"Wilderness" Advantage (Or, What The Wilderness Is Not)

Semana Santa

We've wondered: Will the blog continue now that we’ve crossed back into the United States all in one piece (pending lab results)?  As of now, we think it will.  As long as we’re living in the rattlevan like a couple of aimless hobos, we’ll try to keep blogging, at least a little bit.  And of course we left off here some time before the South of the Border portion of the trip came to an end.

Our last week or so in Mexico was spent doing a slow tour up the Pacific coast during Semana Santa.  Now, you may be thinking of Semana Santa as Holy Week, a time of religious observance, of processions, perhaps, of well-decorated colonial towns, of Easter.  But on the beaches of Mexico, Semana Santa means only one thing: time for camping.  Camping, that is, and partying. 

But first, after enjoying Oaxaca’s beaches (and making the sad decision not to subject the rattlevan to the mountain road that would get us to the city of Oaxaca – next time, I hope), we made our way upward through the small states of Guerrero and Michoacán, where the coastline shifted from a stretch of beaches almost Caribbean-esque in color and calm to a wild, rocky, windswept place with huge waves and a small population. 

Towns were few and far between on the coastal highway.  Formal gas stations were nonexistent, though we were able to buy gas from little independent “stations,” one of which was manned exclusively by a group of children all under the age of ten.  

Legit.

Other than sketchy purchases of sub-grade gasoline, driving along Coastal Route 200, supposedly a major drug smuggling route, was uneventful.  There were few cars on the road early in the week, the road was well-paved with beautiful views, and coconut vendors continued to just generally make the world a better place. 

Come to Mama

The miles mostly passed by peacefully, though we were interrupted once by a man efficiently butchering a cow by the side of the road (accidental roadkill, we presume).   The only sign of the drug-related conflict in the region that we saw (apart from the occasional police checkpoint that we always escaped by pointing out our “muy brava” guard dog) was a series of huge “wanted” posters upon which, without exception, the faces of the alleged narcotraficantes had been very professionally smudged out.  Brazen.  It wasn’t clear who was winning the “war” in that area.

We spent one stopover night in a place called Caleta de Campos, where we first really began to get the sense that the beaches were filling up, that people from all over Mexico were tumbling toward the coast in happy, vacationing hordes.  Tents had been set up on the beaches even in Michoacan, and as we headed north it began to seem that every car we saw had camping gear fixed atop it.

We spent a few nights in a beach town called San Patricio/Melaque – a usually sleepy town that had come completely to life for the holiday.  In the campground we stayed in, the rattlevan was surrounded by dozens families who had set up camp for the week.  Many of the campers had put together advanced kitchens evidencing years spent perfecting the art of beach camping.  We’re talking stoves, grills, and sinks all set up next to the huge tents.  And hundreds of tents had overflowed from the campgrounds onto the beach itself, which was filled with people from sunrise to late at night.  Lena frequently disappeared only to be found later some ways down the beach playing soccer or volleyball with groups of kids.  The town square was also lively, lined with taco trucks and stuffed churro trucks.  It was still only Tuesday or so, but the whole town was packed. 

As the week went on, the beaches got more and more crowded. Another stop was a surf town called Sayulita, where people immediately warned us that things were about to get crazy. And they did. Busload after busload of Mexican spring breakers flooded the beach armed only with tents (if they were lucky), sleeping bags, and beer. At one point I walked into town and counted six buses concurrently unloading hundreds of young passengers into the street. The beach began to fill up until it looked (but didn’t feel) like a sort of less organized Burning Man. In the mornings people dragged themselves up off the sand and started the partying over again. 

We watched, enjoyed, and stayed for a few days – and not just because we had heard such dire warnings about coastal travel during that week. I ate the best street taco of my life. Chuck saved a drowning man’s life. You know – the usual.

And then, mostly because I was whining about hiking and camping and the mountains and produce that wouldn’t need disinfecting, we headed north again, stopping only for streetside grilled lobster, a few more beaches, a few more sunrises, a few more sunsets, a few more swims, a few more tacos . . . 

We got in such a hurry that, toward the end, some of our stops were pretty workmanlike – Exhibit A, a dusty parking lot next to an abandoned bar on the side of the freeway. (Reason # 1037 that I hate toll roads: There’s nowhere to stop.)

And then -- all of a sudden, it seemed, truly -- we were at the border. The border of the United States of America. The U.S. of A. Etc. etc.

After waiting in a long line, the crossing itself took mere minutes. So, before we were really ready – too soon, way too soon, it seemed to us -- we were spit out onto a wide, smooth, unquestionably American freeway, in America. Entirely without warning, I burst into tears. 

Next up, perhaps: Something About Culture Shock or About Utah or, alternatively, A Post By Chuck About The Benefits of Knowing CPR. 

Interlude Part III

Trip Log (South of the Border)

Mexico

11/18 - Miramar
11/19 - El Fuerte
11/20 - Celestino Gasca
11/21-11/22 - La Peñita de Jaltemba
11/23 - Guadalajara
11/24 - Atlacomulco
11/25 - Antón Lizardo
11/26 - Palenque
11/27 - Escárcega
11/28 - Calderitas

Belize

11/29 - Crooked Tree
11/30 - Dangriga
12/1-12/3 - Hopkins
12/4-12/5 - Somewhere along the Hummingbird Highway
12/6 - Orange Gallery
12/7 - Belmopan
12/8 - Burrell Boom
12/9 - San Ignacio

Guatemala

12/10-12/13 - El Remate
12/14-12/15 - Flores
12/16 - Laguna Macanché

12/17 - Flores 

12/18 - San Vicente Chicatal

12/19 - Cobán
12/20-12/23 - Lanquín
12/24 - Cobán
12/25 - Uspantán
12/26 - Huehuetenango
12/27-12/29 - Quetzaltenango (Xela)
12/30 - Zunil
12/31-1/6 - Panajachel
1/7 - Chichicastenango
1/8 -Santa Maria Nebaj
1/9 - Acul
1/10 - Near Acul
1/11 - Santa María Nebaj
1/12 - Santa Cruz del Quiché
1/13 - Parramos
1/14-1/19 - Antigua
1/20 - Iztapa
1/21-1/22 - Hawaii
1/23 - Chiquimulilla

El Salvador

1/24 - Los Cobanos
1/25-1/27 - El Tunco
1/28 - Playa El Tuno
1/29 - Playa El Esterón
1/30-2/1 -Suchitoto
2/2-2/3 - Parque Nacional Los Volcanes
2/4-2/5 - Suchitoto
2/6 - Bosque El Imposible

Guatemala

2/7 - Near Taxisco
2/8 - Near Coatepeque
2/9 - 2/13 - Antigua
2/14-2/20 - Antigua (Beth), Los Angeles (Chuck)

2/21-2/25 - Antigua
2/26 - El Remate (Beth), Antigua (Chuck)
2/27 - Tikal (Beth), Antigua (Chuck)
2/28 - Flores (Beth), Antigua (Chuck)
2/29 - Antigua
3/1-3/2 - Panajachel (Beth), Antigua (Chuck)
3/3-3/10 - Antigua
3/11 - Chiquimula (not to be confused with Chiquimulilla)

Honduras

3/12-3/13 - Copán Ruinas
3/14 - La Ceiba
3/15-3/17 - Utila
3/18 - Tela
3/19 - Parque Nacional Cerro Azul/Meambar
3/20 - Gracias
3/21 - Copán Ruinas

Guatemala

3/22 - Antigua
3/23 - Near Coetepeque

Mexico

3/24 - Puerto Arista
3/25 - Huatulco
3/26-3/27 - Puerto Ángel
3/28 - Puerto Escondido
3/29 - Acapulco
3/30 - Zihuatenejo
3/31 - Caleta de Campos
4/1-4/2 - San Patricio Melaque
4/3-4/5 - Sayulita
4/6 - Celestino Gasca
4/7 - El Fuerte
4/8 - San Carlos

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.