The End. Sort of.

So, I leave Xela today for what will in all likelihood be a whirlwind last few days.

I am taking a shuttle to Antigua this afternoon and have secured a wine date with MRM this evening, since we haven't been near one another much of the summer.

Tomorrow morning, I am being picked up by World Vision at 7am and driven 3 hours and then boated some and then we are hiking some in order to meet Lucia, one of my sponsor children. I am very, very excited.

I get back to Antigua Friday afternoon. Am showering at MRM's apartment, repacking my stuff and then she and I and her friend Joren are taking a bus into the City, dropping off our belongings with her family, eating dinner, and then (hopefully, if the tickets are not sold out) taking an overnight bus into the Peten jungle to see the ruins of Tikal.

We will arrive in Flores, an island town in the jungle, about 6am, take another hour shuttle to Tikal and spend the day at the park.

Then bus back to Flores, eat dinner, clean ourselves of sunscreen, sweat and bug spray, and board a second overnight bus.

We arrive in Guat City at 7am Sunday, will head back to MRM's family for showering, resting, and then the 80th Birthday Celebration of her grandmother, Doña Emma.

Monday morning we head to the airport, board planes, clear customs and immigration, and set foot on American soil 14 weeks after leaving it.

What this means is that I will have to finish the posts from home, which feels rather cheap. But I don't suspect I will have much internet access in the next few days.

So, forgive, and I will be in touch soon! XOXO

The Setup

I realized that I never mentioned the third school that I was signed up for. Lo siento!

So, way back in the day when I was considering leaving Xela and then decided to stay, but change schools, I toured quite a few and fell in love with two, Celas Maya and Pop Wuj.

What drew me to Pop Wuj was a dedicated Medical Spanish program that had been at one point, according to their website, associated with Doctors Without Borders. But that wasn't even the first thing that I fell in love with. I remember very clearly, sitting in this drafty, concrete prison of an internet cafe that was down the hill from my first homestay. It was pouring rain and I was soaked and cold, and I was gchatting with my mom while I was reading through the Pop Wuj website. Mom knew it was late-ish and dark outside and I wasn't safely home yet, and I knew she would worry until I was back to my house. We were mid-conversation and all of a sudden I typed "OMG!!!!!!!!!!!" and then didn't type anything else or respond to her for several minutes. This was, in retrospect, not the smartest thing to do. I was freaking out over what I was reading on the Pop Wuj website, but poor Lisa had know way of knowing that. All she knew was that it had only been a week since the abduction, and typing "OMG!!!!!!!!!!!" and then "disappearing" for a few minutes could have meant any manner of terrible things.

But what I had discovered is that Pop Wuj had a relationship/contract with a local Mayan midwife and it was possible for students to do their clinical portion of the program with her. I was floored. The website was incredible. There was a separate .pdf that detailed the Medical Spanish program and the various components of it and I was getting lightheaded while reading it. We would have 4 hours of Medical Spanish immersion lessons, plus daily Cultural Competency Seminars, given by a host of professionals including physicians, anthropologists, midwives and historians. In addition, each student would have to choose a topic of public health that interested them, research it in the context of life here in the highlands, and then present our findings, in Spanish, to the other program participants.

As if that wasn't awesome enough, the school operated a medical clinic that was located on the first floor of the building. The patients were mostly indigenous and if they lived in the communities where the school's other services were operating (a daycare, a reforestation project and a stove project) then the health care services were free. The clinic is funded in part by an increased tuition for Medical Spanish students, and I was only too happy to pay it. Per the school's website, it is run as a cooperative and was founded by 8 teachers who wanted to form a school that reinvested in local communuties in sustainable ways.

The projects I mentioned earlier are:
Daycare -- Single parent households are very common here. I don't know what the statistics are, but there are many children whose fathers are not around for various reasons, and whose moms are working day and night in order to survive. The daycare project is a safe place for these kids to go while their moms are at work. They are able to eat a nutrituous meal, have help with their homework, take English lessons, or just play and be kids. Pop Wuj employs guardians and teachers for the kids, and then students of Pop Wuj are encouraged to visit and help out with the various activities.

Reforestation -- baby trees! Many families here still cook over open wood fires, and this results in deforestation which further compromises the topsoil as well as putting at-risk, mountain-side communuties even more at risk for landslides during the rainy season.

Stove Project -- not only do open fires cause lots of trees to be cut down, but they contribute to an increase in respiratory problems for those that live near them. For children who grow up in a home with an open fire, their lungs look they have been smoking for decades. In addition, they are quite dangerous. Some of the most common, most preventable, and most acute injuries in rural communities are burns. The problem is, a wood stove is often cost prohibitive for most families. So once a week, Pop Wuj takes students and stoves and cement into the mountains and builds stoves for needy families. They hike up steep hills with all the equipment, climb roofs, cut chimney holes, mix and pour concrete, and assemble the whole thing. A wood stove uses 1/3 of the wood that an open fire does, and is much safer.

Scholarship -- school is only "mandatory" here until 6th grade. And many students don't last that long, for various reasons. One being that uniforms and supplies are very expensive. Another being that some families are so poor that they must put the children to work at an early age, selling tortillas door to door, or combing through dumps for scrap metal, or selling gum and candy at intersections. The scholarship program is for gifted students who want to remain in school but whose families cannot afford to let them. The fund pays for the students' expenses, in addition to paying the family a small stipend to help make up for the fact that the student can't work.

As I mentioned, all the families that are within the catchment of the other programs are entitled to free primary health care from the clinic the school runs.

So, back to weeks and weeks ago. I freaked out while learing about all of this on their website. And then I was saddened to learn that all the slots in the Medical Spanish program were full for the summer. The Program costs almost twice what I had budgeted, and that didn't include the $150 application fee, that you had to pay regardless of whether they accepted you. So when I found out there wasn't room for me, I figured maybe it was for the best because I couldn't technically afford it.

But then I received an email letting me know that following Tropical Storm Agatha, there had been some cancellations, and a few more slots had opened up. I applied, tried to make myself sound not at all desperate to work with the midwives in my mini application essays, and waited nervously for their response. A few days later I learned that I had been accepted, and knowing that most Ivy League medical schools send their student doctors here, I felt totally out of my league.

Next installment soon to follow. Promise!

Mexico

I was scheduled to be picked up from Panajachel at Lago Atitlan at 7am. This meant getting to Panajachel, a 45 minute boat ride away, by 7am. But we were all packed and ready to leave by 6am, and after a few detours down the narrowest streets I have seen in a while, and 3 different sets of directions from 3 different people, we arrived at the dock. David got out to collect my bags and have a chat with the captain. I said my goodbyes to MRM and Tara and Nat and headed towards the water. David stopped me on his way back to the car and said in a serious, fatherly way, "I told them to take good care of you. If you need anything at all in Mexico, call me, I have friends there."

The boat was wrapped in tarp because it was raining, and there was only one other passenger when I boarded. We waited sleepily for it to fill and then set out. Because of the tarp, we couldn't see outside of the boat, and it felt a little like flying, only better, as we sped across the water. My neighbor passengers scattered on the opposite shore, and I climbed up to the road and sat by a boarded up tienda, hoping my pickup location, the dock, would be understood by the driver, who had no way to reach me since my Guatemala cell didn't have service at the lake.

A few minutes to 7, a shuttle pulled up, confirmed that I was Rhachelle Jones, and off we went. The shuttle was full, 12 passengers, and I found myself irrationally irritated with everyone else on it. More than likely this was the result of lack of sleep and the sunburn and the insect bites and the poison ivy. I forewent chatting with my fellow travelers and ended up listening to my iPod for 9 hours straight. The scenery was, of course, breathtaking, but you know this by now. We passed through canyons and steep mountainsides and everything was so green and rich and vegetated (am probably using that word incorrectly). Here and there along the mountainsides would be a tiny shed with a chimney sticking out of it and you wondered how anything but goats could make it up there. Before long, the views became so steep and the way so narrow, that the only way to see the sky was to stick your head out of the window. But this was in a word dangerous.

We had to make the border crossing in two stops. I always become anxious at border crossings. Knowing that anything could happen; that you're at the mercy of low-paid government officials in a capacity that you generally aren't in daily life. Anyone could be questioned at any time, for any reason, and it makes me nauseous. It was a really, really hot day, besides, and the immigration office was cramped and sat in the center of a vast park of concrete, so we stood and waited and sweated. But I got my exit stamp from Guatemala without incident, and we only had one hiccup in the group: an Australian was trying to leave Guatemala on a passport that didn't prove he had legally entered it. He had to be walked to the Mexican border, offered entry, then exit, then come back to Guatemala and do the same thing, and then we could all of us walk together to our next shuttle which was waiting for us across the border. Walking across borders is much more exiting than doing it in an airport, and I never tire of the thrill.

We boarded our next shuttle, a Mercedes with AC!, and though we were technically in Mexico, we were driven another 20 minutes to the next border station in Chiapas. From there we had to fill out two forms, wait some more, sweat some more, and then finally reboarded. We were driven through two military checkpoints and then the road opened up. And I could relax.

It sounds cliche, but as soon as we left that last checkpoint, and were "in" Mexico, you knew you were in Mexico. The landscape changed dramatically, and looked a bit like how I think parts of Africa must. The sky was enormous, bigger than Big Sky country. The land rolled forward, on and on and on, and the landscape was dotted occassionally by a copse (that word's for MRM) of scrubby cypress trees, or a whitewashed concrete tienda selling Corona.

Our driver didn't speak much, but he played cheery music and despite the long day of travel, I think we were a happy bunch. From the border we had almost 3 more hours before reaching our destination, but they were pretty hours.

I need to go on record and say that I loved Mexico from the second I was there. And Mexico is somewhere I had never thought to visit before. As we wound closer to our destination, I listed all things "Mexican" that I love: food, beverages, music, Day of the Dead art, actors (Gael Garcia Bernal!), and wondered why it had never occurred to me to visit before now. During the too-few days I spent there, I loved it more and more. I loved Mexico because it was exactly what I thought it would be. Bright and cheerful and colorful; delicious food; great music. And during my time there, I got to be a tourist in a way I haven't been in Guatemala. Mexico asked nothing of me. I could just be, relax, and think pretty thoughts. I don't love Mexico in the same way that I love Guatemala, who is a sister to me now -- a sister who I have grown up with and fought with, and who I speak of with honest, hard-won affection and love. But Mexico is a place I would like to keep returning to in the years to come.

I spent my time in the highland village of San Cristobal de Las Casas, a place that immediately felt rarefied. SCC is the capital of Mexico's southernmost state, Chiapas. I have had a relationship with Chiapas since the beginning of my adulthood. It is briefly this: I grew up in a small community, I went to an even smaller highschool. A highschool that was both politically and religiously conservative. I graduated a year early. I left home and moved to a large university at the tender age of 17. In my freshman English class I wrote my own papers and I wrote papers for some of the girls in my dorm and one of those papers changed my life. I wrote about the women of the EZLN, the Zapatistas of Chiapas, peasants who staged an armed revolt on the day that NAFTA was signed, were squashed by the Mexican army, and who went on to carry out a fairly successful de-armed revolution. They gave up their arms and solicited international sympathy via the internet and they now live in the only place on earth where the Mexican military is barred from entering. They live in the highlands still as peasant farmers who have reclaimed their land and the rights to it from large agricultural corperations. Before reading about Chiapas and land rights and agricultural reform, it had never crossed my mind that the things I buy matter. That when I spend money, and the things I chose to buy, is in essence voting. Voting for a brighter or a darker future for millions of the world's poor. At the time I didn't realize that cheap products cost us, humanity, in other ways -- in poor families who beome poorer, who can no longer feed, much less educate, their children. These are, to be sure, complex issues. And I don't mean to bring them up only to brush over them. Only that, for me, the word "Chiapas" has been code for "awakening" for the past 12 years. I need also to say that I have been a terrible, reckless steward of this information, for years. I haven't changed my consumption habits to any large extent. I go through boycott phases, and then grow weary, knowing that boycotting is not particularly effective. But even so, Chiapas was where it started for me, and so going there was meaningful on a deeper level.

In its own way, being there wrecked me. I am not going to get into it in too much detail in this post, which will be long enough without it, but being there, even as much as a tourist as I was, I had one of those crises of faith that happen very very rarely.

We arrived at the end of the afternoon, in a light rain shower, and I made my way to my hostel, which was even lovelier than the pictures online made it out to be, and checked into the girls dorm. I got out my map, oriented myself, and headed out. First stop, a bookstore. Then a couple of hours worth of wandering around. I ended up at a craft market beside a huge, yellow church, and found a tiny outdoor restaurant that a lot of locals seemed to approve of. And then I ordered three dinners. I hadn't eaten all day, had been awake since 5am, and was so hungry I was dizzy. I ordered tacos and beans and rice and salad and a plate of 4 kinds of chargrilled meats, and chicken soup and chicken mole and horchata and limonada. It came out to about 12 bucks, with tip. On my way home, I stopped at the main square and listened to the live music playing there beneath a lit gazebo. I had booked the girls dorm with an ensuite bathroom, and this seemed like a good idea at the time. All the other hostels I have stayed at have had bathrooms down the halls. But having 12 girls share one tiny bathroom and shower is not the convenience that I had originally imagined it to be. My sunburn was by this point molting, and I had huge, swollen blisters on my shoulders. I felt gross. I needed to strip down and slather on aloe and lidocaine, and the bathroom never seemed to be free when I needed it to be.

The following day I set out to find the Museum of Mayan Medicine and reading the map incorrectly the first two times, I spent the first part of the morning lost. But I did find a small restaurant on a dusty side street that sold the best torta that I have ever eaten. Once I was on the correct street, I almost gave up several times because I was getting farther and farther away from town, and it was hot, and there was no shade, and even in long sleeves, my neck wasn't protected and I didn't have any water left. But I trucked on, passing small stalls on either side of the road, selling chicarron, charcoal, pinas, handmade wooden decorations, helados, and on and on. I finally came to a long concrete wall covered in grafitti, and towards the center of it, a two story metal gate with the logo I was looking for atop it.

I walked into the complex, a series of squat, burgundy concrete buildings, an expansive garden in the back, and a temascal. In the front area was a parking lot with a robin's egg blue VW Bug, and three wooden crosses. The Museum is operated by a collective of traditional healers and practicioners, including a group of midwives, bone setters, and priests.

The first building serves as the reception office and the "museum" itself, which is a darkened maze opening into sometimes interesting, sometimes hilarious dioramas of what traditional Mayan ceremonies and health services look like. There was literature in English that gave a good overview of the different healers, the interrealationship of spirit and body in Mayan cosmology, and how ceremonies and services are conducted. After walking through the dioramas, there was a small theater featuring first in Spanish and then in English, a birth attended by a Mayan midwife. This was, for me, the best part. It was fascinating. The midwife and her clients spoke a Mayan language (and I am not proficient enough to recognize even the most popular ones at this point) and they were translated into Spanish and then a voiceover was done in English.

The woman labored fully clothed in a squatting position. She didn't make a sound. She didn't smile or grimace. The midwife crouched behind her with a thick strip of fabric that was wrapped around the top of her belly and then tightened, to help the baby move down further into the birth canal, presumably. This was all happening in a TINY dark hut with a dirt floor and the only light came from the open fire on one side of the hut and the lights from the video camera. The baby was born while the mother was still squatting, with her husband in front of her holding her up and the midwife behind her, reaching up into her skirt to catch the child. The baby was cleaned with a tin pot of water heated over the fire, and then the stub of the cord was wrapped tightly against the belly with a piece of cloth. The placenta was buried into the dirt floor of the hut, near where the child was born. I watched the video twice and then wandered into the garden and peeked into the temascal, which is a Mayan version of a sauna. For the week following the birth, women go into the temascal daily because it is believed to cleanse and strengthen them both physically and spiritually.

On the way back from the museum, I got lost in the stalls of a large crafts market below a huge church on 20 de Noviembre, which is one of the main drags in San Cristobal, and the date of the Mexican Revolution, and my birthday. Yay! Dinner was at one of the restaurants that Lonely Planet recommended which turned out to be a bust. All summer long, in terms of good food, I have been safer going to places where residents, not tourists, are eating. San Cristobal was no exception. I tried several more LP recs over the course of the few days I was there, and nothing compared to the small places I found on my own.

The next day was another museum day as well. I went to the coffee musuem, which gave the history of the prized bean from its roots in Africa to the colonization of the New World, stopping shy of the Chiapas uprising in 1994. The museum was terribly depressing. Allegedly when coffee was first introduced to Europeans they derided it. You have to wonder how much human suffering and degredation could have been spared had they kept that opinion. Likely, they would have found some other crop with which to enslave indigenous populations. But you never know. I suppose the saddest part of the coffee musuem was realzing how little has changed, and how many people the world over are struggling and suffering and dying in order to provide cheap exports to wealthier nations and appetites. I was morose at the end of the coffee museum, and consoled myself with a steaming plate of huevos rancheros and toast and jam.

After lunch, I found the next museum, Na Bolom, or the Jaguar House. Na Bolom was the home of Trudy and Frank Blom, anthropologists, writers, and friends of the Lacandon Mayans, who are, according to documents, the only group of Mayans to slip deep enough into the jungle to avoid being colonized. When the Blom's discovered them in the 20s, they were still living as they had been for centuries before. The Bloms learned their language, and dedicated their lives to studying and protecting them. The house, which was a monestery before the Bloms purchased it, features hundreds of artifacts of the Lacandons, and I spent several hours wandering through the rooms learning more about this people. Na Bolom is now operated by a trust, who continue the couples' work, manage a reforestation project, education projects in Chiapas, as well as providing a space for the Lacandons to sell their handicrafts to a larger audience. I have to say, I am not one of those people who freaked out when "Julie and Julia" came out. I don't cook much. I don't fetishize high end or artsy cookware. But the cooking accessories that the Lacandons had carved, out of crazy jungle wood, were some of the prettiest things I have ever set eyes on. I wanted them for my mom. I wanted them for me. But, alas, they were very, very expensive for this nursing student.

The house has been converted into not only a museum, but a guesthouse as well, with a group dinner/discussion every evening, at a massive table that seats 30. The library (one of the most gorgeous places I have ever seen) is open to scholars, and tea is served there every afternoon to guests. Scholars and anthropologists often spend months in the library alone conducting research. Across the street is a private organic garden that provides the guesthouse with all the produce they cook with. All in all, a gorgeous and magical place to spend a few hours.

The following day, Friday, was my last full day in SCC. I was originally going to come home on Sunday, but then remembered that was the final game of the World Cup, and I wanted to be home for it. There were dozens of things "to do" that I hadn't done yet. The Mayan clothing museum, the amber museum, and little day trips to ruins and canyons and waterfalls. Not to mention a bazillion cafes and restaurants. But I dediced to take it easy and let Friday be a reading day. I found a cozy spot for breakfast, a place with bagels and the best herb cream cheese On Earth. I was really happy there until they started playing awful music that was really vulgar and offensive. So I packed up and headed to a park. I spent the afternoon window shopping on 20 de Noviembre. I really wanted to get some amber jewelry for my mom and sisters but I couldn't afford any of it. But I happily discovered at Bar Revolucion the best licuado ever. It was lemon juice and mint and pepian seeds, all ground up together with water and it was incredible.

My dorm had emptied out and a new girl had checked in, Bubble (she said she loves her parents' weirdness but would have preferred a more conventional name), and we got dinner at a steakhouse on a very ritzy street, and the food was awful, and she told me about living in France, and being able to speak 4 languages, and being a 1 hour train ride away from 3 other countries and I envied her life.

The next morning we were on the same pimp Mercedes van and I was less grumpy this trip and condescended to talk to the other passengers :) There was a woman who sat next to me who is a school teacher who has been coming to Guatemala and Mexico for 25 years. She comes for a month each summer to study Spanish. She and her husband adopted a Guatemalan child 22 years ago, and now they sponsor an education project in the town that their adopted son was born in. She had a lot of insight into the region and culture and gave me a dozen travel tips and made me wish for more time and money to see Honduras and Belize and El Salvador.

We made our border crossing safely and parted ways in Los Encuentros. The rest of my bus was headed to Lago Atitlan. My pickup at the gas station in Los Encuentros wasn't another shuttle, but a two door Jeep-looking thing with a snorkle and enormous tires and a safari rack. Word.

More soon! I know I have several weeks of catch up due you! Sorry for the delay in between posts. I picked up 5 freelance projects that were due in the past 3 weeks and haven't had the energy to do much writing on top of that.

And So, The Lake

Ed. Note: I began this post in Mexico, and came back to it 3 weeks later in Xela. So forgive the time discrepencies!

I am writing to you from one of North America's southernmost tips, in San Cristobal de Las Casas, Chiapas, Mexico, where I arrived yesterday and will leave on Saturday for beloved Xela. But Mexico has become pretty beloved as well in the past 30 hours.

First though, the beginning of our vacay. Our friends Tara and David were orginally scheduled to be in Medellin, Columbia for a wedding this week. But the person they were planning on traveling with wasn't able to go, and so MRM invited them to Guat and then we all invited Nat, and that is how that worked out. Nat arrived in Guat City last Tuesday and took a bus to Xela to spend a day and half with me. It was like Christmas morning, waiting at the bus station, seeing her bus arrive, seeing her on it. Prior to now, I have never been out of North America with friends. Partly owing to not leaving the country all that much. So seeing Nat arrive, and having her in Xela with me was such an incredible treat.

There is a hostel at my now-former Spanish school, Celas Maya, and I booked Nat in the large room with a baño privado because she is worth it. There were two beds there as well so that we could have a slumber party for the two nights she was in Xela. The first night we went to eat in this building called El Pasaje which looks like a gorgeous, old train station with an open air corrider through the middle and restaurants lining each side. We ordered nachos and a chicken sandwich and a pitcher of beer. And then we ordered it three more times, because the staff kept forgetting, and after over an hour, it finally arrived. It was nice to catch up, to have someone to talk to in person who knows me very well, and can take me in stride. It was a relief to be with someone who I can simply be with. Even though I have become close with some of the folks I have met while here, after 8 weeks, I was sorely in need of an old friend.

I had planned lots of outings and sightings and cultural activities for Nat's brief stay, but she said all she wanted to do was sit and eat and drink and talk. And so that is what we did. I took her to a few of my favorite places, including the Taiwanese tienda that sells "empananas" in a stall near the park. We drank really great margaritas and really great mojitos, that look like pesto and taste like heaven. We stayed up way too late, laying in bed and talking about all the things you save to say until the middle of the night. And before I was ready, I put her on a shuttle headed to Antigua, for a few days with MRM.

Looking back, I wished I had gone to Antigua as well, but I had already paid for the full week of classes, and I was so in love with my school, and so sorry to leave it, that I didn't want to cut it short. Tara and David had been in Antigua with MRM since Wednesday. Nat met them there on Thursday, and we all met at the Lake on Saturday. I had a pretty cush last week of classes, all told. We took lots of excusions -- shopping, to McDonalds for french fries and to watch the World Cup, to the mall and back, more shopping, more snacking and eating out. It was nice, but I feel like I am not on my A game for school number 3, which I begin on Monday.

I was originally planning on taking the chicken buses to the Lake, but then packed all my stuff, realized how heavy my bag was, and decided against it. So I bought a shuttle ticket, which turned out to be only about $7 more expensive than taking the chickens. On the way down to the Lake there was this hilarious woman with us who was in her 60s and who is Australian but who lives in Europe for the winter and travels the rest of the year. She knew one word in Spanish, "perro" (dog), despite having been living in an apartment in Xela for the past month. She was freaking out over the fact that drivers here routinely pass on yellow lines, around curves, heading right for oncoming traffic. We taught her how to ask the driver to slow down, but she couldn't remember it and just yelled and shrieked the whole way down the mountain until she saw the Lake and then yelled "Look! AGUA!"

The Lake is, according to David, 1000 feet deep and according the Russian (who you will meet later) 30 million years old. It is very lovely. It sits in a mountain valley in between 3 volcanoes. The shuttle dropped me off in Panajachel, a 45 minute boat ride from Santiago, where we were staying. But the boats only leave when they are full, and when I arrived at the dock, it was in time to see the boat for Santiago pulling out, so I sat in the next one for almost an hour waiting for it to fill. The man sitting behind me was friendly and obliged me trying to practice Spanish, and we chatted while the others slowly trickled in. The ride across the Lake was gorgeous and freezing. We pulled up to Santiago and rising from behind the dock is a mountainside full of concrete houses that look like little more than shacks. It was a little depressing. The walkway from the boat to the shore was half underwater and rotted out in places and was about 5 inches wide in other places. I was scared I would topple off it because I bought the most awkward piece of luggage on earth, but I made it onto dry land mostly dry.

The website from our hotel said that it is "a pleasant 15 minute walk" from the dock to the cottages, but it was hot and I was a little lost, and soon gave up walking, and hired a tuk tuk, which is a tiny cab that is more like a motorized tricycle with a tarp hood. The tuk tuk dropped me off at Posada de Santiago and I was immediately in love. The owner, David, gave me the key to our cottage, which was one flight of black volcanic stone stairs up from the restaurant and one flight below the tiny stone gazebo "mirador" that featured a lovely view of the lake and Volcan Santiago rising behind it and into the clouds. We had a deck and a hammock and a fireplace and a stone tub with a wall sized window looking out into a small tropical garden. We even had a purified water filter at the bathroom tap, although I was the last one to realize I should be brushing my teeth with it, instead of the skeezy lake water.

I dropped my bags and headed back to the restaurant because the owner had told me that they were doing a group meal. I took this to mean that there was always a group meal for all the guests, and walked up to a table of people and asked them if I could join them. They looked at me funny and then looked at David, who then directed me to an empty table and handed me a menu. The group that I had asked to sit with turned out to be an "adoption group" but they never would explain what that meant. It was a bunch of older, awkward white people, and some Guatemalan kids that looked like they had been pretty Westernized, and also some white kids. But no one seemed to belong together except for one lady who was bossing everyone around. At the end of the meal, she whispered to another lady who was with them, like she didn't want the staff to hear, "I ate the tomatoes. But I cut the skins off." As she said this, she made a motion of cutting the skin off a tomato, and she was very earnest about the whole thing, which greatly amused us. By this time, the rest of our party had arrived, and it was officially Summer Vacation 2010.

I have to say, we all traveled very well together. You never know what you are getting into when you end up sharing spaces for extended time periods with other people. But we all got along splendidly, and maybe for me, too splendidly, as I felt so incredibly at ease that I let myself go and didn't so much as shave my legs or brush my hair for the time we were there. Sorry, guys.

Across the street from the restaurant and cottages was the Posada's private dock, and swimming pool, hot tub, sauna, and bar. And this is where we lived while there. I hadn't been in a sauna since the days when my family was members of the Green Hills YMCA. But Nat and I circuited the hot tub, pool and sauna for 8 hours and the next day I swear my skin felt newborn. Something that you have to know, and I learned this the hard way, is that you shouldn't drink alcohol while sauna-ing all day, because you will get dehydrated, and then drunk. And it will happen very quickly. Over the course of the 8 hours that we were down there that first day, Nat and I had 5 beers, which isn't even enough to be considered legally drunk in TN, but when I went up to shower, I didn't have the coordination to get into the tub, and crashed into the gorgeous and very rough volcanic stone, and now have a huge disgusting purply bruise to show for it. Alas.

We ate all our dinners at the Posada's restaurant. And some of the food was incredible. And some was so so. The service was terrible. But the staff were very nice. The owner seemed to spend the majority of the afternoon and evening walking around with a glass of wine in his hand, and I am not sure how much training he had given the staff to begin with, so while it was really irritating to wait over an hour for our meals, we didn't leave with bad feelings for those who worked there.

On the second day we ventured out to the town and hit up the Sunday market and the artisan market. David also wanted to take pictures. He has traveled extensively in Latin America and takes stunning photographs, some of which have been published in a collection. He showed us some of what he took, but I am really excited to see the whole collection, which I will link to as soon as he uploads them. At the artisan market Nat and I went in halfsies on a bunch of woven bracelets as souveniers for people, and I found a precious carved and painted Mayan mask of an owl. I love owls. I trust animals who are awake at night, I think they look after the rest of us. I hadn't purchased anything else for myself yet, but when I saw the mask I fell in love. And later at the market I found another tiny green Mayan owl carved out of chate, and I bought that as well. Also at the market, I began to get one of the worst sunburns of my life, a sunburn that is still causing me misery here in San Cristobal. (Ed. Note: I later found out that the owl is considered a death omen in Mayan cosmology, and when I asked what life omens were, and found out it was a pigeon -- a nasty, creepy bird if there ever was one -- I decided I would stick with the owl, thank you kindly.)

Monday morning we had scheduled a horseback ride with an American couple who have lived in the area for over 20 years. The schedule was as follows, get picked up, enjoy coffee and coffeecake at the house, meet our horses, enjoy a pleasant ride, return for a full breakfast. The night before, I was beginning to show signs of my sunburn, and was glowing red. For those of you who don't know, I have an autoimmune disease where my immune system destroys my melanin, or the cells that take up the sun's rays and eventually tan. With no melanin, the rays burn me really really really bad because I have no natural protection. Also, I was nearer the equator than I had ever been, in addition to being at elevation. So even on an overcast day I received what I affectionately refer to as the worst sunburn in the history of the earth. The night before, one of the waitresses had led me through the gardens with David's switchblade, cutting off huge pieces of aloe that Nat slathered all over my back and shoulders. In addition to the sunburn, I had been eaten alive by ants (we think) and so I woke up Monday morning, in mucho agony. One of the ant bites on my knee was actually pulsing and changing color. So MRM slathered me with sunscreen and I opted for a longsleeve shirt on the horseback ride. But, as I think I have mentioned before, I didn't bring pants on this trip, or closed toed shoes, so I wore capris and a pair of Nat's tennis shoes and thick hiking socks, but part of my legs were exposed on the ride and I ran into poison ivy. Yay! More misery!

So we were picked up and taken to a small aldea near Santiago and received a history lesson along the way about what this place was like during the war, and how dangerous it was. At one time there were many wealthy estates, but they were mostly abandoned 20 years ago when the fighting got really bad in the forests above the Lake. I believe Santiago was the town that had the most recent massacre, in the early 90s before the peace treaties. We arrived at the couple's house, which was gorgeous! It was this sprawling stone complex on one side of the road, and across the road and sloping down hill were the pastures and barns and rising in the near distance, Volcan Santiago.

The house they built by hand, allegedly. And inside the study/library were these strange glass and stone cages that at one time housed their pet ocelots. The couple was in their 70s and had 18 dogs, that all looked as starved as most of the street dogs here in Xela, and that really irritated me. We ate coffeecake with the wife, and she mentioned that no one (the locals) "messes" with them, because her husband is a "badass." We later realized that what she really meant was that her husband was a raging asshole, and no one wants to deal with him. She said he is Latvian, but the locals call him "The Russian" because they are, presumably, too stupid to know where Latvia is. So it was an awkward beginning. But she gave me a floppy ranch hat to wear to further protect me from the sun, so I tried to forgive her. We met her husband and the horses and he gave us a little riding lesson and when finding out I had the most experience with horses, offered me one of the stallions, who he said would keep the ride "interesting." I politely declined and instead was paired with a sweet mare whose name I have since forgotten.

So, one, I don't "vacation" much. And two, I have never ridden horses on vacation. Initially, I didn't want to go because I had pictures in my head of sickly, old horses forced to carry obese Americans around for 20 miserable years. And also, I have ridden horses enough for the novelty to wear off. And the sauna novelty hadn't worn off yet, and I reasoned that I would hang back while the rest of them went. But then Nat scolded me and reminded me that I would want to be in the photos on the top of the mountain with all of them, and to suck it up and come along. So I did.

The goal was to ride through the lowlands surrounding the lake and ascend to X amount of feet elevation and overlook the lake and the volcano from an adjacent location. And it started out nicely enough. We rode through a semi shaded coffee plantation with small, scrubby trees growing here and there, and our guide told us that this plantation was owned by a man in the City and that the workers receive 30Q for every 100 pounds of coffee they pick. 30Q is almost 4 US dollars. Think of how small a coffee bean is. How many of them you would have to pick for them to weigh 100 pounds. How much work that is, for less than what we pay per cup at Starbucks. Yay, free trade and export crops.

From the coffee plantation we wound through a small little collection of shacks with dogs and chickens and adorable little children following after us. Some of the dogs barked and lunged. And one got kicked sqaurely in the ribs by my horse. Then we entered a long stretch of corn fields and here is where things actually did get interesting. The "trail" that we took was a tiny, rocky stream bed that at times was deep enough and narrow enough that I had to remove my feet from the stirrups and try to fold my legs across the saddle behind me, and basically stay on the horse with my thigh muscles. Meanwhile, did I mention how rocky the creekbed was? It was TERRIFYING. I literally spent the 3 hour ride begging God to protect the horses' legs and ankles because I was convinced we would shatter a leg and not have a gun to kill the horse with. The horses were skittish of the rocks and kept trying to climb out of the creek, which meant that we were riding straight through a corn field, destroying someone's crop and livelihood. The guide would tell us to get out of the corn and back into the creek, but even he couldn't convince his horse to do it the entire time and the whole thing I found incredibly stressful and irritating. There were simply places where I was convinced the horses couldn't get through, and somehow we did. But there were times when I almost lost my leg or smashed my kneecap because the way was so narrow. There would also be places where the horses would have to jump uphill from a stand still position, which is awkward to do in a Western saddle. And these were Guatemalan Western saddles, half leather, half wood. So there was some chafing going on, in addition.

We made it up to this fingerbone ridge with gorgeous views on both sides of the Lake. We took photos, marveled. It was also the town dump and the dumptruck lumbered up there right before we headed back. I was exhausted at the thought of the ride back, but the horses made it with ankles intact. And we cantered through the coffee plantation, which was fun. All in all it was beautiful and lovely and I would never do it again nor recommend these people to anyone.

When we got back, the husband, the Latvian/Russian, was waiting for us. He noticed the bites and the blisters and the poison ivy all over my legs and gave me a lecture about how "most" bites at the lake are "acidic" and I needed a base, like ammonia, to make them stop itching. Only, he didn't have straight ammonia. But he did have Windex which he imported from the US for this express purpose, and before I really knew what was going on, this old man was spraying Windex all over me. Which, for the record, did nothing to stop the itching. Later on, he tried to spray Windex on Tara's neck but she was having none of that.

We ate breakfast with him and before any of us had really tucked into it, he announced that he was "an Anarchist. A real one." And proceded to launch into a lecture about indigenous peoples and how the Mayans aren't actually Mayan, but Olmec, but how it doesn't really matter anyway because all indigenous peoples are, according to him, "incapable of criticial thinking." He then listed lots of examples of this, and chuckled at how stupid they all are. He clearly wanted to bait us, and gleefully asked someone to argue with him, because he enjoyed arguing, and also said, "I will destroy your reasoning." He listed Darwin as a reference for his views on social evolution, even though Darwin never ascribed his theories to humanity. I wanted to ask his opinion of structural violence but was too tired and too sunburned and eaten alive to make much of a response. And no one else was saying anything, either, after MRM had been shot down early on. Except for sweet Tara. The Mayans believe that everyone has a don, or a gift, that they can use for good or evil. I am sure Tara has many, but one of them is the ability to enter into polite and civil conversation over breakfast with maniacs. At one point she asked him if he enjoyed fishing, because, presumably, you do some of that if you live near a lake for 20 years. He gruffly responded. "I never fish. Well, I spearfished. Every night, 20 years ago, for my dinner." I tried not to laugh at the thought of him spearfishing.

The meal wore on and on and his disdain for the people he has lived among for 20 years was beginning to enrage me. But somehow we extricated ourselves from the conversation after about an hour and made our way to the door. We stood awkwardly on the patio, surrounded by his 18 starved dogs (seriously, you could see where the leg bone articulated with the hip on some of them) when he casually mentioned that he and his wife had decided that they couldn't have anymore puppies because they were afraid the dogs would outlive them. He followed this with, "I took out their ovaries last year." At first I thought he was joking, and then realized that he fancies himself some kind of self made Everyman who has wrestled his existance from the land, and won. He's a douche.

On the way home David asked him something about travel back and forth to the US and he said, again, "I'm an Anarchist. I don't have a passport. I'm here illegally, of course." But his wife has one, and travels back and forth frequently, presumably to bring him his Windex and heart medications. So he is such a man of principle that he hides behind his wife's passport, has all their assets legally in her name, so he can strut around and feel invincible and better than everyone around him. We found out later that they let their dogs attack and kill the pets of their neighbors. I thought maybe the dogs do this because they aren't fed. And David commented that there wasn't a better metaphor for American culture than this guy, with his dogs terrorizing and killing the poor people's chickens.

We returned to the Posada and spent one more lazy afternoon above the dock. The next morning I was catching a 6am boat back to Panajachel where my shuttle was picking me up at the dock to take me to Mexico. And the rest of them were headed back to the States by way of Antigua, except for MRM who flies home in August with me.

All in all it was so incredibly wonderful to have 3 days with people who I love and respect and miss when they're not around. I wish it had been longer, I wish I could have taken them to Mexico with me, but I was so thankful we had the time we did.

Part, The Next, Mexico, to follow.

Happy Independence Day!

Lovelies,
Greetings from a gorgeous resort on Lago Atitlan, one of the prettiest spots in Guatemala. I am here with Natalie and MRM and our dear friends Tara and David. We have spent the day shopping and swimming. And Nat and I have spent a good deal of time in a 170 degree sauna with frequent dips in the infinity pool overlooking the lake, when we are not too busy in the hot tub, drinking and alternately laughing and crying about the beauty and tragedy of life. All in all, a wonderful holiday with even more wonderful friends. This evening we eat the meats that have been BBQing all day and tomorrow we ride horses to a volcano and enjoy a picnic brunch afterwards. We are having a blasty blast with one another and wondering why we haven't ever traveled together before. On Tuesday, Nat and Tara and David head home by way of Antigua with MRM and I head to Mexico for 5 days, San Cristobal de Las Casas, to get my visa renewed. More later. Hope each of you are well, and celebrating well.
Love,
Rachie

Elijah William Jones

The first time his laughter unfurled its wings in the wind, we knew that the world would never be the same. -Brian Andreas

A year ago today, one of my favorite humans on the planet arrived. Eli, pictured above with his Aunt Kitty, is the son of my dear friend Nicole. It feels strange to call her a friend, though, because she and her family are also my family, in all the ways that matter. Months before Eli's arrival, I received a picture text from Coley one morning in November when I was at my doctor's office, waiting to get my physical for nursing school. The picture showed a positive pregnanacy test and I FREAKED. OUT. I don't know how to explain how much I loved him, from the moment I knew of his existence.

After he was born, via emergency c-section following a 2 day long grueling labor, I had the chance to spend the first night in the hospital with him. His daddy, David, had been up for 2 days, and was sent home to sleep. Coley's mother, Karen, stayed the night as well, but since I was the only one who had slept the night before, I looked after Eli while the two of them dozed. It was one of the sweetest nights in my life. He was the smallest, most perfect thing I had ever seen. I was, and remain, a total goner.

So we spent his first night on earth together. I paced the length of the hospital room that whole night, singing Kings of Leon and The Beatles and Elton John and Celine Dion songs to him, while he slept in my arms.

And today, he turns 1 year old while I am some 1500 miles away. On the list of things I was regretting missing this summer, Eli's birthday was number 2. (First place belongs to the birth of Violet Alvey, expected any day.)

So, Eli -- I love you more than my own life. You have brought more joy to the world than you could hope to imagine. Happy, happy, happy birthday dear heart! I am so sorry to miss the first, and hope to never miss another. Love, Aunt Kitty

Foiled. Again.

As I sit here, the sound of the rain is drowning out all other sounds. And we are expecting five more days of such. Tropical Storm Alex, which allegedly battered the north, including Tikal, was downgraded to a tropical depression by the time it reached the highlands. So we have been left intact, but drenched.

This weekend, I had big plans. And thanks to Alex, Stefan and I were forced to resort to Plan B.

On Friday, I said two goodbyes, which put me in a sour mood. After classes wrapped up, I badefarewell to Olivia, who left for Canada by way of Antigua on Friday afternoon. Later that day, I met Steph and Cassandra at a little chocolate shop for fried plantains and chocolate and ice cream and to bid farewell to Cassandra, who is heading home to Chicago, also by way of Antigua and Tikal. Steph and Cassandra were students at my first school, but they had since transferredto another school here near the Parque Central. On Friday night we didn't have our usual graduation dinner at the school, because we held it during the break. So I spent Friday night inbed, reading. And it was luscious. After saying goodbye to Cassandra I hiked up to Zone 3 andthe super market that is located there and withdrew some money and bought a sparetoothbrush because my Chacos were covered with 7 weeks of Xela street funk, and needed to be scrubbed something fierce. On the way home I stopped by Vrisa Books (just to look!!!) andhappened upon a lovely textbook titled, "Globalization, Spirituality and Justice: Navigating thePath to Peace." I have only read 2 chapters but so far I love it. Although it has been a fierce, sobering read.

Saturday the great big plans were to climb an extinct volcano, by the light of the full moon, in order to catch a view of a not-extinct volcano at sunrise. I was very excited. And very nervous. In true Rachel fashion I obsessed about whether I should climb it or not. The travel guide at our school made a point to say, three separate times, how hard the climb was when he was talking about the trip. And several weeks ago MRM climbed Acatenango near Antigua and it was hellacious. So I was worried and googled all sorts of things about climbing volcanoes and talked to everyone who would listen to me about whether or not I should attempt it. I didn't have pants, I don't have pants here. That was another packing mistake that I have come to regret. I have capris, but no pants. Because who needs pants in a tropical country? Also, I have no hiking boots. So I was going to climb in capris, and Chacos, with socks, on the first day of my period. All the warning signs in my head that said maybe this isn't a good idea were overruled by how romantic it sounded to climb a volcano under a full moon.

So, Stefan had been in Guat City celebrating Pride but was coming back on Saturday for theclimb. When he got back in town we determined that he needed a headlamp and went aboutlooking for one. By this point on Saturday, I had chatted briefly with MRM who was in Belize, and directly in the path of Tropical Storm Alex. We discussed whether or not she should leave orstay put, she decided to stay put, and the last thing she said was, "OK, it's starting to rain, gottago." Having lived through lots and lots and lots of rain with her, I took this to mean, "I am in themiddle of a hurricane, must get offline." So a good deal of my weekend was spent worrying abouther as it rained more and more in Xela, and I assumed it was a bazillion times worse in Belize.

So, Stefan and I stepped out into said rain to look for a headlamp, which I skillfully asked for as a "lampera para tu cabeza?" from the clerks of several stores near the Park and they all had no idea what I was talking about. After giving up in town, we decided to walk to the mall. It costs 1.25Q to ride to the mall, which is something like 15 cents, but for some reason, we decided to walk rather than take the bus. So we arrived, soaking wet. Me in my saran wrap, leaking rain coat, Stefan in his also leaking, knock off Adidas rain coat, that he paid an ungodly sum for at the local market. We squelched our way through the mall until we found this random "outdoor goods" store that sold guns, rafts, swimming caps, and headlamps! The clerk tried to sell Stefan 2 flashlights in addition to the headlamp, and Stefan loves to spend money, but I kindly reminded him that he probably didn't need a headlamp and 2 flashlights. So having purchased that, we still needed water for the climb and chocolates for the altitude. But by now I was really cold from being so wet, and the thought of climbing all night long, and possibly not being dry for another day was a little depressing. So I called the tour company to see what the status of the trip was and was told it had been cancelled, because mudslides and switchbacks aren't the safest combination. I was both relieved and disappointed. A whole Saturday night. And nothing to do.

Stefan asked if I wanted to go to the mall. The other mall, the big one. I said sure, and then westarted off. Again, walking. Again, I have no idea why. The big mall, Hiper Pais, is about an hour walk away, but we had already covered half the distance. So off we went, walking down the highway that has no shoulder during Saturday traffic, in the rain. On the way there you pass the Templo de Minerva which is literally a giant replica of the Greek Parthenon that one of the dictators had built to encourage the population to appreciate education. Next to Templo de Minerva is a smaller outdoor market that we detoured through. Markets are a little gross to begin with, what with no running water and lots of animal carcasses for sale that have been sitting there for hours, and the food that is rotten or not fit to sell has been tossed on the ground, which is also where people deposit all their trash. But after hours of rain, markets are another thing entirely. I had retired my Chacos for the weekend because they were so dirty, and was wearing a flimsy pair of flipflops, wading through the filth, while skin and bones dogs picked among it all. Beyond the market is a zoo. Yes, we have a zoo. I had no idea. Suddenly I noticed we were in the middle of a small forest, but in a parking lot, with long low buildings ahead of us on one side and the largest playground I have every seen (it is seriously like three stories tall) ahead on the other side. Stefan said the animals in the zoo are as skinny as the dogs on the street and it is incredibly depressing. Noted.

Once we passed through the zoo, we were back on the highway and a quick walk from Hiper Pais. This was my first time there, and I am sorry to admit, it thrilled me. It was like being in America again. And not even America, it was like being in California. The mall is huge and has a WalMart attached to it and a dozen restaurants and went on for acre after glorious acre. I was giddy. And then I felt terrible and ashamed for feeling giddy. We wandered around, checked out what was playing at the cinema, and then had dinner at the food court. It was like being a preteen again. We circled the food court a few times and Stefan decided, based on the advertisements, that Taco Bell would be the most food for our money, so we got crunch wraps and nachos and once our food appeared Stefan was extremely underimpressed and complained about how little it resembled the photos on the menu.

After dinner I begged him to go to a movie with me, but he said we had to save the movie forSunday, since there we still had another whole day to fill. So, we wandered some more. We wentto two stores and I almost bought a knock Broadway DVD of "Sweeney Todd" before thinkingbetter of it. Guatemala was still celebrating MJ's life, and every store was playing his hits, whichwas fun. I asked if there was a bookstore and Stefan took me to this bizarre place that was halfPier 1 Imports, half New Age head shop. A row of Chinese Buddhas. A row of Indian Buddhas. A row of Wiccan goods. A row of Samurai swords. A row of everything you could ever want for a Christmas manger. Icons imported fromRussia. Didgeridoos imported from Australia. Indigenous this, indigenous that. Incense. Candles. Books on yoga and diabetes. It was all a littleoverwhelming.

After the head shop we took a bus home, and Stefan was going out to the club, I was not. But he talked me into coming back to his place to look at photos of his travels while he got ready, and I am glad I did. He has lived one of those lives that I feel I can't relate to, but am fascinated by nonetheless. He is young, rich, brilliant, cultured, gay, fluent in 5 languages, comfortable in an additional 4. He causually mentioned his family's second estate on the Aegean Coast and said he would "be happy to host" me there or in Istanbul. He showed me photos of summers on the Dalmatian Coast, winters in Persepolis. Syndey. Sarajevo. Shiraz. Thousands of photos. I was enthralled, and incredibly jealous, and not a little bit sad. The pictures of Iran were so gorgeous and I felt a tightness in my chest that I may never get to see it for myself. The photos of the graffiti in front of the American embassy in Tehran were ... we are not very popular over there, I'll say that.

series " Sunday I got up, showered, and got back in bed. It was raining too hard to leave. But hunger won out, and I met Stefan at a cafe called El Cuartito (the little room) for the Mexico v. Argentina game. We ended up spending most of the day at the Cafe, him on his computer, me slogging my way through homework. We had discovered in one another an equal obsession for the HBO series "True Blood," especially a shared appreciation for the actor who plays Sheriff Northman, Alex Skarsgard. If you haven't seen "True Blood," don't watch it. It is incredibly graphic. But also, it is wonderful. It's a Southern vampire show, by Alan Ball, who graced us with "Six Feet Under" and "American Beauty." Though it is a vampire show, it is wholly original, treating vampires like a minority social class, who are "out" and fighting for equal rights rather than being the freaky undead. As such, the show is incredibly campy and can get away with a lot of really intelligent social commentary about the minority experience in America. So, when I wasn't doing homework, we were watching clips from Season 2 and trying to find somewhere to watch the premiere of Season 3, which began in Latin America last night.

In the end, after walking around and asking everyone, we found one cafe and one bar that agreed to play it for us. We settled on the cafe, who was going to charge us 20Q to watch it in a private room. We inhaled our dinner and made it to the cafe at 6:45. I had to reexplain to the guy what we wanted them to do for us, what his wife had promised us earlier in the day. He ended up attempting to hook up the cable in three different rooms and none of them worked. He refunded our money. All day long, I had shifted between excitement and temperance, acknowledging that nothing here goes according to plan. Once our money was refunded, we had six minutes to make it across town to the other bar that had agreed to play it.

We took off. Stefen in tennis shoes with his laptop case flapping behind him, me in flip flops and my school bag jerking behind me. We ran, through the rain, across slick cobblestones. Looking back, we shouldn't have made it intact. I was literally dodging traffic, traffic that doesn't slow down for pedestrians to begin with. We darted from sidewalk to street, sidewalk to street, running uphill and down, me yelling as I fell behind, "Just go, go! Don't wait for me!" Stefan yelling back, "I won't leave you!" I hadn't yet run at elevation before, and I was wheezing by the time we blew into the bar, perspiring and frantic. We got there with a minute to spare, only to find out that HBO has been cancelled in Xela for a year. Why no one bothered to tell us this before then, I will never know.

Defeated, we stumbled out onto the street and for the first time since I have been here, a straydog growled at us and chased us down the street. We dodged into a tienda, where Stefan boughtsmokes and I cursed everyone I could think to blame for no HBO. Resolving to still enjoyourselves, we decided to go see a movie after all. Only, since it was Sunday, there was no bus service from the park. Stefan said we could catch a bus in front of the cemetery. But I had lived over there for weeks and never saw buses on Sundays. We argued about where to go to find a bus, finally headed up to La Democracia, the largest market here. It was all but deserted and there were no buses, but we did find one a few blocks past it at the McDonald's.

We arrived at the theater and I decided to see "The Backup Plan" or "Plan B" in Spanish, and Stefan wanted to see "The Hurt Locker" aka "Zone of Fear." I had already seen Zone of Fear twice before, and couldn't handle the tension again. I needed a terrible J-Lo romcom. And terrible it was. Awful! But Alex O'Loughlin is not difficult to look at for two hours, and neither is Manhattan. So all told, I was happy. Except that here, people not only leave their phones on during movies, but answer them, and have conversations.

After the movie, we had to walk around to the other side of the mall for a cab. We knew it was too late for buses to run, but I was expecting a row of taxis lined up. There was one. Stefan's first language is Russian, and every once in a while he will say something in English that makes no sense to me.

As we approached the taxi he said, "Close your face."
"Excuse me?"
"Close your face, I don't want him to see your blond face."

Oh, OK. I ducked further under my umbrella while Stefan asked the price to be taken back to the Park. 30 seconds later, he stalked towards me. "He said 40Q." Oh, good, I thought. I was used to paying 25Q for rides around town and 40Q seemed rather low for the extra distance we needed to cover. I was quite pleased with the price, and reached for my wallet. Stefan stopped me and said, "I told him no." "Why?" "Because it's too much. I will only pay 25Q." "Then go tell him we'll give him 25Q." There was no one else around. It was late. I figured we were this guy's only hope for business and he was our only hope for a ride, so surely we could work something out. Stefan consulted with the driver and then waved me over as he opened the door. We both settled into the cab and the driver looked at me and said, "35Q?"and Stefan and I both said, "No, 25Q"and then he motioned for us to get out.

We exited the cab and then stood there for a moment. Then Stefan said, "Come on, we'll find another." We crossed the empty highway and then proceded to stand in the mud on the other side of it, waiting for a cab to drive by. It rained on. After a half dozen cars drove by, none of them cabs, Stefan suggested we walk towards the next roundabout, near the zoo.

After a few moments he said, "It's because of your physique."
"My what? What are you talking about?"
"Your physique. You're a typical blond American. It's why he wanted more."
"But," I began, having several retorts and not sure which one to choose. Finally I just went with the obvious. "But I'm not blond."
"It doesn't matter. They can see you're American from a mile away. And they become theives."
I felt insulted. I wanted to say, "Well you look like a freaking terrorist. And they're not thieves, they are just trying to survive. And they suspect -- rightly -- that a safe ride home is worth 40Q to me." I said nothing. We walked in silence, nearing the zoo, which was large and spooky at night.

After a few more minutes Stefan commented, "This isn't safe, what we are doing."
"Walking?"
"Walking here, so late. Especially with my laptop."
"Well, let's go back and take the cab."
"No, I will not. It's a matter of honor."
I thought, are we then going to spend the next hour, honorably and dangerously walking home?

Ahead of us, on the other side of the highway, a car approached. Stefan ran across the road to stop it if it was a cab. I kept my typical American blond self hidden. It was a cab. Stefan hustled him. He was told, again, it would be 40Q and he walked off. I ran across the highway then and the driver honked at us, and said he would take us for 25Q.

We climbed in, and then realized we might not have enough money. I had 2 100Q notes, but the driver didn't have change for that. We scraped and scrounged and finally came up with either 27.25 or 22.50, I couldn't count the coins in the dark. I thought, if we don't have enough, what will he do, it's late and there are no witnesses. Then I checked myself for being so paranoid.

We arrived safely back at the park. Stefan walked me home and my room greeted me with the ever present rain, singing against the tin roof.

Right now, I am feeling a wee bit sick of Xela, and sick of classes, even though I adore my teacher. Tomorrow my bestie Natalie flies in for a week. She arrives in Xela Tuesday night. She will be here all day Wednesday and then I will put her on a bus on Thursday for Antigua, where she will meet up with MRM and our friends Tara and David, who are also flying in. Then I will meet the four of them on Saturday at Lago Atitlan, for four days in a stone cottage on the shore. I cannot wait.

Sorry so long in between posts. I have other posts in drafts, but haven't gotten around to finishing them. Thank you, as always, for reading. XOXO

From the Highlands to the Coast, Part 3

Update: I forgot to mention that when Susannah and I were talking to the owner of Johnny's Place and trying to find the best way home, the owner said, "Oh but you must be very careful to leave early, if you don't, you might get stuck in this terrible place called Escuintla that is very dangerous, even for us." When we told him Escuintla was where we spent the previous night, his eyes got huge and then he laughed, a lot.

Before we settled into our beds on Saturday night, Stefan announced, "I will not want to get up in the morning. I will roll over and pull the covers over my head and tell you all to go without me. Make me get up." Come 5am, we all shared that sentiment. I felt greasy and gritty from the heat, the bug spray, the sand. But it was the absolute most comfortable bed that I have slept in so far in Central America. I longed to carry the mattress home of top of the buses.

We rose, dressed, and walked groggily onto the beach, where the surf continued to rage. The world was damp. Sand, dirt, tree, shrub. We walked down the beach to the turtle sanctuary and met our guide, who walked us back onto the dirt road that wound between concrete, thatch and tin houses that at daybreak already had fires going. There were many chickens about, busying themselves in the wet earth. And ducks. A few dogs, lots of pigs. One thing I love about Guatemala: there are hardly any cats about. We cut off the road and walked down a trail that led to the lagoons, where a dozen wooden canoes were tethered to the muddy bank. The canoes were soaked and the wood was swollen from being soaked often, and the paint was peeling off them, and our guide climbed in and began scooping the water out of the bottom of the boat with an old plastic bottle of vegetable oil that had been cut in half.

I spent a lot of time obsessing about what clothes to bring here. Everyone I consulted had different opinions. And because there are dozens of climates throughout the country, it was hard to pack. Still, I knew I would be living here during rainy season. And for some unknown reason that knowledge didn't prompt me to invest in a jacket that was actually waterproof. Instead, I found one whose color I loved -- eggplant -- and that could be stuffed into its own tiny pouch. And even though it was only water resistant and not waterproof, and even though the clerks at REI advised me not to buy it, I did, and have lived to regret it again and again and again. Most recently on a hour and half tour through lagoons in the rain.

So, with the boat empty, we climbed in and launched off. Mangrove lagoons are quiet, dark places, even in daylight. Mangroves, I have been told, can live in salt or freshwater, and their elaborate root systems grow out of the water into labyrinths of tree and leaf and sky. The mangrove tour is supposed to be a bird watchers paradise, but the birds were smarter than us and knew better than to hang out all morning in the rain. There are allegedly caimans that inhabit the lagoons as well, but we never saw any. We did see turtles, and egrets, and herons, and small red and purple crabs that passed time on the mangrove roots.

Despite the wet and the rain and the mosquitoes, it was really beautiful in places and I figured there are worse ways to spend an early Sunday morning. After about 30 minutes we exited the mangroves and found ourselves in open water, surrounded by forest and mist and mountain. It was incredibly breathtaking. The mountains rose through the cloud cover and egrets circled overhead and from a long way off I thought they looked a little like pterodactyls must have.

By the time we returned to our bank, my water resistant rain jacket was entirely soaked and clung to my skin like saran wrap. We headed back to the hostel and on the way there were two huge toads that had been run over. They were the flattened to the size of dinner plates and looked like they had been pressed, like flowers, between the pages of a very large book. Stefan went back to bed immediately, but Susannah and Olivia and I took breakfast on the beach before Susannah and I left.

We had pieced together what we felt sure was a quicker way home. A boat to La Avellana, and buses from La Avellana to Taxisco to Escuintla to Mazatenango to home. We asked for directions to the dock and were told to go back to the center of town and make a left. Doing that deadended us onto the beach, and the wind and rain had picked up and the beach was empty except for a tiny fishing canoe and about 30 men surrounding it. I thought, surely this is not the boat we are supposed to take, and not into the sea, which could be easily described as violent. So we turned around and headed the opposite direction that eventually deadended into a small pavilion on the canals, where again, about 30 men loitered about. We were told we could take a private boat for 50Q or wait 20 minutes and take the public boat for 5Q. We opted to wait.

By the time the boat arrived (shaped like a canoe, twice as long as a limo, with rotting floorboards, two wet rows of seats and a canopy overhead) the dock had filled up, and as more and more people and chickens and baskets of goods and car engines were loaded on, the rim of the boat sank lower and lower and lower into the water. This did not inspire confidence. I began mentally preparing myself for life without my iPod should we sink. We set out, the little engine straining, and before long, the driver reversed us and we headed back the way we came. We came back to pick up two more men and something wrapped in brown paper and plastic twine that was very, very heavy. And thus, the lower we sank. The trip took about 25 minutes, and once I realized we probably wouldn't sink, it was very pleasant. There was a Japanese guy on board, the hippest and most attractive person I have seen in a while, and he spoke perfect Spanish, and he held court at the front of the boat while two dozen men laughed and egged him on.

Again, there was forest on either side of us and gorgeous, cloud rimmed mountains in the distance. And egrets. And crabs. And every once in a while a concrete house that looked flooded and abandoned. Near the end of our trip I noticed in the distance a very strange and beautiful bird, bobbing in the water. I made a note to remember it and to tell my mom about its strange plumage, but as we neared I realized it was only a 2L Pepsi bottle. We arrived in La Avellana and right on the dock was a small green house/tienda with a metal scale hung from the rafter and two parrots swinging themselves back and forth in it. We loaded onto the bus and headed for Taxisco, which the guidebook had said would only be a drop off point along Hwy 2, but turned out to be an actual town with somewhat of a depot. The ride to Taxisco featured the best driver of the entire trip. And by best, I mean the most dangerous. He couldn't have been more than 18 years old. He wore a backwards baseball cap, with long dark hair curling around the rim, and he subjected us to really loud, vulgar rap music. He reminded me of my brother (who I hope has cleaner taste in music) and I loved him immediately. He drove the bus like the hounds of hell were too close for comfort and we were slung around inside. I remember thinking, "thank goodness he knows how to drive." We arrived in no time at all. We had about a 10 or 15 minute wait until a bus arrived with our next destination painted on the top, Escuintla. Boarding the bus, Susannah and I both asked the driver, "This bus is going to Escuintla, right?" and were told yes.

Once we were on the way, the ayudante passed through to collect our fares. We told him we were going to Escuintla and he started talking very excitedly and from what we gathered, we weren't in fact headed there. We got agitated, he was agitated, and we explained to him that both the bus itself and the driver stated we were going to Escuintla. He said, no, we weren't and so we refused to pay him. Instead, we went to a very small place called Chiquimulilla, which wasn't even on our map. Once there, at the smallest bus "station" ever, featuring 2 buses, we were told to get off, and board another bus whose route made no mention of Escuintla. I was, shall we say, pissed at this point. And I mentally took it out on everyone I saw. The sweet women who boarded the bus trying to sell us tortillas. The clerk at the tienda next door. The driver. The ayudante. I listed all the reasons I had to dislike Guatemala and wished I knew how to explain to someone that I had no desire on earth to go back to Escuintla, but I had to, because it was the only way home.

It took an hour for this next bus to leave and I was seething inside. I was seething because I had the not entirely irrational fear that we would get stuck for one more night in Escuintla and have to stay at that dreadful "hotel." As we were finally leaving on this bus, the ayudante kept yelling, "Guat!" and from our map, it looked like the route to Guat totally bypassed Escuintla and would put us some 4 hours east of Xela. I thought, to hell with it. I'd rather be in stuck in Guat than Escuintla anyway. So I began listening to my iPod. Once the engine starts on a bus, it is reasonable to assume that you are almost on your way. The ayudante will generally try to entice more passengers on board until you pull out of the depot, but from there, the bus has left. Not so with this driver. We CREPT along through town and at one point parked in the middle of a 4 lane road and waited for more passengers, while other buses' horns screamed at us as they flew by. I should have been too weary to be angry at this point, but it too angered me.

Finally! we we off. We paid our fare onboard and a few hours later, were dropped off in Escuintla. Que bueno! But we were dropped off at a different location than two nights before, and since there is no map of the town in Lonely Planet, because Lonely Planet acknowledges that the town sucks, we didn't know where we were. We asked several drivers of different buses where to find the bus to Mazatenango and they kept telling us that there was none, but would be happy to take us to Antigua. You get this a lot. Sometimes other drivers are very helpful and accomodating and sometimes because they want your business they will lie to you and tell you the bus you need doesn't exist. I got really irritated at these drivers and for the first time since I have been here I yelled at someone in my unintimidating Spanglish. We then asked someone else where the center of town was and headed that way. Once there, there was no bus to Mazatenango either, and we just kept walking until we found someone who looked trustworthy enough to ask. We ended up asking 3 or 4 different people where to find the bus, and with less and less crude directions each time, we finally ended up in a place that looked somewhat familier and behold there were 3 buses and they all said Mazatenango on them. Such relief!

We got on that bus, and because it was both muggy and rainy and I had my saran wrap raincoat zipped up and we had been running around desperately for the past half hour, I was drenched in sweat. And did I mention how hot it is on the buses? I thought I might never dry out. The ride to Maza was uneventful, if climbing back into gorgeous mountains can be considered such. And the ride home from Maza to Xela was lovely. Tranquil and quiet. Lots of farmland. Mules but no donkeys, which perplexes me.

The Minerva bus station is Xela is maybe the ugliest part of the whole city, but I have never been as happy to see it as I was last Sunday. I disembarked and meant to head to the mall for more cash but on the way I discovered my shampoo had exploded in my bag on the trip, including all over the library book I had borrowed from school. At that point the only thing I had the energy for was to head to my favorite pupuseria and get my bearings again. I was able to clean the book mostly off while I waited for my pupusas (a delicious corn tortilla filled with beans and cheese, then grilled, then served with slaw and salsa). After dinner and a stop by the grocery for new shampoo, I headed home and took a longer shower than we are really supposed to, and collapsed into my rickety, lumpy twin bed, happy to have been near the ocean and totally OK with never seeing the Guatemalan Pacific coast again.

From the Highlands to the Coast, Part 2

To continue...

So, according to the Lonely Planet, which is 10 years old now, we should have arrived in Escuintla around 7:30pm. From there, we were allegedly 1 hour from the coast. Olivia was nervous that there wouldn't be a bus out of Escuintla so late in the day, but I was comfortable and had been listening to lovely music and at that time had the utmost faith in Guatemalan transportation. At 7:30 we arrived in a more populated area. We had a brief conference to determine who out of the 4 of us had the best Spanish and would help navigate us to our next bus. I allowed that it wasn't me seeing as how I sound like a Spanish dictionary that has been run through the blender. Nevertheless, I asked the man across from me if we were in Escuintla and he said no, but soon.

The rule here is don't travel after dark. Even if you're male. Even if you have dark skin. By the time we rolled into Escuintla it was very much dark. We were dropped off at a 5-way intersection and had no bearings whatsoever. I tried my broken Spanish on the man from teh bus once more, and I was stuttering and finally he put his hand on my shoulder and said in English, "where are you trying to get to, dear?" When I told him he cringed and said we had missed the last bus out of here by 3 hours. Escuintla is the 3rd largest city in Guatemala, and also we learned one of the most dangerous outside of La Cuidad, but it doesn't even rate its own map in The Lonely Planet because the only purpose it serves for tourism is catching the next bus. Not knowing what street we were on, we asked some folks loitering in front of a nearby tienda, and knowing what street we were on helped us not one bit since we didn't have a map. We were finally directed to the center of the town and from there we stood under a streetlight to see what Lonely Planet had to say. It did not inspire confidence that LP said this place is nowhere you want to be stranded, but if so, head to the only safe hotel, Costa Sur. We took a taxi to the hotel, checked into two rooms and were going to meet in the lobby in a half hour. I shared a room with Susannah and the "air conditioning" turned out to be a fan and the TV that was supposed to be locked in a metal cage, like a circus animal, had been stolen. It was hot, too. Very, very hot. And there was bird crap in between my sheets, and the shower curtain was 6 inches too short. And there was no showerhead, only a spigot, with a gush of ice cold water, and because the curtain was too short I ended up flooding our nasty, moldy bathroom.

I tried to call my mom, because I knew she would be worried, but my phone wouldn't make international calls for some reason. So I called MRM and said, "we are stranded in what my roommate has not so affectionately called "the hoodest place on earth" and we don't know when we'll get out of here, but for right now, I am alive. Only, don't tell my mom that. Tell her we missed our bus and checked into a nice hotel and will be back on our way at daybreak."

When we met downstairs the owner told us not to leave the hotel, not to even cross the street, because it is too dangerous here at night, even for locals. Still, there was a bar across the street and a bar might mean food, so we set out. It was a hot cramped space with plastic chairs and tables and a jukebox that played music so loud you could feel the fillings rattling in your teeth. In the back was a bathroom that reeked and a stovetop and a grill top and a cooler of beer. The woman asked me what we wanted and she said they had shrimp and some other word that none of us knew. I thought I told her we only wanted a drink, but after we had been sitting there for a few minutes, drenched in sweat and drinking ginger ale, she came to the table with 4 plates of grilled shrimp and frijoles and grilled onions. The shrimp were intact, you had to first behead them and strip the membranes in order to eat them. Olivia was feeling sick and the sight of the shrimp plus the water they were "washed" in sent her over the edge, and she bailed on us. The rest of us accused everyone else of ordering food but none of us had. Still, for all the dump-ness and creepiness of that place, it was the best seafood I have had in Guatemala yet, including the coast.

After dinner we walked across the street, avoiding the man on the curb who had passed out and looked like he'd peed at least a liter of urine on himself and the sidewalk. We headed to our separate rooms and I tried to sleep, but it was hard, having found bird crap in my bed, and it was such an oven in our room that I cracked the window, and below us on the dirt street kids were playing soccer with empty plastic bottles. Things you never have reason to think about until they are keeping you awake: how profoundly loud is a plastic bottle on a dirt road. I became a little enraged. It was after midnight and they were kids. Kids who were not at home in bed where they belonged. Somehow, I fell asleep, and awoke to a sweltering brightness. Susannah and I decamped and went to see if the others had made it through the night. They were still in bed and said they didn't want to leave so early. Susannah and I wanted to get the hell out of there and decided to leave without them, but in the end we didn't have to.

We trundled down one of the main streets in search of the Scott 77 gas station and the bus station behind it. We were escorted to our bus rather quickly and then sat there, waiting for it to fill. I don't think I have ever sweated so much in my life. All the windows on the bus were closed, I was sitting in the sun and almost melting from the heat. I don't think anything makes me as uncharitable as heat. I become almost homicidal in it. Soon enough however, we were off. After about an hour, on a paved highway and near a closed waterpark, we were dropped off on the side of the highway and told to wait for the bus to Ixtapa. That bus was soon to arrive, but it wasn't a bus, it was a van, and it was already full. There was about 8 inches in the last row that I was motioned towards, and there were already 4 people in the row. To get to I had to work in stages, manuevering my body this way and that until I finally was able to get one hipbone lodged into the seat. Let me tell you, we were all up in each other's business in the back of that van. The others got the jump seats which were slightly less crowded. We got into Ixtapa and proceded to drive people personally to their houses. Ixtapa is tiny and there are no roads, only dirt lanes and most of them were flooded. The cement and tin houses are right up on the lanes and it felt incredibly intrusive scuttling through them as we did, and being witness to the private Saturday morning rituals of peoples' lives. After leaving the residential section of Ixtapa we were dropped off at a tienda and told to wait another half hour for our last bus. At this point everyone was exhausted and hot and irritable and we wandered down the dirt lane, looking for a place to sit down. Only, we passed about 6 places to sit down, but no one was happy with them, and in the end we turned back around and settled at the original tienda we were dropped off at. I bought an agua pura and a bag of potato chips and Stefan and I split the last of the Bake Shop cookies and sure enough, a half hour later, a new van pulled up and we loaded into and then waited and then headed out. We were allegedly 1km from the coast at this point, but the drive from Ixtapa to Monterrico took anouther hour. But it was pretty, and the van wasn't crowded.

It was a very bright day. Again, I wish I knew plant names. But from what I have gleaned from the guidebooks I think what I was marveling at was jacaranda or possibly bouginvilla. Who knows. There were lots of palm trees, and volcanoes in the distance, and though it was hot, the air felt clean. We finally arrived in Monterrico and were dumped at a 3 way stop on a black top road, again, with no bearings. We said, "la playa?" and people pointed, and we followed. We walked for about 20 minutes, passing this tiny dirt lane, and soon after passing it a man approached us on bicycle and informed us that we had left Monterrico and were now headed inland. We should have taken the unmarked tiny dirt lane. So we turned around and about half way down the dirt lane was an enormous pelican that began to charge us and snap at us. I had my daypack clipped on my waist and out of fear Stefan grabbed it and hid behind me and put me directly in the path of the raging pelican. We made a run for it and soon our little dirt lane dead ended into a sand path and on that sand path was our hostel, Johnny's Place.

Johnny's Place is right on the beach, with little bungalows and fresh water pools and hammocks and an outdoor restaurant and bar and a covered patio with couches and loungechairs and more hammocks. Also, being the Pacific Coast of Guatemala, the beach was black volcanic sand and this was endlessly cool to me.

We checked in, scored a private bungalow with a private bath, and walked to the restaurant for lunch. Johnny's Place is home to the worst fish tacos I have ever had, a major disappointment. But they had one of the best piña coladas ever, with fresh juices and that made up for it. From lunch, I headed straight to the hammocks on the beach and remained there for hours. About an hour before sunset I began walking down the beach collecting bits of rock and driftwood, and headed back in in time to watch the sunset from the patio. I am my parents daughter. The Pacific is incredibly loud in Monterrico. During my walk, I looked up because I thought jet planes were flying overhead and I thought that was really weird, and then I realized it was the sound of the surf. It is not a very good swimming beach because the undertow is so powerful, but it sounds so incredibly gorgeous. Also, coconuts wash ashore! I thought that was the greatest thing ever.

After sunset I showered (in salt water, muy sticky, ew) and we went to dinner at the Lonely Planet's top pick. The restaurant was cozy and airy at the same time, and turned out to be the home of the pelican from earlier that day. Also living there was a grey cat that looked exactly like my sister's cat, and 3 dogs. I ordered the risotto del mar and it was a little on the gross side. The seafood tasted like it had freezerburn and the risotto was undercooked. Strike two, Monterrico. But we went back to Johnny's Place for piña coladas on the patio which almost made up for the insanely expensive and yucky dinner. If you like to party, the best thing about Johnny's Place is that it is right next door to a discoteca. If you prefer to fall asleep before 4am, the worst thing about Johnny's Place is that it is right next door to a discoteca. Also, we were in mosquito country, and malaria country at that. So we had to shut the doors and windows of our bungalow at dusk. This made for an incredibly hot, loud night. And we had a 5am wake up call because we had booked a sunrise boat tour of the lagoons.

Late for dinner again, will finally wrap this sucker up this weekend. Ciao!

From the Highlands to the Coast

Well, we made it to the beach. And back. This school week is already half way over, which is hard to believe. Time is funky, here. It drags and races simultaneously.

So on Friday, we met at the school around 2pm and had several errands to make along the way to the bus station. The bus station is in Zone 3 and we all live in Zone 1. We could have taken a microbus from the park to the bus station, but we needed to go to the Bake Shop and the mall for cash. The Bake Shop is only open on Tuesdays and Fridays and has American pastries and we were all very much in need of them. Olivia and I bought donuts filled with fruit and Stefan bought an assortment of cookies for all of us and Susannah bought some apple muffins. From there we walked to the mall, one street over, and then had about an 8 block walk to the Minerva bus station.

The station itself is half market and half parking lot. I can't remember if I have mentioned chicken buses here, but they are the way you navigate the county unless you have the cash to spend on a private shuttle. Chicken buses are US school buses that have been retired. I have no idea how many miles they have to have before they are retired in the States, but eventually they end up here and they are refitted with larger engines and longer bench seats and luggage racks. What we have learned is that the more flamboyant the bus, the better shape it is likely in. Because if the owner can afford disco balls and airbrushed flames he can probably also spring for new brakes. So you arrive at the bus station and the back half is people selling all kinds of food and drink and trinkets and the buses are lined up in long rows with the routes painted on the front and you're immediately accosted by lots of drivers who, more than they want to know where you want to go, want to take you where they are going. And you never go anywhere directly here, so you need to know what the next connection is. We thought we had 2 connections, but it turned out to be six. Or maybe 8. I can't remember. So amid the hustle and bustle and exhaust, we found our bus and climbed on and set out. Well, almost set out. Before you go anywhere, vendors climb on the bus while the driver waits for it to fill and they try to sell you things. Newspapers. Tortillas. Empanadas. Water in a plastic bag with a straw tied to it. Gum. Also, the seats are designed to fit two adults each, but that is really just where it all begins, because you could have 3 or 4 adults in each seat and also people crammed into the aisles, and because the seats are longer than they were in the States, there really isn't much aisle left. When we headed out of Minerva I was sitting with Susannah and Stefan and Olivia shared a bench. But we didn't have that much room for long. Our route was Xela to Mazatenango to Escuintla to Ixtapa to Monterrico. But we didn't know that then.

The drive from Xela to Mazatenango is my new favorite in this country. It is absolutely gorgeous and I spent a good deal of those hours in awe of the scenery. I felt like I was, once more, in Avatar, or the opening of Jurassic Park, or even Land Before Time. When I think of mountains, I think of being above the timber line, but here in the highlands you are surrounded by the the most radically green mountains I have ever seen or imagined. And there are so many different greens up here, and the textures are so rich. I wish I could convey the beauty of it all. And I wish I knew plant species, but I am pretty sure I saw every species of tree at some point over the weekend. So there is much green here and there are mountains you can't see the tops of through the bus windows without sticking your head out of them. And there are clouds everywhere because you're up that high. And incredibly steep cliffs and rivers flowing through canyons and tiny towns sheltered at the the bottom. And amidst all this are buses racing precariously along the mountainsides, passing each other around curves, getting air over bumps in the road.

The trip was just a rush of images and scents for me, because the buses go so fast. A woman and a girl washing laundry in a canal. The bloody corpse of a dog, stuffed in a clear plastic bag, thrown into a ditch. Barefoot, sooty children standing in dirt yards. A thick, almost smoky twilight as we descended into more warmer climes. Rivers of mud. Destroyed homes. Men soldering water pipes after the storm. A colorful cemetery perched on the slimmest bit of cliff, overlooking the town below. Someone coming on the bus, selling something in a cooler that smelled exactly like soggy dog food that had been heated up. A dry valley of lovely boulders, a dog picking his way among them. The wet feel of the weather changing, becoming tropical. The damp weight of other peoples' bodies swaying into you around turns. The lushness of the rain forest, things growing on everything that is already growing, giving the scenery this wonderful carpeted feel. The scent of charcoal and burned meat.

Guatemala looks like everywhere. Texas. Kenya. The Carolinas, especially the Low Country. Coming down out of the highlands, the air began to change before the scenery did. But soon there was more field, less forest, and when we slowed down you could hear the dry clatter of palm branches. It got humid, which was not exactly good news on a bus crammed with people. But even so, it was nice to be moving. I didn't even really care where we were going, only that we were going.

We arrived in an empty parking lot in Mazatenango around 5:30 and were shooed off the bus and onto a coach. Now, this coach was probably older than me, with cracked leather seats and this saggy, beaten look to it. But I cannot begin to tell you how absolutely First Class it felt after the chicken bus. There was room for us all to have a private seat. And they reclined! I was in heaven. At this point we were headed to Escuintla, and were told it was an hour or so away. It was beginning to get dark and I was keen to arrive and make our next connection as quickly as possible, but also, I was so comfortable and a little drowsy from the heat that I didn't care what happened. And this would be, of course, where things got a little wacked, but that is to come, because I am now late for supper.