Interlude Part II

Without further ado, I present the following:

No further comment necessary.

America is Weird

Last week I ripped myself from our long trip and made my way towards LA via the Houston airport.  It was weird.

Culture shock as defined by Wikipedia is "the personal disorientation a person may feel when experiencing an unfamiliar way of life." I can't say that I experienced a classic case of culture shock as I was returning to a somewhat familiar, if not forgotten, way of life.  I noticed some things upon my return that I never noticed before and the noticing was more like a jaw punch than a "hmm."

Some weird things about America:

1.  People don't say hi like they do down here.  When you walk all but the most crowded streets in the places we've visited in Central America, people say hi.  They mean it, too.  They don't stop at hi either - they say Buenos Dias!  They lift their head and flash a genuine smile and say good day!  You really get the sense that they actually want you to have a good day.  That it would truly please them and help them have a good day if you did as well.  When you walk in a restaurant down here and pass the tables of other diners, you say hello and good evening.  Of course you do, right? You'll be dining with these fine people and it would just be downright rude if you didn't at least acknowledge them and wish them well.  When you depart, you wish them a good appetite. If you are like me and slow to learn just how to do that, you might be considered rude. The diners might wonder why the gringo didn't hope for their good appetite and be perplexed.  I think that the people in the Houston airport were just as perplexed with my well wishes.  Especially the people in the highly corporate and polished restaurant where I dined and wished good appetite upon the set of business travelers enjoying their chicken fingers and very tall beers.  Apparently, my travels have made me weird.

2.  Everything is shiny.  There are many lights and signs, all of them clean and sparkly.  One storefront flows right into the next, with no transitions void of sparkle.  The tops of buildings sport neat rows of tiles or shingles and don't contain shards of rebar that signal the hope of another story when funds become available.  They do look pretty sans rebar though.

3.  You people DRIVE REALLY, REALLY FAST! I got my rental car and despite it appearing to be a compact, energy efficient car of the tin can variety, it apparently actually was a super-charged, nitrous-guzzling beast of a supercar.  It was a good thing, too, because before I merged onto the 101, I didn't know that there was an amateur car race scheduled. I merged into one of the 4 lanes and up to the agreed upon speed of 75 mph while I tried to unglue my eyes from road surface long enough to warn all the other racers of the danger.  "People, watch out!  What are you doing! What if there's a tope ahead and you hit it at this speed?!  What if a washout has left a section of the 101 in shambles ahead?! You'll drive right into it and crash.  The pile-up will be a huge mess of mangled shiny new cars and it'll take weeks for the two cops that show up to sort out the mess of liability." The other drivers didn't listen and even seemed to taunt me in my paranoia by casually sipping gigantic cups of coffee and laughing while talking to themselves with funny illuminated objects stuck in their ears.  I gripped the steering wheel in confusion and fear and tried to keep up with the pack.  I was pretty surprised that we all seemed to finish our portions of the race and find our exits/finish lines without incident.  Weird.

4.  While ads try to tell me what to buy, people don't.  I couldn't understand why when I walked past the fronts of stores, nobody tried to sell me anything.  It was weird.  I walked past a store in the airport and nobody told me about things inside.  Nobody stood at the door and tried to convince me that I needed something there. Did they think that I couldn't afford the shiny things that the store contained? Was the store actually closed? I couldn't understand it.  Do they expect you just to come inside IF you need something? How am I to know that they have great shiny luggage in there without someone to tell me? Even the (very few) vendors I saw on the side of the road (where were they all?) patiently waited for me to stop and purchase their wares.  They didn't even bring them to my window to show me what they had.  There seems to be a complete disregard for salesmanship around America.  Get it together, people! How are you to sell those oranges if you don't get out in the street and get to work! The cars are just passing you by!

5.  I understand many of the things you say in America but I just can't seem to figure out why you have no interest in shrimp and neckties.  People down here seem to talk about those two subjects a lot, but in America, the topics rarely seem to come up at all.  Maybe you're all just a little behind the times and unaware of the hot topics of conversation that are all the rage in the rest of the world.  That's okay, folks.  I never found them very interesting here and have never understood the appeal of the frequent conversations that seem to focus on them.

I returned two days ago to Guatemala and the comfort of the familiar. I experienced no reverse culture shock upon my return.  I found that I was noticed and appreciated by the people that welcomed me into their stores and told me of their wares.  I enjoyed the regular interruption of the transit by the topes that forced my shuttle bus to slow.  I purchased treats through the bus window from bustling entrepreneurs working hard to make sure I didn't go hungry on my trip, and my snack settled as well as the people who wished me buen provecho truly wanted it to.

I enjoyed you, America, even with all your weirdness, but it's nice to be back.

Interlude

Things have apparently slowed down a bit on the rattlevan front while Chuck is in LA (defector) and I'm hanging out in an apartment in the easiest city in Guatemala.  I promise (well, not really, but sort of) that we'll be back at it pretty soon.

To tide y'all over, I present the following:

You're welcome.

Signs, Part II

Found all over the town of Suchitoto, El Salvador:

 "In this house, we want a life free from violence against women."

Signs, Part I

These signs say "Don't Be A Pig."  Chuck read them -- correctly, I think -- to mean "Don't Litter."  I initially read them to mean "Don't Be A Greedy Consumer."  I am such an American.

El Salvador in Brief

Chronologically, when we left off we had just crossed the border into El Salvador. From there, we spent about a week along the coast (at the beaches of Los Cobanos, El Tunco, El Esteron, and El Tamarindo), where we swam, ate seacritters, and tried not to die of the heat, which was extraordinary and unrelenting. The beaches were a mix of surf town (El Tunco) and fishing village (the rest of them).

At some point, though, the heat became too much and we fled for higher altitudes.

It was still hot in Suchitoto – hot but cute. Suchitoto is what Antigua wishes it still was, in some ways, a sleepy, very pretty little village with some mediocre art galleries and a handful of restaurants but where the main thing to do is sit in the square and people watch (though there aren’t many people). The town shuts down at 8 o’clock. 

During the civil war, Suchitoto was hard hit, but the architecture remains impressive and the town friendly and tranquil.

We’d had it with the heat, so we spent a night in a really pretty hotel overlooking the main square, showering, enjoying air conditioning, and feeling spoiled. (The next night, repenting, we camped in front of the police station like the hobos we are.)

It was still hot, though, too hot. During the middle of the day there was nothing to do but find shade and try not to stick to the chair. So, after a brief stop at El Salvador’s second city, Santa Ana, we left for higher altitudes still: the Parque Nacional Los Volcanes.

Paradise, there: cool air, a giant cloud forest, a beautiful campground all to ourselves, and an incredible sunset over the Pacific, volcanos included.

Not too shabby.

We wandered around the abandoned hotel that was built overlooking the youngest volcano in Central America (abandoned because the volcano suddenly stopped performing its formerly consistent lava-spewing tricks, allegedly on the very day the hotel was completed) and were happy.

The next day, accompanied by not only a guide (required) but also two police escorts (also required), we hiked up Volcano Santa Ana, with views of a beautiful crater lake, several other volcanoes, and the ocean.

Honestly, we didn’t know what to expect at the top. Rumor among other hikers was that there was a little lake in the crater of our volcano, but I didn’t fully believe it. When we reached the crater, after several hours of hiking, both of us literally exclaimed, unintentionally – it was that shocking, and that beautiful. Almost everyone, too, else made some sort of noise when the lake, 3km in circumference, came into view, bubbling slightly in places.

Even the crater itself was impressive - very narrow and almost a little scary because of the extreme winds up there.

The cops, however, were not impressed.

Eventually, we returned to Suchitoto for the start of the city’s month-long art and culture festival. We expected that the sleepy town would have picked up significantly for the event, but it did not. The streets were still pretty, and empty, and the town still slept shortly after the sun set.

We went to the opening night concert, to be performed by an unknown pianist. I’m not sure what we expected, but here’s what we found: (1) that although the façade of the old theatre remained intact, the interior would have been rebuilt and now boasted a corregated tin roof (awesome for acoustics); (2) that the pianist would be a “child prodigy” of 12 or 13 years old, who played technically correct (mostly) but uninspired pieces to thunderous applause; (3) that the concert would open with the singing not only of El Salvador’s national anthem, which lasted for about ten minutes (not an exaggeration) but also of Suchitoto’s own song; and (4) that bats would fly around the theatre during the entire time as this little kid in an ill-fitting, mismatched tux played for us, while feedback from the speakers almost distracted us from the intense heat. We loved it. We left at intermission.

We also tried, during our time at Suchitoto, to find what was supposed to be a fantastic waterfall with two great swimming holes. We failed -- somehow missing the proper trail and wandering around pastures and along creek beds until we found a swimming hole of sorts (without waterfalls of any kind) -- but it was a great hike of the very best rock-hopping, fence-climbing kind.

From Suchitoto, it was a quick trip to the National Forest “El Impossible” before we hit the border and began a truly epic adventure in bureaucracy spanning two days and three countries.

Next up: The Remaining Hobo Settles Down (and Gringos Up): Apartment Hunting in Antigua, or, alternatively, A Post By Chuck From Los Angeles Regarding Culture Shock.

Border Crossings

**Apologies in advance for the lack of pictures in this post.  When we cross borders, we're usually too busy trying not to have nervous breakdowns to play tourist.**

Border crossings.  In a nutshell, here’s how it always goes: For several days prior to the crossing, we make ourselves sick with worry.  In our minds, the country in which we are currently is a safe-haven of beauty and charm, and the country to be entered is an ugly, gang-ridden homicide capital with nothing but muggings and strife to its name.  We’re sure of this, each time, despite the fact that our fears prove unjustified at each crossing.

Logistically, we prepare ahead of time.  Do we have passports handy?  Car title and registration, and photocopies of each?  Dog certificates, and copies of those?  Driver’s licenses, and copies of those?  Copies of all other miscellaneous scrap paper in the van, just in case?  Check, check, check.  Deep breath, and it’s time to go.  

But first, actually, let me say a word about the photocopies.   At each border, there is a photocopy shop charging criminal prices.  But no matter how prepared you are, you have to use these guys, because the copies you’re required to have must have the latest stamps.  That is, the stamps you only receive at the border.  So, for example, if you have a copy of your passport with the Guatemala entrance stamp, that won’t get you through the El Salvador border.  You need a copy with the exit stamp, and the only place to do it is this rip-off shop at the Guatamala departure station.  Similarly, because El Salvador wants a copy of your cancelled Guatemala car permit, you have to copy it after it’s been stamped cancelled – in other words, again, at the border.  So these smug copy guys sit there raking in the cash, and there is nothing to be done about it.

Back to the most recent crossing, into El Salvador.  We pull up to Guatemala’s border compound in the rattlevan, blasting my new “city and border crossing” mix of loud, confidence-boosting music.  Ignoring the “helper” guys gesturing at us, we follow the vague internet advice of a fellow van-traveler and park in the lot to the right of the immigration building.  Parked.  Club on.  Dog left for car-guarding.  And then, of course, the first official wants to see the physical van after all.  So we pull it back around.  (Thanks for nothing, anonymous fellow traveler on the internet.)  And on to the immigration window of the building  for passport business.  Stamp, stamp.  Make photocopies of stamped passports, and on to the next step: cancelling the car permit.

As it turns out, the necessary "cancellation" stamp – the physical stamp itself – is missing.  That's the entire explanation – missing.  The woman in the car office shrugs with a smile and gestures to the line of people sitting in chairs around the office.  “All these people are waiting for the stamp, too,” she says.  “We don’t know when it will be back.  Maybe half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes.”  “Where did it go?” I ask.  “That’s the problem,” she explains, smiling a little sheepishly.  “We just don’t know where the stamp is right now.”

Chuck goes in search of orange juice while I wait in the air conditioning with the others.  Eventually, after twenty or thirty minutes, the stamp appears, the stamp is used to cancel our car permit, we make the necessary and expensive photocopy of the stamp, and we're on our way.

We breeze through no-man’s land to El Salvador’s border compound, where, again, the immigration window is no problem.  I simply explain to the lady there that we are tourists headed for the beach while Chuck buys spicy peanuts from a nearby vendor.  Five minutes later, immigration is done.  But now, the parts we always dread, exiting and entering: cars and dogs.  

I walk down to the car department, two doors down from immigration, and approach the window.  A special window marked for tourists. Or, as I now understand it, a special window to let the officials know who to ignore.  In large font, printed 8x11 pages proclaim that car permits are free and implore tourists not to pay money to any government official.  More formal posters, ratty with age, denounce corruption and declare the government’s intent to combat it.  These things, contrary to design, do not instill in the tourist a sense of confidence.

Sexy.

So I approach the window.  Sitting at a computer well away from the window is a guy who looks like a slightly fatter, surlier version of Kenny Powers.  

He sees me and turns back to his solitaire game (or so I imagine).  Minutes pass.  No one else is in the building.  There I stand, multiple copies of each necessary document neatly in hand, and nothing happens.   I’m determined to be patient.  He loses a solitaire game and curses at the screen.  A fly hovers around.

After a while, a Salvadoreño approaches the non-tourist window.  Kenny heaves himself out of his chair and slouches over, his untucked, beige, government-monogrammed polo shirt darkening under the arms.  The fly buzzes.  The citizen describes the contents of his truck and gets his stamp.  I wait, vowing patience.

More minutes pass.   Finally , Kenny comes over and asks my business.  I explain.  I also tell him we have a dog and ask where to get her passport stamped.  He tells me that happens next door in quarantine and gives me a form to fill out for the car permit.  Then it’s back to solitaire for Kenny.

Chuck and I fill out the form, combining our Spanish and car knowledge to get it done.  Then Chuck goes back outside, and I wait for Kenny.  But Kenny is in no rush.  I wait.  And I wait.  I watch the clock.  20 minutes pass, then 30.  Finally, another official comes into the office.  Saved! I think.  This guy’ll help me!  But no.  He looks at me and starts desultorily tapping at his keyboard.  He helps another Salvadoreño truck driver with a permit.  He looks at me again.  I fight impatience. 

Finally, Kenny heaves himself out of his chair and comes over.  I show him the form.  He grunts and tells me I have to go to the dog quarantine first.

Of course.  The dog quarantine FIRST.  That’s why he handed me the car permit and told me to fill it out before and said nothing of the order in which to get things done.  But, patient and good-natured, we go to do the dog permit.  (The easiest border entry yet for Lena, actually – stamp, stamp, done.)  And then it’s back to Kenny.  His comrade is helping another customer so I call to Kenny, “We went to the quarantine! I’m back!”  He looks up and then back at his solitaire game.  Minutes begin to tick by again.  I fiddle with the form, making little unnecessary adjustments to wording and clarifying my poor handwriting.

An hour and a half have passed.  It’s hot, the fly still buzzes.  I’m starting to be thirsty.  And then, finally, a third official comes into the office and even appears to notice me.  She comes over.  She asks my business and I tell her.  She nods and takes the form over to her desk, where she copies my filled-out form onto the same exact form, in her handwriting.  This takes 10 minutes.  Then, after a quick trip out to the van for an inspection, she hands the form – in her handwriting now – to the second employee.  (Kenny seems to want nothing to do with me anymore.)  That second employee copies the form into a computer and prints a computerized version of it.  (Same form.  Same information.  Third version.)

Finally, after receiving a few stamps here and there and making a quick trip to the photocopy shop (forever and always), we're on our way, legally present in a single country, with all the stamps and forms to prove it.  At least for now.  

Next up, maybe: An Ode to Volcanoes.

Mooching beachfront property and helping the locals with fishing

We got pretty lucky near the beach in Guatemala.  While facing the roadside ice cream selection and trying to make up our minds, a Guatemalan lady skipped ahead, quickly decided, paid and got back in her truck.  After we finally made up our minds, we cranked up the rattlevan and heard “hey – did you guys drive that thing from California?!” It was the lady’s husband, a gringo from California.  No more than two minutes into the usual chat about about how it is actually possible to survive Mexico and how much we love Guatemala, he invited us to stay at their place.  After I
reassured Beth that I’m great at recognizing zombies so no worries about the future of our brains, we were following a truck down a dirt road.  The rattlevan rolled into its new temporary home, got a little stuck in some beach sand, and made itself comfortable in one of its best camping spots yet.  A beachfront spot with a large shade structure, outdoor bathrooms and showers, an infinity pool, hammocks, an outdoor kitchen and some great company.  A pretty sweet deal. 

It was truly one of those mi casa es su casa kind of places and we felt it.  Our hosts let us borrow their quad for trips to town, popped us open some beers, and made us feel at home. 
They took us around to the local place where Susy served her once weekly special meal.  We met their friend, another expat who worked local aid there, decided to stay, bought a lot near the beach, and built a home.  We grilled up a huge red snapper that I bought from a guy that came by the house.  I’m not sure about that hammer that Vinnie had there.  He just felt empty-handed and grabbed the first thing that felt right.

They also talked their local friend Agosto, into taking us out in his lancha for a tour of the semi-secret but locally famous lagoon found off in the mangrove swamp.  Known only to the local fisherman and a bunch of birders that travel looking for birds to check off of their lists, it was pretty spectacular.

We left before sunrise and the five of us shoved off in Agosto’s narrow but long wooden boat.    We travelled the main canal away from the village under the power of a small outboard  Then we turned down a small channel through the dense mangrove and Agosto killed the motor and switched to a long pole to navigate us quietly down the narrow channel for 20 minutes before we emerged in a huge lagoon lit by the sunrise. 

The place was filled with birds which I assigned names to and called out confidently.  Beth may have believed a couple of the names because they sounded right.  I used to know a bunch of birds when I canoed in Florida a lot, but now I just know their names which don’t necessarily get matched up with the correct specimen.  I think that’s enough really.  Agosto pointed out some wildlife for us.  One example was a something he called four-eyes, a most creepy fish that scuttles along with his eyes above the surface grossing people out for laughs. I wish I could have gotten a pic of that beauty or of people's faces being grossed out by him. 


That lagoon was truly an amazing place.  You would never know that it was there. We moved through a very dense mangrove trail no more than 2 meters wide at points and there didn’t seem to be an end in sight.  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that anyone found it in the first place because the fisherman have probably covered every foot of that place but I was surprised nevertheless.  Agosto told us that there are two more lagoons that are even bigger and more beautiful but they can only be reached in the rainy season.


While we were out there, Agosto asked if we would mind helping him check his nets.  He thought that this would bother us but I knew that it was actually a plus for the tour.  He has several lengths of gill nets stretched across areas of the lagoon that he checks daily.  Normally, one of his sons would help him pilot the boat as they moved down the nets, extracting the catch and straightening the nets.  He needed help to man a paddle and being the only certified expert canoe pilot and paddler in the boat, I enthusiastically volunteered.

I even got to help with the nets.  Agosto let me extract a particularly dead and rotty whitefish that found itself in a neglected portion of the net some time ago.   Beth thought that this was a pretty gross task and I admit that the little bugger did smell pretty bad, but I knew that this was an honor that Agosto wouldn’t trust to just any gringo.  I’m pretty sure that I only won the honor due to my impressive paddling and general fisherman helper skills.  I know this because Agosto said some pretty complimentary things about yours truly while I was helping him.  He also said some things about shrimp and neck ties but I couldn’t figure out how that fit in with all the complimenting.