Not-so-sleepy fishing village

We camped next to the beach where all the fisherman moor their boats and bring in their catch solely for the entertainment of tourists.  Although it might have been a good place for fishing and they might have been doing it for legitimate reasons such as livelihoods, I suspected right away that it was actually just a promotion by the tourist board of Mexico to entertain the tourists.  It worked on me. 

 

I love fishing.  Not necessarily the act of it because I’m actually not that good at it despite what I may have told you in the past.  I like the whole idea of it.  Done right, it can be a sustainable (and delicious) way to eat.  I like the boats, the ocean, the strategy, the excitement – all of it. It may be a coincidence that I just read The Old Man and the Sea again and that may explain my fascination and romantic obsession with it, but just the same, I love fishing. 

 

I watched the fisherman repairing their nets and cleaning their gear late in the afternoon on the beach and awoke early the next morning to beachside bustle.  The fisherman were coming in with their catch and selling it off with great excitement.  There is a system for this that is pretty amazing to watch.

 

The first thing that happens is that they come to shore to offload the crew who then prep for the actual arrival.  (Well, the first thing that I was privy to, I bet that there were many more things that happened very early in the morning while I was busy sleeping in rattlevan.)  The boat pulls up and the crew gets out.  Often, family members and fisherman on shore will come excitedly out to see what the haul looks like.  In one instance of a particularly good or profitable catch, wives and friends were ecstatic when they saw the fish. In others, such folks ambled away cursing bad suerte. 

The crew comes ashore and assembles a path composed of several sticks laid on the beach to ease the boat’s arrival.  Then, the boat heads out and picks up speed straight towards the beach and the path of sticks.  It’s a little disconcerting to see a fishing boat heading full-speed straight towards you as you stand on the beach.  It’s also hard to line up a good camera angle to catch the excitement while the fisherman all around you are yelling silly things about getting out of the way and watching out, alternating their addresses between amigo and gringo.  I learned that it’s a good idea to listen to them because some of the captains are a little better at this dynamic maneuver than others.  When it works well, it’s pretty smooth.  The boat lands right on the sticks and slides smoothly onto the beach right as the motor winds up to screech and is killed.  It comes to rest a couple of boat lengths up the beach and the captain acts super cool like he wasn’t even trying.  When it goes poorly, the captain misses the sticks, the boat screeches to a stop near the water and he has to endure good-natured jeers in the form of whistles from a hundred peers.

 

This is when the fun begins.  Before the boat even comes to rest, buyers swarm it.  Some of them represent resort kitchens looking to score the best fish for the day’s meals and some of them are individuals looking to take the freshest catch home to their families.  It’s an interesting exercise in dickering as the captain stands in the boat and people snatch up fish, haggle and complain about the prices. The wad of cash in the captain’s hand quickly grows. 

Once the fish is gone and hauled away to various grills, fryers and sauté pans, the more mundane work of disentangling, repairing and cleaning the nets begins. 

 

The whole spectacle was fascinating to me.  I only saw the shore side of the drama but I filled in the rest with Hemingway’s tale of the old man and his struggle.  Next time, I’m going to get up much earlier and convince one of those captains of my fishing prowess and good luck and see if I can tag along and help 'em out.  I’m sure they need an extra hand on board and I won’t get in the way even a little bit.

Mexico Revisited (Lazily)

From Copán Ruinas, we crossed the border from Honduras to Guatemala and then, two days later, from Guatemala into Mexico.

We spent a gleeful first night in Mexico in Puerto Arista camped in a mango/coconut/mariñon farm one block from the ocean.  After the long day's drive and the border crossing, we both agreed that our ocean swim and our cold shower were the best of their categories that we'd ever had.  

The next day, we had a forced one-night stop in Huatulco, a sort of America Disneyland/Mexican resort with a stunning coastline but not much else.  Still, we remained happy to be back in Mexico, and back at the beach.

Snorkle

Then we made our way for the Oaxaca coastline.  We were marveling at the amazing roads, and at how much more like the U.S. Mexico felt, in many ways, than like Central America, when a horrible racket sounded.  It crossed my mind that we were being shot at, or that aliens had landed on the van.  Turned out it was just a blowout - a gnarly one.

We sprang into action.  Chuck started changing the tire  -- unfortunately forced to use a spare that itself appeared unexpectedly worse for wear -- while I dragged some thorny bushes into the road as a warning to other drivers.  A guy walked up and offered to help.  A couple on on a motorcycle stopped and offered to help.  And eventually, we managed to gimp to the pinchazo (a.k.a. volcanizador), which is essentially a guy on the side of the highway who has a few tools and may (or may not) be able to fix your tire.  Our tire, of course, was well beyond repair (as was the turn signal it shattered), so the guy sold us a tiny, used tire on which we crept gingerly toward our destination: Zipolite Beach.

Oaxaca's beaches are ridiculous.  Every one we saw won the "most beautiful so far" prize.  Zipolite, where we stayed for a couple of days, was a sort of paradise of aging nudist U.S./Canadian hippies, Mexican vacationers, and European/U.S. backpackers camping in the sand.  The first night, we mistakenly went to a book-recommended RV park -- whose owners, as we discovered just before leaving, raise fighting roosters -- before realizing everyone really just camps on the beach.  The second day we switched locations and enjoyed the hammock.  All day. 

Since Zipolite and Mazunte, we've covered a lot of ground along the coastline.  A lot of ground covered, of course, means a lot of police and military checkpoints.  This time around, we discovered our secret weapon to bypassing the annoying inspections: Lena.  That's right, our vicious, "muy brava" guard dog. Here's how it works: The police/military dude says he wants to search the car, and just as he opens the back door, he sees Lena.  Chuck is pretending to hold her back (you know, to keep her from mauling the guy), and the cop invariably asks if she's "brava." I always say "just a little bit."  This, with only one exception (impressive considering the number of stops - three within our first hour back in Mexico, for example) has been enough to keep the cop/military guy from proceeding.  Usually the guy will joke around with his colleagues about the dog, and his colleagues will make fun of his fear goodnaturedly, and we'll be waved on our way.  Good dog!

Yesterday (I think), we got stuck in a two hour traffic jam/protest.  Nothing too unusual: We rolled up onto a bunch of cars stopped in the right hand lane (i.e. the lane in which we were traveling).  We stopped behind the last car, thinking perhaps it'd be a short stop.  Twenty minutes later, we craned our necks to see what the problem was (impossible considering the length of the line).  Occasionally, some bus driver tried to travel forward using the empty opposing lane.  This, unfortunately, rarely works, and they kept getting turned back.  As did I when I tried this move after waiting patiently (impatiently) for an hour or so.

In general, people are cooperative in these situations.  Vendors weave between the cars offering water, soda, popsicles, sandwiches, and churros, so no one gets too grumpy.  If someone makes the ill-fated attempt to cut to the front, others help him (ok, me) get back into place.  People get out of their cars and socialize.  At some point, Chuck or I might walk to the front of the line to see women sitting in the road protesting while knitting (or simply refusing passage), considerately shaded by tarps fastened low across the highway -- so low that cars can't pass.  And after some period of time, things always move again.

Or at least we hope that's how it'll continue to go.  

We're currently in our last day of a rather tourist-destination-heavy stretch of trip, trying to make good time and also enjoy our last days on the Pacific coast. 

Next up, perhaps: A Day In The Life or, alternatively, Something By Chuck About Fishing.

Random Notes and Instructions, Part I

1.  No matter how committed you are initially to using environmental and all-natural bug spray, you'll realize quite quickly in Central America that DEET is your friend.  Your very, very good friend.
2.  It is possible to go four months (and counting) wearing only the following clothing: one pair of jeans, one pair of pants, two sundresses, two t-shirts, two tank tops, and one long-sleeve shirt.  You really don't need more clothing than that.
3.  Wash-and-fold laundry is the best thing in the world.
3.  Hygiene is a relative concept, and swimming (ocean, lake, or pool) definitely counts as showering.
4.  It is possible to live for four months (and counting) without apples, and without kale.  Difficult, but possible.
5.  No matter how many times you'll see dog or horse roadkill, it'll always suck.
6.  You'll hate yourself for it, but goddamn after a few months you'll really start wanting a giant Starbucks coffee in a paper cup.  With a lid.  To drink while driving your car.  What a jerk you are.
7.  After you've been on vacation for three months, a well-meaning woman on her week-long trip will recommend a masseuse to you.  Immediately -- rudely but inadvertently so -- you'll laugh in her face and exclaim, "But I'm already just so relaxed!"
8.  After four months and counting, you'll wonder out loud where you'll buy water once you get back to the States, because you'll actually forget it's possible to drink the tap water there.
9.  After three months in Central America, Mexico will feel like the United States.
10.  After going for days on end without internet access, having access will seem like the most amazing thing in the world.
11.  After half an hour of internet access, you'll remember that the internet isn't that exciting after all.

Inland Honduras

We tore ourselves away from Utila and its crystal waters after a quite conservative three days – it could easily have turned into three weeks instead – and had another horrendous ride back to La Ceiba on the Utila Princess II (a.k.a. The Worst Ferry Ever).  This time, instead of just the single "Puke Guy" whose job it was to patrol the boat armed with plastic bags, paper towels, and lemon-scented spray, there were four such individuals.

We drove to Tela, formerly of banana fame, arriving rather late and getting turned away from the first two hotel parking lots we approached. (This almost never happens, because people love hobos.)  Time running out, we ended up in a construction zone next to a nice hotel located on a hill overlooking the ocean.  Between admiring the van’s new Honduras flag sticker and ranting animatedly about what a jerk America is, the 24-hour security guard promised to watch over us.  In retrospect, we think he might have been drunk.

In the morning, we set out for Lago Yojoa. We stopped for breakfast but passed on the drive-through liquor store. When people say the North Coast of Honduras likes to party, they ain’t kidding.

Mid-morning, we stopped to eat a pineapple at the lake, a beautiful, reed-lined bird paradise.

Here, I must stop and tell you about the pineapple, although I’m actually not sure it’s fair to do so. See, the thing is, unless you’ve been to Honduras, you haven’t tasted a pineapple like this. These pineapples are so sweet that they can’t withstand transport of any duration, no matter how hard the pineapple companies try to develop a system. So in the States -- and even other places in Central America -- we get subpar but hardy pineapples; cheap, sour, ridiculous imitations of the Honduran pineapple. I’m not going to say much more except that we snarfed that entire pineapple down while standing up and then bought two more the very next day.

Our destination for the day was the Parque Nacional Cerro Azul/Meambar, a jungle/cloud forest with well-marked trails and a really nice spot for camping. We got settled and then headed out, and up. 

Who can find the rattlevan in this photo?

Starting out, we knew that there were 28 varieties of snake in the park.

[WARNING: Readers with extreme snake phobias may 

want to skip down until I say it’s safe.  Hi, Moz!] 

But even forwarned, the first snake we saw was pretty disturbing. It was only about as thick as a thumb, but it was more than seven feet long. It was also climbing a tree. 

 

Now, I don’t usually hate snakes, but I didn't like this one at all.  Hence, the frequent appearance throughout the rest of the hike of my “Eew, Is That A Snake?” face, which Chuck thoughtfully captured on film: 

Can't stage an expression like this.

[OKAY, MOZ, ALL SAFE! 

 No more snake pictures from here on out, I promise.]

The hike was great, though – tough and beautiful with awesome payoffs.

We stayed the night surrounded by the sound of the jungle, and in the morning we headed for the little colonial town of Gracias.

Gracias was a sleepy, pretty little place surrounded by dry mountains and rocky, flat-bottomed rivers. One minute we were in the jungle, and almost the next we were in a hot, dry climate. The town was as cute as they come, but our impatience to get back to Mexico got the best of us and we cut our visit short.

Now we’re back in Copan Ruinas, en route to Guatemala and then Mexico. Next up, maybe: Why Sandflies Are the Scourge of the Earth, or something about the social life of street dogs (and Lena).

Why you should go to Utila to dive.

I dive now and then.  I mean with tanks and stuff.  I usually prefer to free-dive which is like snorkeling but for super awesome badass people like me.  If you want to see what it’s like, you should check out this video of Guillaume Néry. He’s pretty much the most badass of all the free divers and not just because I can’t pronounce his name.   Free diving is totally unencumbered, unlike SCUBA diving with all of its bubbles and silly tanks of air.  I like free diving because it actually does feel free and in deep water it feels so much like flying.  It does have one small problem though – you have to come all the way back to the surface to get another breath of air.  I guess that sucks a little bit so I’ll reluctantly admit that it’s good to don some gear and take your breath down with you now and then.


Utila Honduras is a really, really good place to do that.  If you already know how to SCUBA dive, you can get a 10-dive package for about $200.  That includes incredible dive masters, boat rides, tanks and all the other gear.  It’s really a good deal but it’s nothing compared to what you see under there. I’ve seen the reefs in the Florida keys, Hawaii, and Puerto Rico, and I can tell you that the reef off the coast of Honduras makes them all wish they could crank up the saturation of their reef like in Photoshop.  It’s awesome.  I saw all the usual creature suspects like angels, triggers, lobster, shrimp, conch, moray eels (one monster that made me gulp air like it was beer), and huge schools of fish. I got to see an Eagle Ray like the ones that Beth and I saw the night before from the dock of our hotel.  There was a sloping, sandy sea floor starting at about 30 feet and ending about 60 that was carpeted in these cute little eels that live in the sand and poke their curious heads up into the current like grass until some bumbling diver comes along and stinks up the place with bubbles.  They shyly disappear and cautiously reemerge after the monstrosities pass. Utila is also a great place to swim with whale sharks but they weren’t around while I was there so I missed out.

The dive masters in Utila (and Roatan) are really experienced and friendly because they have to be.  If you’re a dive master or a dive instructor, it’s probably just because you’re really into diving and you just keep getting more instruction and hours under water for the fun of it.  Then you think: “Hey, maybe I can make money with this and travel to the world’s best dive sites for free!”  When you show up on the dock in Utila with all the other dive masters who had the same stroke of brilliance, you realize it ain’t that easy.  Since the competition is so steep, you pretty much have to be the best diver in the world, speak a few languages, and be willing to work for tanks full of really pressurized air and street food.  That’s how I got a SCUBA refresher course with an excellent trainer and 3 hours of personal instruction for $15. 
Utila is also a really laid back and inexpensive island.  If you’re the backpacker type, you can bunk up in one of the dorms provided free of charge by the dive companies with your lessons (basic open water certs for around $250). If you want your own shower and only like smelling your own feet, you can get private accommodations for between $20 and $75.  If your tastes run nicer than that, check out Roatan – I hear it’s a lot more fancy pants than Utila but with reefs that are just as good.

It was pretty hard to leave Utila which explains the number of Nitrox-sipping, leather-skinned, baggies-wearing, golf-cart-driving, round house-building, expatriate gringos that have taken up residence on the island.

Dear rattlevan

We’ve had our differences.  Let me be the first to say that I’m sorry.  I’ve said some bad things about you (but not much to the internets), I’ve occasionally cursed you when you slipped a bolt and bloodied my knuckle and, most of all, I’m sorry for dropping you off with that mechanic.  Don’t pretend you weren’t upset about that.  I suspect that it was you that turned on your furnace and drained your batteries down to zero charge, damaging them forever.  I don’t blame you and I’m willing to forget it.  Your batteries don’t last nearly as long as they used to, but they were already old before this trip.  Also, I did install that high-power fan that’s sucking a lot of juice but it was hot man – what was I supposed to do?  We’ll get some new batteries for you soon. 



You’ve performed well overall, especially considering your age.  You’ll be 32 years old this year and that’s a lot of years.  Not that you’re near your end – don’t get me wrong.  You’ve got many years left in you, but I hear that as you approach middle age, things start to creak and ache now and then.  I expect that when I start approaching middle age, the same things may happen to me.  It’s nothing to worry about. 

Try not to focus on the few things that are bothering you, like the annoying brake squeal.  I know that you aren’t just doing it to spite us.  I’m sure it’s the crappy pads that that mechanic installed.  Also, that clunking sound.  I’m on it.  It’s just your stabilizer bar clunking a bit – nothing to worry about.  I’ll pull that bracket and persuade it back into shape as soon as I find a shop with a vice.  Also, I know your cabinetry needs some work.  It’s not your fault.  I mean, they built most of you with frickin’ particle board, man.  Particle board!  That stuff could never last this many years, not to mention the rattles.  Just try to keep that stove and refrigerator in place through this trip and I’ll give some serious thought to a complete interior renovation.  I mean it.  I’ll think really hard about it.
 
Try instead to focus on the things that are good since your run-in with the mechanic.  Your exhaust sounds great right? No leaks from the engine all the way out the back.  Oh, and what about the clutch? It’s in awesome shape!  You gave us a bit of scare after you got that new one but after I got all that air out of the lines and freshened up that hydraulic fluid, it’s working like a champ! Oh yeah, and you’ve got a lot more power now too.  You go right up hill without any troubles now (sorry about the whole fuel pump mishap – my bad).  And we can’t have this talk without mentioning your new suspension.  Aw, you’re welcome.  I did have to pack those air springs all the way in from the US but wow was it worth it, huh? Did you see that incline into that driveway we cleared today? You never would have even come close to making that with your ass dragging like it used to. 

So keep your chin up, buddy.  I know it’s tough dragging a couple of hobos and a weasel around this place.  You cut your teeth in some pretty harsh places in the Pacific Northwest and you’ve got the rust to show for it, but this place is tough man! You’re doing amazing and we really appreciate it.  Just try to hold on a couple of more months and I promise there’ll be a nice long rest for your weary bones.

Knockers

 

Itineraries

On this trip, the only thing consistent about our travel plans has been how easily they've changed.  This time, we've decided (until we change our minds again) to cut Nicaragua from the itinerary in favor of more time in Honduras and Mexico.

This is funny to us, because our original plan was to hightail it to Nicaragua, taking only two weeks or so, and then to spend the remaining six months there.  "Let's move to Nicaragua" was our escapist fantasy for years.

There are a couple of good reasons we've cut Nicaragua from the list in favor of maintaining our relaxed travel schedule, but mostly it's because we love Mexico. And we're starting to love Honduras and want the time to do it justice.  Also, I've been to Nicaragua (and, don't get me wrong, adored it - part of the reason we set it as our original destination), and Chuck's ready for a change of scene from Central America to Mexico.

So, we'll spend another week or so (or more, who are we kidding?) in Honduras, but then I think we'll make our way slowly back upward.

Typical

Honduras (At Last)

I'll admit it - I was impatient.  The van seemed to be developing problem after problem, each one extending our stay in Antigua.  We'd lost the apartment and were staying in a fine and dog-friendly but budget little hostel whose walls were so thin we were forced to hear our creepy American neighbor's racy conversations with a caller that context led us to believe was our neighbor's much younger Guatemalan lover.  At one point, I warned the neighbor (simply by speaking in a normal voice and knowing he could hear me) that the walls weren't as thick as he thought.  At another point, when he asked his lover if she wanted to hear about a particular fantasy he had, I was forced to shout, "No! No one wants to hear it!"  

But it wasn't simply that I wanted to get away from our amorous neighbor.  I also badly wanted to spend some time in Honduras and Nicaragua, and Chuck and I had both started to feel like time was running out.  (Those of you working full-time jobs are now free to laugh and/or cry at our near-panic about only having 2.5 months of freedom remaining.)

Anyway, the rattlevan had been acting ancient and sad and our mechanic situation had been pretty grim, so when we finally did hit the road again, it felt like bliss.  The old van hummed along with its fancy new parts -- mostly hummed, anyway -- and we were moving.  Through Guatemala City and into some desert highlands, we stopped for the night in the bustling city of Chiquimula, camped in the secured parking lot of another well-worn hotel.  It rained that night, and mangoes bounced loudly onto our roof.

The next morning, we hit the border early: Honduras!

El Florido is definitely the nicest and most relaxed border we've crossed.  Still, certain problems with car titles and driver's licenses caused some delays, and it turned out that Honduras shares with Belize the dubious distinction of being one of very few Central American countries to actually care about Lena's entry.  After some wait, the border vet examined Lena and filled out the paperwork for her nationalization, laughing as he declared her a hondureña.

Note the unfortunate trailer that apparently didn't get across.

Our first stop, right near the Guatemala-Honduras border, was to see the ruins at Copán.  We breezed through the pretty colonial town of Copán Ruinas -- temporarily colonial town-ed out after Antigua, perhaps -- and headed instead for a sort of eco-lodge in the hills above the Copán valley.  

The folks at the lodge let us park for free and it was idyllic.

Yoga platform overlooking the ruins across a valley?  Yes, please.

The ruins at Copán are extraordinary in a totally different way than the others we've seen.  At Copán, it's all about the art.  In fact, the museum, which houses some of the best sculptures, was almost as much fun as the archaeological site.

As an added bonus, macaws fly around the ruins as one step in their re-introduction to the wild.  Like cartoons come to life, especially in flight.

Handsome

We originally had a vague plan of heading next to Gracias to do some hiking in the National Park Celaque, a cloud forest that's supposed to be amazing.  But then we crunched some numbers (dates) and realized that our plan of spending a month in the U.S. backpacking before returning to work would likely satisfy our cravings for wilderness and also leave us only about a month to finish up in Central America and Mexico.  So we nixed the backpacking plan and headed instead for the Bay Islands. 

Yesterday, we put in a long day of driving from Copán to La Ceiba, from the mountains to the Caribbean.  And this morning we hopped a ferry to Utila.

Don't tell Lena she was considered cargo.

Those of you who know me well can guess the winner in
the age-old battle of The Ocean vs. Dramamine.

Friends, this was not a fun boat ride for me. The boat was fully enclosed and the waters were enormously choppy for an hour and a half.  I had popped a dramamine like a good traveler, to no avail.  

Totally worth it, though, already.  Utila is adorable, Chuck is out snorkling even as I write this (with plans for a dive tomorrow), and I'm sitting on a porch overlooking the greenest, bluest sea I can remember.  

Next up, maybe, a Post About My Parents' Visit If They Ever Send Me Their Pictures, or Something By Chuck about Knockers.