Photo of the Day: Guatamala market

From New-Old

Photo of the Day: Copan Ruins, Honduras

From Copan Ruins

Whoops -- originally posted wrong country. Damn.

Photo of the Day: Volcan Pacaya

From Volcan Pacaya

best way to roast a little treat. . .

Mexican/Guatemalan border crossing

Dec 27 – border crossing

Border crossings make me nervous. Although I’m not doing anything wrong or carrying anything illegal, I feel trepidation as I approach every single one of them. Even when I traveled to Europe, I felt the same things as I got off the plane, got my luggage and went to the customs area to cross into whatever country where I was arriving.

The Mexican/Guatemalan was an entirely different experience from any of my previous border crossings. As our van approached the border and you began to see Mexican soldiers carrying assault rifles, they looked like M16s. They were stopping northbound cars and trucks entering Mexico to inspect their passengers and cargos.

The sight of law enforcement folks carrying shotguns and automatic weapons is supposed to be a reassuring one – and you see them all over Central America, at banks, hotels, stores and so on – but it doesn’t really inspire me with much of a sense of confidence for my safety. Then again, I haven’t been robbed yet, so perhaps I should be a bit more open minded about the whole thing.

One of the reasons I always have a bit of angst as I approach border crossings is that I despise looking like an idiot. I have a fear that I’ve done something that is going to screw the crossing up – I don’t have the visa money in the right type of currency, or I’m supposed to be in another line than the one I’m in, or I need some sort of document that I haven’t gotten beforehand, or I didn’t get some stamp that I needed at the last border, or whatever.

For this particular crossing I had a specific worry – the Lonely Planet guide that I was using for Central America said that I needed to pay some transit tax to leave Mexico. It was supposed to be about $20 U.S. dollars or so. The book said that you had to purchase it at bank and if you didn’t have it at the crossing, you’d have to find a bank to pay it and get the appropriate document or receipt. When I entered Mexico from the U.S., I asked the border agents there if I needed to pay a “transit tax” because I was leaving Mexico and eventually going to Guatemala. The border agents said I didn’t need one. I asked a few fellow travelers about the issue and they all told me that I didn’t need it also.

The main reason I was slightly worried about it was that I was on a van with about a dozen others traveling from Antigua to Copan and I didn’t know what the van driver would do if I needed to go back somewhere and pay this damn tax. Or whether it would also foul up the crossing for the rest of the van. I asked one of the passengers whether she knew anything about it – she was an American studying Spanish in Guatemala and had come to Antigua for the weekend. She said she had crossed the border a couple of times and didn’t know anything about it.

The van pulled up to the Mexican immigration building. All of us piled out and got in line to get our passports stamped. The girl from Guatemala was a few people ahead of me in line. When she got up to the border agent, they had some sort conversation in Spanish – she was obviously asking him questions back about what he was telling her. He pointed to the left and she walked off that direction. The next few people got their passports stamped without a problem. I got up to the counter, handed over my passport, he asked me something in Spanish, I told him that “me no habla Spanish,” he pointed to the document that I got when I entered the country (they filled out some one page form and stamped it, instead of stamping my passport with the visa stamp) and said something that I translated as “you need to pay the transit tax” and pointed off to the left.

Luckily, the girl from Guatemala was over there when I got there and she was paying this mysterious transit tax. She was trying to get an explanation from the official in this building, but she never really got any solid reason for why just the two of us had to pay the tax. No one else on the van had to pay it. She at least explained to me how much it was and made sure I did the transaction properly. It was about $12 and I just handed over the cash, got my new stamp on my document, and went back in line.

After we left the Mexican immigration office we continued driving down the road towards the Guatemalan side of the border. Although it had a definite Latin American flavor to it, it started to feel like some modern version of an Indiana Jones movie – the scenes where Indiana Jones has arrived in some Middle Eastern city, with monkeys running around, people everywhere, organized chaos.

This had a feel like that for me – organized chaos. Although it looked completely chaotic, there was some sort of organization there. Its just that I had absolutely no idea what sort of organization it was.

There was trash everywhere. As we got closer to the border, and I imagined as we got further and further away from any remnants of governmental oversight, there were two huge piles of trash that were being burned, right by the side of the road. Piles of burning plastic bottles and other garbage spewing God-only-knows-what type of pollution and dioxins into the atmosphere is one of the signs I expected in a true 3rd world country, not Mexico.

It felt like we were in a no-mans zone between the borders. To be more specific, it appeared to be a no-law zone. Sort of a modern Wild West.

Well, frankly. Not THAT modern.

A rather large shantytown had taken root on both sides of the border. There was an open market than ran on for a half mile or so, selling everything you can imagine. Clothes, DVDs, bicycles, fruit, fireworks, and on and on. All of the buildings and market stalls looked like they had been put together in the most haphazard manner possible, and with the cheapest possible materials, many of which appeared to be ingeniously recycled from their original uses.

The van parked on the Mexican side. We all piled out, got out backpacks on, and started hiking up some street towards the border. When we got there, there was a big sign saying, “WECOME TO GUATEMALA.” It was the only English I heard from any official at the border.

We got in line to go through Guatemalan customs. Were surrounded by various moneychangers wanting to swap our dollars or pesos for the local currency. The Mexican van driver swapped out with our new driver on the other side. The Guatemalan guy made sure we were all in the correct line and told me that I didn’t need to change my money here (I didn’t remember from my guidebook whether this was one of the borders that it was good to use the border moneychangers or not). After we stood in the non-moving line for about five minutes, the new van driver grabbed up all our passports and went into the building to try to sort out the crossing.

Apparently he got something going properly. The line slowly moved forward. The guy behind the counter started calling out names of our group and as your name was called you went forward and got your stamped passport. You also had to pay him a couple bucks – although the guidebook said there was no visa fee at this crossing. As in one of my (many, many) favorite lines of Casablanca from Captain Renault, “well, I am only a poor corrupt official.”

Has a better movie ever been made? Every single line in that movie works. Go watch it again – it is one of the funniest movies of all time. “I am shocked. . . shocked that there is gambling going on in this establishment!”

In any case, our new driver/fixer shuffled us through the border crossing and then checked each of our passports to make sure that we were properly stamped. We got in our new van and then drove through the shanty town on the Guatemalan side.

My favorite image on that side: laundry out to dry. . . on top of a barbed wire fence.

San Cristobal to Antigua

If you are planning on doing much traveling in Central America, you are going to take some long bus or van rides. It just comes with the territory. What is amazing about most of these trips though is how few actual miles you cover for the amount of time you spend.

San Cristobal, in the southernmost Mexican state of Chiapas, is about 500 miles from Antigua, Guatemala. The van ride took 12 hours. And that was over some pretty good roads, compared to what I am about to experience in Nicaragua and Costa Rica. The bus ride cost the equivalent of $30 U.S. dollars.

The van picked me up outside my hotel room at 6 a.m. – if you are traveling down here, you are also going to have to get used to some early departures, my van from Antigua to Copan, Honduras leaves at 4 a.m. The driver drove around town and picked up the remainder of the passengers from other hostels and hotels and we were on the road by 7 or so. The van was a fifteen-passenger van, and we managed thirteen passengers, a driver and luggage in back.

A small aside here, as I am want to do. A few years back, I handled a personal injury case of a college age kid that was taking an overnight van trip from northwest Arkansas to Colorado, to go skiing with his church group. In the middle of the night, the driver fell asleep, the van flipped over, two people ended up dying and my client was pretty severely injured (but luckily had a full recovery). In researching his case, I came across a whole series of lawsuits in the U.S. about the inherent unreliability of fifteen passenger vans (my client was actually in a smaller van, so the research didn’t apply to his case). Suffice it to say that these large, fifteen passenger vans are quite unstable, top heavy, and prone to fishtail out of control and flip over at an alarming rate. As I recall, they now don’t sell these types of vans in the States to schools and such, because of all the injuries, deaths and lawsuits.

http://www.consumeraffairs.com/news04/nhtsa_vans.html

There are many times it is a blessing to have the variety of knowledge that I possess, as a result of my legal education and law career. In this case, I’d rather not have known that I was riding in a van that isn’t sold in the U.S. for safety reasons.

One hour outside of San Cristobal, nine of the thirteen passengers were sound asleep. It is odd that no matter where you are, being a passenger in a vehicle almost always makes one sleepy. One of the two girls in the front seats was awake reading, one girl was knitting in my row, one guy in the far back row was awake listening to his iPod, and I was awake watching the hills of southern Mexico roll by, with my iPod on of course – how travel was manageable before that miraculous invention is beyond me. Everyone else was sound asleep.

And I hope you don’t mind, but I think I shall take a different format for this particular blog and just relay some things I saw and experienced on this route, without making any effort to tie them up neatly in some logical pattern:

• The girl in the middle front seat next to the driver was Japanese. She had spent a year in Seattle learning English and was going back to the Guatemalan town of Xela to continue her Spanish studies, where she had about five months left, after finishing seven already. At one of the stops she told me all of that and when I mentioned that she’d been sleeping almost the entire time, she said she didn’t get back to her hostel until about 4 a.m. before the 6:30 departure.

The way she slept is the same way as most of us all do, when you are in seats that don’t recline. Her head would start nodding lower and lower and lower, then to the left, and then as low as it can physically go. She was out. As the van bumped along and turned this way and that, her head would slowly nod slightly up and down and left and right for twenty or thirty minutes or more. Then at some point, her head would bounce quickly back up to its normal position as she jolted awake. And then slowly nod lower and lower to start the process again. Over and over.

• A white girl in the row behind me had full-blown dreadlocks, down to the middle of her back, braided throughout with little beads and such. She was from Scotland and we talked over coffee at a pit stop later that morning about my golf trip there and how friendly the Scots are. She’d spent three months in Copper Canyon in northern Mexico, which I’d looked into in planning the initial stages of my trip – a place certainly on my to-do list when I get back. She told a few of us awake in the van sometime that morning a story about breaking her arm badly in Ghana a few years ago. She was riding a bike and got hit by a car and then run over by the front tires of a truck, which then stopped before the back tires ran her over also. Some of the locals pulled her out from under the van (a painful experience she’d like to forget) and took her to the local hospital, where she stayed for four days before flying home – to have the arm re-broken and reset in Glasgow.

While she was an interesting sort, I just couldn’t get over the juxtaposition of her appearance and her accent. Somehow the Scottish accent on a white woman with dreadlocks just doesn’t go together. For that matter, lets just go with – no dreadlocks on white people – I’ve seen the look on both black women and men, and it can look pretty good, but I’ve yet to see a white person that can pull it off.

• The two girls sitting on my bench were both from Spain. The girl next to me slept quite a lot on the trip. As we drove down the hills from San Cristobal to the Mexican-Guatemalan border, which is at a much lower elevation, the van snaked its way left and right, down and down. She was like a sack of flour and on every right turn the van took, she would tilt to the left, up against my shoulder, then back to the right as the van turned the other direction. Given the winding nature of the road, she swayed left and right rather rhythmically, almost like a human metronome.

• We drove past by scores of ramshackle little villages, made up of concrete cinderblock houses, almost all capped with plastic, corrugated roofs. Smoke rose from a number of them, as you realized that wood was their only source of both heat and of fires for cooking. Even on the main road, there were speed bumps every so often, so that the van would have to slow to a crawl to just ease over them. The houses were all in the valleys, while forested hills overlooked them. Well, mostly forested hills – some had barren patches, where they had clear-cut the trees. Those looked like someone with a beard had someone with a straightedge razor just do one swipe down the side of his face.

As we turned one corner, off in the distance on one of the hills, I saw a lone solitary, perfectly formed tree, placed upon the top of the ridge overlooking its brethren down below, so that its silhouette stood out beautifully against the light blue sky with two wispy clouds hanging off stilly to its right. It has the look of the tree that was in charge of the whole valley. The jefe. I wished I had some artistic talent at that point – it deserved to be painted.

• There is a hope that with the production of volume and time, that there will be improvement in my quality of writing and powers of observation.

• There are small fields of corn in almost every open space available. Now, in the middle of the winter, the corn stalks all stand empty and dead – a lifeless dull, light shade of brown – the color of weathered paper. They are completely withered and parched, only standing upright at all out of habit, ready to be plowed under to soon start the cycle anew.

There is something quite peaceful about movement overland. A feeling you don’t get by flying – the feeling that you are actually seeing the world – chewing up the miles slowly. Truly traveling. Quite peaceful.

Climbing Volcan Pacaya

I got into Antigua, Guatamala about dinner time the night before, had a little chow and a beer or two, and hit the sack in my first dorm room hostel of the trip. At about $7 dollars U.S. for the night, I figured it was time for me to get into the occasional hostel routine.

Five beds in my room, but the hostel wasn’t one of those ones where people stumbled into their beds at all hours of the night. I went to bed at about 10 or so and the last person in the room came in about 30 minutes later. While that wasn’t a problem, my bed was right up against the wall right on the street, so every sound, honk, and voice from the street was right next to me. And on top of that, it was a Saturday night and the band playing in the bar immediately next door to the hostel was prone to playing truly poor covers of Pink Floyd songs. “Another Brick in the Wall” really shouldn’t be played with in a hard rock style, with a Spanish accent.

In any case, over the breakfast the next morning, I had chance to sit and talk with two very cool people from Oxford, England. Michael was taking an extended trip through the U.S., Mexico and Guatamala. He’s been on the road for a few months now and was heading back to Xela (pronounced shell-a) later that day with his friend, Stella, to take three months of Spanish lessons. Stella had recently joined him in Central America and was going to head over to Xela with him to take a week or two of Spanish, before she had to head back. They told me that I really needed to take the afternoon hike up the Volcan Pacaya, which gets to the summit around sunset. They said the hike was moderate, but the views were great and you had a chance to get right up to the lava. I took a look at their pictures and decided to go that afternoon.

I booked the trip at my hostel, got into a van with nine others at about two in the afternoon, and our driver took us on the hour-long ride up to the volcano. The hike doesn’t go all the way to the top, but to the portion of the volcano that still has a lava flow coming out of it. I think the volcano is about 2,500 meters tall, and from the signs posted (with my not excellent Spanish), it looked like our hike was from about 1,800 to 2,300 meters or so. That didn’t seem too hard.

Our guide for the afternoon was a 73 year old local who could have sprinted up the trail. I realize I’m not in great shape, but seriously – having a 73 year old guy run circles around you really can set your ego back a bit.

From Volcan Pacaya

When you got there, you were surrounded by small children selling you a walking stick for 5 quetzals, which was about 60 cents. I bought one of those and also a bottle of water, got my camera situated in my fanny pack (or as my new English friends called it, booty bag – I do like that more), and proceeded to follow our guide up the trail.

I never saw him take one deep breath in the entire five hours we spent on the volcano.

I took my first after about 3 minutes of the hike.

The hike up took about an hour and forty-five minutes. The first ¾’s or so was through the forested part of the mountain. The trail was moderately steep – probably about a 25-30 degree incline. The path wasn’t the best and there was a lot of horse shit all over the place, because you could rent a horse to ride up the trail for 75 quetzals.

After little more than an hour you reach what you think, or hope, is the summit. There is a concrete building up there. Anyone on a horse has to dismount. It looks like the summit is just over the crest in front of you. At this point, I was dead-ass tired. Our guide stopped us and we took some pictures of Volcan Agua, which overlooks Antigua, off in this distance.

From Volcan Pacaya

Our guide then led us around the corner and we got our first glimpse of our final destination. It not only looked a pretty far way off, but it looked really, really steep (notice the people climbing up on the path to the right).

From Volcan Pacaya

As a sidelight, to cheer us up I think, our guide walked us out a different path over the volcanic gravel than the other guides were on. After we got a few hundred feet above the other groups, we then ran down the hill we were on, kicking up dust and such as we ran/slid down the hill. Being that I don’t speak any Spanish, I didn’t understand his explanation, but from the grin on his face, I took it that it was a fun little diversion to put a smile on our faces. It did – but they didn’t last long. It was time to go up the side of the volcano in the final push.

From Volcan Pacaya

The path up was really tough going. You were either walking on volcanic rocks, which was easier going, because they didn’t move as much (but then again, it was easier to lose your balance and take a tumble that you really, really didn’t want to take), or walking on small volcanic gravel. Most of us took the gravel route, which seemed safer, but every time you put your foot into the ground and pushed off from your bottom foot, the gravel would slightly give way. So essentially for every two steps you were taking up, you were making about a step and a half progress. And for anyone that has walked in deep sand, you understand how much it saps your energy – and frankly, I didn’t have a hell of a lot energy left.

Our group eventually made it up to the top and the reward at the top was certainly worth the effort to get there. We made it about 20 minutes before sunset, and although the sunset was obscured by clouds, the lava flow was fascinating. I was the only American in my group, and some Canadians, Israelis, and Swedes were saying that you’d never be allowed to get this close to lava in the States (or be able to climb the side of this volcano with no safety gear) because of liability issues. As a lawyer in the States, I can verify that – but I was glad I got a chance to take these pictures.

In short, for any others out there thinking about taking this climb, some advice:

• Be in pretty reasonable shape. If you aren’t in moderate shape, don’t worry about looking like a fool – take the horse ride up for the first 3/4s of the trail – the last ¼ is going to be work enough.
• Go ahead and buy the walking stick. I was pulling myself up the last part with the stick. By the way, you aren’t buying it – those same kids are waiting back at the bottom to beg the stick back from you. Since you’ve no need for it anymore, might as well give it back. It’s a rental.
• Bring a couple bottles of water.
• Obviously a camera.
• Bring some small flashlight for the walk down.
• It is winter now, but it wasn’t too cold at the top. Bring a light jacket or something for the walk down, but you probably are going to be pretty warm via the work-out anyway.
• Wear long pants and good hiking shoes. I saw a good number of scraped up legs from the volcanic rock and I can’t imagine doing the climb in sandals, as I saw a few people (idiots) wearing.
• And I would do the afternoon/sunset climb. They have one that leaves at 6 a.m., but you certainly wouldn’t get anywhere near the top by sunrise, and seeing the lava flow at night for a bit before you walk back down is great.
* O yea -- and bring some mashmellows to roast.

From Volcan Pacaya

From Volcan Pacaya

From Volcan Pacaya

From Volcan Pacaya