setting, and sporadic tourist. I take that back. There were a lot of tourists. Which was all in good reason as this was one of the most incredible displays of nature in all of Costa Rica. There was even a sushi restaurant in this town of 2000, but we didn't trust it, just like I never trusted the sushi served on another mountain at McClurg dining hall.

The NCAA Final four was on during dinner that night at a local soda, but halfway through it got changed to a latin music sing-a-long by the waitress. We tried with all our might but couldn't get her to change it back, and so that was the end of our escapade to american culture for the night. It turns out that the regional rodeo was also being held the same night, and so we walked a kilometer down the road and got to see local culture in action. The bar served up shots of sugar cane liquor, but we refrained and instead got a round of Imperial beers. Familiar fair favorites were there such as cotton candy, fried dooughnut balls, and taffy. A few new ones were there as well such as a Churro, or long fried heavy sweet dough filled with peanut butter and coated with sugar crystals. It was heaven in your mouth, and I could make a fortune importing these things to the US. Small dark dingy rides were all the rage with local 4 to 12 year olds, but they looked a little unsafe for gringo size men, so we just watched. The fair was also popular with the 13-17 year old age group, and it remined me of when I was that age. In Birmingham you couldnt go to a bar, only half your friends drove, you couldnt talk at movies, there was no football team, and bowling got old, so where do you go? We went to things like fairs and concerts the same as the kids down here. Stewart, Craig, and I skipped out on the actual rodeo, saying that we would do it the next night and got ready for a long day of zip-lining, cloud-forest hiking, and soaking up the humidity.

Early to rise about 5:30, we were the first people on the public Monteverde school bus headed towards the protected forest just 5 minutes outside of town. They acutally had a daily quota, and so our goal was to get in as early as possible to have the place to ourselves for a few hours. Early we were, arriving about 6:30, 30 minutes before they actually opened. While waiting, we sat and talked about how this was the most expensive park entrance fee we had ever paid: 9 dollars, in a country where the average daily wage was below 15. Just over our shoulder, a uber-blindly liberal lady from New York in her 40s couldnt help but listen in, and went off on an unprovoked tirade about how Costa Rica was only country down here who protected their forests and that costs money which we needed to pay. We responded by saying that the 9 dollar entrance was the one reason that there was not a single Costa Rican in line, and that the country essentially made its natural treasure too expensive for its own people who live here. And as such making it a veritable playground for rich foreigners. She didnt understand: she had to fly back to New York the next day.






After that we were off! I will say that Monteverde's popularity is well deserved, for this was perhaps one of the most beautiful and richest rain forest that I have ever been in. I felt like I had boarded a time capsule, transported millions of years back before the scourge of man. The trees hung a hundred feet over your head, sheltering you as if you were in some grand english cathedral supported by columns 6 feet around. Meanwhile early morning clouds still wrapped around the base of these massive giants, meandering along the forest floor as if there was no forest at all. The cool temperatures stirred a soup of fog that at times obscurred the path right underneath your feet. And if this was one of Mozart's great symphonies, the key would be in green; for this color overwhelmed the senses in every form. There was so much life in every inch of this place that you could have sworn it had a heartbeat. On the branch of a tree grew a moss, on top of that moss there was an orchid, through that orchid weaved a vine, and crawling along that vine were tons of large ants carrrying pieces of leaves, carrying these leaves to another patch of moss, where a tree was growing on top of the first one. Whole patches of earth were somehow suspended in tree trunks, harboring a second forest floor with orchids, bushes, and animals. From the trees hung 80 foot tall vines, some large enough to swing on, and others just barely thicker than a pencil.




As the day drew out, the clouds cleared, and a gorgeous blue sky was occasionally visible through the trees. We continued the hike, stopping at a bridge built through the canopy to check out what life was like a little higher in the forest. We also passed one or two groups of birdwatchers, which reminded us that we had pretty much had the entire reserve to ourselves all morning, seeing one or two hikers at most. It pays to get up early.

Craig and Stewart on our Canopy Bridge

That afternoon we didnt let the exictement stop, and went on a "Canopy Tour" through another part of Monteverde. Canopy Tour is actually just an environmentally friendly marketing term for "bad ass cable zip line." Ignoring the approaching storm and sporadic lighting customary here in the afternoon, we doned harness, had a brief 5 minute safety talk, and hooked up with pulleys to our first cable. The zip lines here are of epic porportions: Our second zip line was almost a half mile long, spanned an entire valley, brought us 600 feet off the ground, and reached speeds of 30 to 40 miles an hour hour, all on a cable no wider than your thumb. There were 22 of these. It was intense.



Next stop: the beach town of Jaco, Costa Rica to catch some bill fish!

Costa Rica Week of Adventure

Getting mocked by Stewart

After a water taxi and short bus trip, Stewart and I had officially left Panama and were on our way towards Costa Rica. We were going to meet Stewart's friend Craig in San Jose. He was going to take a week off from work and travel with us while we hit up some of Costa Rica's hot spots.

Costa Rica is perhaps one of central america's richest countries, while still poorer than the US, they do have a life expectancy, a literacy rate, and an infant mortaility rate that is comperable to the States. There are several things that seperate Costa Rica from other Central American countries and make it decidedly unique: After a massive civil war in 1948 between a leftist leader, and conservative right wing aristocracy, the next president Feraria(sp?) aboilished the entire military calling it "a threat to democracy." This would set the tone for a peace loving nation for the next 50 years. Costa Rica's president Arias actually was instrumental in coordinating the peace treaty ending the nicaraguan civil war in 1980 and as a result won a Nobel peace prize. He was reelected last year after 20 years out of office. The US on the other hand entirely funded the loosing side, thereby prolonging the war for years and killing hundreds of thousands in the process.

Costa Rica realized somewhere in the 1970s and 1980s after several decimating Banana blights that they should start diversifying their economy. With the help of many, many extrañeros, they started setting aside land for conservation and preservation, eventually totaling over 30 percent of the country. Within 20 years, Costa Rica had revolutionized their economy and now their number one export was tourism far surpassing all other products. The numbers are evident, with something like 50,000 Americans living in Costa Rica, and over one million tourists in 1999 alone. In contrast Panama only got 80,000 tourists that year. And while this tourism makes the country less of what it used to be 100 years ago, there is not a culture in the world that does not change. Culture is inherently fluid . In the same way that there is a little bit of truth in every stereotype, the tourism is here for a reason. The country's forests, volcanos, and beaches are some of the best that I have seen to date.

Another side effect of such massive influx of foreignors wass their foreign money. While great for the country as a whole, it makes the life of a budget backpacker a difficult one. In other countries we are used to being able to get by on the same sort of pay scale that the locals do, but here since tourism is such a ubiqitous buisness, every price in a restaurant or hotel is quoted for a gringo. The locals simply eat and live at home. The tourists that spend these kinds of prices are here for a week maybe two, and so to them it is really nothing.

Stewart and I met Craig at the airport in San Jose last week, and although his plane arrived at 8:30, he didn't get out of customs until 10:20. Lesson to be learned: when the plane deboards at a foreign airport, do not stop to go use the restroom and let the entire plane get in front of you in line, instead hold it until you get to the other side if you can.

That night we went out and partied with the locals, trying to pick out the "real girls" from the prostitutes or men dressed as women, throwing Craig a welcome to Costa Rica party. It was kind of fun to introduce him to the things so foreign to American culture and now mundane and ordinary to Stewart and I. I lived vicariously through him, watching his reaction and remembering what it was like the first time I came to latin america. We called it a night at 3:30 a.m. after some Hamburgeusas con Jamon y Huevos (hamburgers with ham and eggs, actually really incredibly good) from a street vendor. The next morning at 7:30 am, or 4 hours later, we were up and adam for an 8 oclock bus that would last the next 5 hours and take us up to La Fortuna where we were going to see the Volcano Arenal.

The rickety old 1970s charter bus rambled through the hills north of San Jose along a bumpy dirt road headed for La Fortuna. As the exhaust wafted in through our window and the bumps without shocks threw us off our seats, we all couldn't help but feel a little bit quezy and think that maybe a night of fun wasn't the best precursor to an 8 o'clock 5 hour bus ride through rural Costa Rica.

Finally arriving in La Fortuna, that afternoon, we checked into our hostel "Gringo Petes" and grabed some grub, a set meal down here is called a cansado and we ate the most expensive cansado that we have ever eaten at 6 dollars (in Ecuador they are 1.50). A little nap, some blogging, and we were scheduled to take a night tour up the side of the active volcano looming over La Fortuna.






Volcano Arenal first erupted from its dormant state in 1960, and has been spitting out lava and hot rocks ever sense. The last person it killed was in 2000, a man who was trying to get too close to the volcano and got killed by the heat. Total the volcano has killed under 50 in the last fifty years, with the majority of those being during the initial explosion in the 1960's.



Our guide, Juan Carlos, has been giving tours up the side of the volcano for over 15 years, and as the day slowly faded into purple, we bounced down the road in a van with several other tourists headed for the volcano. The van came to a stop a hour later at the very base of the volcano. From there it was an hour hike in the dark through the jungle, while battling mosquitos, up to a viewing point. The viewing point was actually a clearing of lava rocks from the last major eruption, and for the next hour we sat there in the silence and darkness and watched and listened as this force of nature spit glowing lava rocks hundreds of feet into the air and then let them slide down the mountain, bursting into thousands of tiny pieces in spectacular displays of fire. I felt one with the powers of the earth, and got a sense for how truly massive our planet is. We were watching lava that had just recently flowed up from the center of the earth and now spewing out into the air.



After the Volcano we went back down the mountain in our van and got to swim in thermal springs feeding off of the heat from the volcano, ambiance provided by flashlights mounted in the trees by our guide, Juan Carlos.

Nixing plans to go out that evening, Stewart, Craig, and I caught a jeep out of La Fortuna to lake Arenal 2 hours away, where we boarded boats to take us down the lake. From the end of the lake we caught another jeep to the cloud forest town of Monteverde.

Stewart's Friend Craig

I cant talk more know, have to catch a 3:30 bus, but look for more in the next few days.