Riding to Tikal

En route to Tikal from Semuc Champey I neglected to notice the little boat indicating a ferry on the map

Semuc Champey

Tonight I am in Tikal, well actually a small town called El Remate just south. Here are some photos of the place I spent the last two days. What you see is a giant limestone bridge. The river actually enters a cave and flows beneath these limestone formations. I dove into the first pool and swam and jumped my way doen to the final pool in the beautiful turquise waters.

Guatemala redefines the commonly known concept of a highway. Over the last two days I have driven well over 100 miles on gravel (actually rocks) highways. Imagine looking at a US highway map and just about every highway marked other than the interstate is one lane dirt with teeth chattering rocks driven into it. 30 mph average speed. Thank god for suspension!
Thanks for looking
Love
Jay

Views of Semuc Champey

Coyotes and Quetzales

Here are a couple examples of homes in the Guatemalan Countryside
Construction methods and materiels vary greatly depending on the raw materials available

10 days, a Coyote & 30,000 Quetzales…apparently that is all it takes to travel from Guatemala to the Promised Land. My new friend Hector explains how he dreams about one day having the money to get smuggled into the US. He is a small friendly guy of about 20 years; currently headed for the kitchen to cook what he claims is his specialty… Pasta Carbonara.

Late in the afternoon after visiting Semuc Champey I sat studying my Spanish flashcards in the corner of the patio at the hotel. The bored employees came over to see what the heck I was doing with the fat stack of 3x5 cards. Yo estudio Espanol, necesito mas practica! Hector took the worm and immediately pulled up a stool to help me practice Spanish. My limited communication skills tend to lend themselves to conversations about three subjects: home, work, and family. Two of which seem to easily lead to questions about money and lifestyle, a common curiosity among many folks with whom I have actually been able to converse. I must admit that I am equally as curious about their standard of living and since I don’t have the vocabulary to steer the conversation in any other direction I end up feeling a little squirmy in my seat when I admit to making more than 20 times the daily pay of a construction worker in San Pedro. Nearly 50 times what Hector makes in one day; if he was being honest about making 35 Q a day…roughly $4. Fearful of only enhancing his image of the US a land full huge houses, fast girls, and beautiful cars I tried to explain how each economic system is based on an entirely different scale. I explained that his $4 per hour in Guatemala was probably equivalent to 10 per hour in the US.

Hector asks how much a carton of eggs and a loaf of bread cost in the US, insisting that he would need nothing else to live. I think the concept that regardless of the job or living conditions it is better in the US has become hardwired in some of these people’s brains. So, instead of trying to make the US sound like a lousy place to live I decided to find out what it would entail to skip out of Guatemala and sneak into the Promised Land. Keep in mind that this man is willing to risk his life and leave his wife and two babies behind with the belief that it will somehow all be worth it.

The first thing Hector needs to do is amass a small fortune to pay for an unguaranteed outcome. I’m doubtful, but he states that the payment is due upon successful arrival in the US. 30,000 Quetzales is nearly 4000 dollars, probably enough to build a small house in the rural parts of Guatemala. Then he contacts a Coyote, a human smuggler, who orchestrates the travel through Mexico and subsequent border crashing in the US. Apparently this involves many busses, lots of walking, and somehow he was given the impression that it would all end with a big swim…across the infamous Rio Grande I imagine. I have watched some Guatemalan folks try to swim and I’m convinced that if this were actually the case none would ever make it to the US. I assured him that swimming probably wasn’t part of the program. Ten days, fifteen at the most… Hector trails off as he looks up toward the sky in a brief daydream.

With the meager amount of money he has saved and the “5000 Q matching grant” his friend who is in Texas has pledged, it is still unlikely we will be seeing chef Hector any time soon. Half jokingly I told him to give me a call when he got to America. He whipped out a piece of paper and pen and asked for my number. After a short hesitation I wrote a number on the piece of paper, my real number. What would I do if I received a call in 2-3 years? I think many people in the US like to portray illegal’s as selfishly taking jobs from hardworking American men and women, breaking the law so they can bleed some dollars off our suffering economy. Each time I see a five year old boy with a machete, a six year old girl with a huge load of firewood on her back or an old man carrying a 50 kilo sack from his forehead, I wonder where the selfishness lies. Hector doesn’t want to take a big motorcycle trip, build a huge house or own a fancy car; he merely wants his family to be one step above survival.

The masterpiece just arrived; a nice heaping bowl of pasta with a garlic sauce that is sure to keep the Tikal mosquitoes at bay, and what seems to be bacon (he said it was going to be beef). A nice side of Wonder style white bread compliments the meal. mmmm…delisioso! I think Hector has a bit more work to do before he can be the star illegal employee of a five star restaurant in New York City. I wonder if the Guatemalan food in Italy is as bad as the Italian food in Guatemala…

Guatemala Itinerary

Since I am now traveling alone I thought it would be a good idea to post an itinerary for the next week or so. I think it will take a about a week or so to get to Honduras via my chosen route. I´ll post and connect when i can, but it might be the case that I may not be able to gain internet acces for 4-5 days at a time.

Here is my likely route:

San Pedro to a place called Semuc Champey approx 50 k.m W of Coban near Lanquin via. CA 14 and Guatemal 5

From There my route will pass Fray Bartolome de Las Cases and Flores and I plan on staying near El Remate on the shores of Lago Peten Itza just south of Tikal.

Ca 13 will take me to Rio Dulce where I´ll probably spend the night.

CA 9 to Rio Hondo then CA 10 & CA 11 to the Honduran border at El Florido near Copan Ruinas in Honduras where I plan on spending my first night in Honduras.

I´ll call and post when I can.

With Love,
Jay

Flying Han Solo

The dawn of my departure quickly approaches. If you have not heard through the grapevine or Jamal's blog I will be flying solo when I ease out the clutch this Saturday morning. Jamal departed San Pedro a week ago last Saturday and is already making his way out of Columbia. When we rendezvoused in Tucson I think it was immediately apparent that we were on very different paths. Shortly after entering Mexico my intuition told me that the time would come where I would need to honor my own path and my own needs. I knew it would not be long before our two separate journeys could no longer follow the same path. The long days riding through Mexico proved to be a painful experience for me. After many hours on the bike my back and neck seared with fiery pain, perhaps a physical manifestation of an unmet internal need to slow down and feel the ocean sand between my toes, to feel the winds kiss upon my bare cheek, and to allow the symphony of mother earth to lull me into a sense of soulful contentment. Oh yes, the time for me to come to grips with the reality of riding alone was approaching more rapidly than I felt I could handle.

Barely one week before I had entered a realm of discomfort worse than any altitude induced headache or nightlong vomiting session in a cramped mountaineering tent. I rolled across a border into another world, an alien landscape, filled with beings with whom I could not even begin to communicate. The discomfort and fear penetrated my being. I felt like a small child without the comfort of daddy’s leg to clutch and peek around with shy eyes at the strangers before me. I did, however, have the comfort of a friend to ease the anxiety, without whom I may have turned around right at the border…

After just a few days in San Pedro I felt that this was the place. It would be here that part of the fate of this journey and perhaps our friendship would need to be decided. Here I finally felt like I was beginning to grow in the ways that I needed, and the seeds of independence were sprouting in the form of new language skills. As the week progressed I felt the confusion and anxiety of a partner preparing to break up with his or her lover. Deep within there is a knowing that there will be a great sense of relief once the floodgates of emotion have been unlocked and the dam holding back the gallons of self inflicted unmet needs is finally removed, allowing the contents to spill forth and follow their own path of least resistance.

We met at the coffee shop on Thursday after lunch to make plans for the days or weeks ahead. I made no preparations for this meeting, knowing that my only real calling was to stay in this place regardless of the consequence. For both of us the time of compromising our needs, desires, and our own personal journeys had come to an end. We each discussed our thoughts about the trip to this point and the path that lay ahead. It was probably immediately apparent to each of us that our partnership was over, even if only temporarily, but we still did the dance of two partners reluctantly letting go of the security of the relationship. Over the course of many hours we massaged each other’s fears and anxieties while discussing how our paths would serve us each better if we were alone; an effort to, in a way, make sure neither of us had to feel guilt for abandoning the other. After a long walk, we made plans to get together the next day to say goodbye and perhaps to subconsciously provide ourselves the opportunity to back out of the decision and “get back together”; a decision that would be more sacrifice than compromise…

As I turned and made my way home I thought “I’ll stay two weeks”, a gift to myself while I ease back into the “single life”. I suddenly felt light on my feet like man who just realized that had just freed himself to find his one true love.

This trip never would have come to fruition if we did not have each other. Our planning and riding together was the catalyst to initiate a self sustaining reaction. I am grateful that we had the combined drive and courage to get to this place together. I am more grateful that we found the courage to follow our hearts.

The path ahead is unknown. I believe that I am alone because I am meant to be alone in this time and place. At no other point in my life have I been truly alone and felt comfortable or successful. This time is a gift, an opportunity to look within and be at peace what I discover. In this place I have felt neither a sense of excitement nor sadness, just a sense of being in the present where yesterday is merely the past and tomorrow is but a distant speck on the horizon, too small to make sense of with the naked eye.

On Saturday morning my map will be securely fastened to my tank bag and my compass will be pointing toward Tikal but the real route is that which is mapped in my heart. Each mile will mark a new depth on the journey within.

I'll travel safe...the force is strong in this one...

Thanks for reading.

Keep me in your hearts and prayers as you are in mine.

Love
Jay

No words...

More Coffee

Here are some photos of a small organic coffee processing plant we visited last week. Above there is a photo of me carrying a bag of beans while walking alongside an aged man. I witnessed this man carry bag after bag of coffee and finally got the courage to ask if he would mind if I tried to carry one. As the kid on the truck set the forehead strap around the bag I asked how much it weighed. 50 kilos was his response. So this little old man who probably weighs in at less than 70 kilos was prancing back and forth with 110lbs slung around his forehead! For a split second I thought it had to be BS until I heard my cervical spine compress under the load on my forhead. You definitely don'd want to get headbutted by these guys... And I'm sure if you are a chiropractor who wants to give away your services there is an endless list of patients...

Coffee in the Making

Visitors & Vigilantes

Vigilantes & Visitors
Recipe:

ingredients:

13000 or so residents
30 plus expatriate Europeans and Americans.
200-300 visitors from countries throughout the world
Ethyl alcohol
Deep seated religious beliefs
A bit of cultural indifference

Place the 13000 residents in one bowl. Stir in religious belief and mix evenly until no more can be added.

In a separate bowl place the expatriates and add smidgen of cultural indifference. Dump in the visitors and mix thoroughly. Distribute evenly among 10 or so Pubs. Add ethanol to taste and let rise for about 5-6 hours (approximately 1:00 a.m.)
Once the mixture has actively absorbed all of the alcohol, add quickly to the first bowl and attempt to stir…

Using the recipe provided one should expect to obtain 50 to 100 Guatemalan sized vigilantes…

Watch out! This entry is laden with a bunch of assumptions and opinions…

Aside from the guard at the bank and the occasional armored car pickup it is rare to see anyone who resembles a police officer in San Pedro. Domingo, my host and lifelong resident of this small city, often reminds us that the best thing about San Pedro is that it is tranquilo…no banditos…no peligroso (not dangerous). One would like to believe that this is solely due to the fact that this community is so tightly intertwined, connected to each other through deep spiritual beliefs in morality and love for one another. Perhaps this is somewhat true, but this is the first place in my travels that anything has been stolen off my bike.

So without cops, how is this place so safe? Perhaps it has something to do with the Comission de Seguridad, a not so small group of townsfolk who patrol the streets and alleys late in the evening hours. Back when I was a punk teenager stealing street signs in my hometown all I had to worry about was the odd cop randomly cruising a back street. And then, even if we were caught, there was a due process that we would be subjected to. The prospect of being caught in the street by a small mob acting on federal and city law mixed with their own religious dogma seems a bit more intimidating. Apparently these groups of 10-50 or more are recognized by the local government and sometimes accompanied by police. During our last lunch, I asked Domingo about the whistle carrying (I have not seen any weapons) groups who roam the street in the late evening hours. He explained that these groups are necessary and good for the safety of residents of the city. Apparently the city is divided into a number of districts, each with its own “neighborhood watch” group.

Let’s add some bars and barracho (drunk) turistas and see what you get.

There are a number of bars in town…or at least the tourist part of town. It seems that although the property may be locally owned, almost all of the dining and drinking establishments are owned and or operated by former citizens of the US, Canada, or Europe. As a side note, I have always wondered what it really meant to be an expatriate citizen. In the case of the folks that either own or are fixtures at many of these establishments it seems to mean that you don’t want to participate in or contribute in any real way to your home country so you move to another country to take advantage of it’s lax laws and cheap living expenses, thereby allowing you to avoid making a real contribution to the new place. It seems that many of these folks are slightly lost souls looking for a great place to be really, really lazy. Of course I recognize that many people give their lives to improve healthcare, environment, education, and social justice in places that are not their birth origin. And it’s important to remember that this is based on just a few conversations with some bitter expats, but it has really made me think about how we as visitors contribute or detract from a place like this. More importantly it has made me think about what my motivations would be if I were to move to a place like San Pedro. I know that I would need to feel like I was here to contribute in some way, directly or indirectly, to positive development in the community or environment. To be sure, this is the case for a large handful of gringos in the area, but I’m not so sure about the folks who spend the majority of their time hanging around at drinking establishments with other gringos.

Drinking is frowned upon by the vast majority of residents in San Pedro. My tutor has indicated that for folks who do drink it is usually limited to festivals. That being said there are a very small number of cantinas frequented only by locals. I’m not sure what they drink, but the persons exiting these establishments are some of the drunkest I have ever witnessed, sometimes passing out in the street only a few meters from the door. Apparently alcoholism and drug use are a rising problem among young residents driving the poorest families into even greater distress.

I heard about the vigilantes about a week ago for the first time. Some of my classmates had run into huge mobs on their walk home from the bar. Generally they were just told that it was late and they should head home. Supposedly the Commission de Seguridad has recently decided that the federal closing time of 1 a.m. for drinking establishments was not early enough, so they have been forcing businesses to shut their doors at 11. It is difficult for me to discern whether or not they are acting on their own in this decision or if it is with the support of the city officials. Recently the groups have made their way through the streets, flooded the bars, and ordered the patrons to go home. These are non violent encounters, but there have been rumors of some rock throwing and possible use of pepper spray. Domingo did confirm that the group took two cameras from turistas that were photographing one of the encounters. An act met with disapproval by city officials. The establishment owners are infuriated with the vigilantes and the city and are uniting to fight this infringement of their rights in court.

The other night I passed a small group of these whistle blowers (there only weapon) on my way home from a late dinner and a couple beers. A simple “Buenos Noches” was the only password I needed to continue on my way. Upon arriving home I sat down on the stoop of my house listening to the intermittent sounds of whistles being blown throughout the city. Is this the response to a culture that is in fear of losing its’ young? Is this the reaction of a community that feels it has been disrespected by the aliens on its shores? The partying is limited to the one street by the shore of the lake, far away from most of the residents of the town, but I try to imagine what it must look like through the eyes of an ultra conservative resident. On a nightly basis there is music and drinking late into the evening, not a whole lot different than any us vacation destination or pub district in a city. The difference is that this behavior is culturally normal in the college town, at a club in Providence, or in downtown Seattle. In some ways this little street is like building a Strip Club in Provo Utah…

Without these businesses there would be very little tourism, no kayak rentals, few ferry boats, no horse rides, and few hotels. Is tourism good for this community…Who knows? Is there a right way for cultures to integrate? Should they? What responsibilities do the establishment owners have to ensure they are respecting the community in which they operate? The patrons? When and how does the community accept change?

How do we all maintain our own beliefs and set of ethics while interacting with another cultural system? As I think about it I cannot find any answers, instead I am confronted with deeper questions. This cultural clash could be seen as but a tiny metaphor for some of the major conflicts in our world. Perhaps some recipes just leave a bad aftertaste in your mouth, but if you can make cake out of carrots then somewhere out there exists the secret ingredient to mutual respect and love for one another.


Thanks for reading

Love
Jay

The House of Shamen

My eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness as we follow Diego and a small boy down a dark ally in San Pablo. I glance over my shoulder, straining my eyes, attempting to see if any silhouettes appear to be closing in behind. "?esta lejos?" (is it far?) I ask with my limited vocabulary. "No...no...esta aqui...mi casa esta aqui" (no...no...it's here...my house is here), Domingo replies, sensing that we are probably nervous about following a man we just met into the bowels of an unfamiliar village.

Danny, Jane, and I hopped in the back of a Toyota pickup a few minutes after 7p.m. with the intention of checking out the fiesta of San Pablo a little ways around the lake. Danny is my new housmate, also studying at the Coopertiva Spanish School. Jane is a student at another school in town. Along with the tuc-tucs, (little three wheeled vehicles) pickup trucks are the most common forms of a taxi. The often dilapidated trucks are outfitted with tall racks designed to maximize the number of standing passengers in the bed. In a cattle like fashion it is not uncommon for fifteen people to be crammed into one of these people haulers with a few brave souls hanging off the back. After 15 or so minutes of swerving around the slower tucs-tucs on the poorly maintained roads we arrive In San Pablo.

We stroll into the the mercado. I have not seen any rain since I have arrived, but the local street merchants have tented the entire calle with tarps anyway. Unfortunately Guatemalans don't take into account the few gringo visitors that may attend their festival, so most tarps seem to be hung to accommodate the height of a twelve year old american boy. With our heads cocked to one side and our hair scrubbing the underside of the cover we wandered through the seemingly endless string of vendors selling everything from jeans and cookware to homemade candies and tacos. The three of us tower over the Guatamaltecas like Andre the giant in a room full of fourth graders. Well maybe not that extreme, but children and some adults alike look at us like we must have been the product of some weird CIA genetic experiment to produce human lookout towers in a land of short people.

"Are you from California?" A voice emanates from the sea of dark haired heads that occasionally bounce off our shoulder's and chest's. A man of about 60 years with a kind face and a small boy in tow approaches and again asks Danny if he is from California. Weird...since I know that Danny is in fact from California. The man introduces himself as Diego, a Shamen and maker of plant medicine. He also states that he makes essential oils and invites us back to his home to have a look. Jane looks a bit nervous, but Danny and I disarmed by his age and the cute little boy immediately follow. As we enter the alley Danny turns to Jane and says something to the effect of "Don't worry, Jay and I have knives". I'm not so sure a knife would do much against a gang of short guys who commonly carry 80 pound bags of coffee or bundles of firewood with a single strap of cloth around their forehead. All I can imagine is one of these nipple-height brutes headbutting my chest, cracking my ribcage like a chef expertly splitting an egg, sending me to the ground writhing in pain with a flail chest and quickly developing pneumothorax. Not to mention, I don't think the tiny pocket knife would be much of a match against an angry machete carrying bandito whose natural grip is dangerously near crotch height. I don't know how quickly these statistics were calculated in Danny's mind, but Jane seemed a bit more at ease. I'm sure that is why he brought it up anyway.

Just as my eyes begin to adjust to the low light we arrive at the makeshift rusty steel sheetmetal door of a sad looking adobe structure. Diego pulls the door aside and we step into almost complete smoke filled darkness. My lungs burn with the thick wood smoke and I can barely make out a figure sitting next to the hot coals in a woodstove through my stinging unadjusted pupils. All three of us stand cautiously close to the door with our teary eyes straining to make sense of the space. Diego has disappeared into the darkness apparently in search of something. The sounds of movement in dark corners can barely be perceived over the explosion of fireworks at the festival about a block away.

I’m disoriented in this wildly foreign situation, but I feel no sense of danger, just an extreme sense of curiosity. In previous days I wandered through the streets of San Pedro, occasionally trying to get a peek into similar abodes as I passed by. Although the opportunity has come at an unusual time I finally have a chance to enter the world, if only for a few moments, of one of Guatemala’s poor families.

The lung searing woodsmoke appears to clear as a small flicker appears in the darkness. Diego has reappeared with a tiny candle. He beckons us into one of two tiny rooms adjacent to this main cooking area. He pushes the door in and enters the windowless chamber devoid of light apart from the tiny candle in his hand. The dark mud walls have no reflective quality and the candlelight seems to be quickly consumed by the darkness before reaching the floor or corners. Three little sets of eyes are barely visible behind a line draped with tattered clothes. The eyes approach and soon the candle illuminates the small curious faces of three small children. As my eyes once again become accustomed to this new level of darkness I can see a messy bed resting upon the dirt floor. Apparently excited to share his world Diego produces a didgeridoo and two small drums which he cannot play very well. He then points to two lambskins on the floor and picks up a larger drum frame while explaining his plans to make another larger instrument.

A clean teenage boy enters the room and holds up a scary looking mask of a woman’s face wearing a bad wig in one hand and an ornate headdress in the other, apparently part of the festivities earlier in the day.

Back in the central cooking area (hard to call it a kitchen because it’s missing a wall) we are surrounded by four small children, all very excited to me these giant foreign creatures. We crouch to greet the children and throw a gross feeling ball back and forth, occasionally losing it on the dark dirt floor. Giggles fill the air and the teeth of happy smiles glisten in the candlelight. I can now see the woman sitting by the woodstove, smiling affectionately and laughing softly while she slowly flips tortillas on its inefficient cooking surface. It’s difficult to see if there is much else aside from the flat pieces of bread.

Upon Danny’s request, Diego exits and reappears with a small bottle of oil that he has apparently made. While they are discussing the oil I take the opportunity to peek into the other chamber that joins the kitchen. Aside from another bed on the unfinished floor this room is fairly empty.

All in all this living space is smaller than my condo and there appears to be at least 7 or more people living here. The ceiling made of corrugated steel and tarp-like material is within two inches of my head. Although the smoke has cleared slightly my sinuses continue to react to the impure air. There are no signs of electricity or running water.

Despite these challenges this man is still proud to show us his home. Despite these challenges a simple ball can fill a dark room with laughter of children and adults alike. Despite these challenges, these human struggles, the smile of a happy child will illuminate the darkness…

With Love

Jay

Still in San Pedro

A local guide watering his horse

Our guide on Vulcan San Pedro is trying to learn English and was very proud of his homemade phrasebook shown in the photos below. I love how the English translations are phonetically written in Spanish. Unfortunately he also shared his head cold with me.

The poor families in town still bathe and wash clothes in the lake.