Lakestuck

It's an interesting thing to feel stuck, really stuck, on a lake from which highways depart in three directions.  Not a bad thing.  Interesting, though.  And we're glad to finally have moved on to Coban.  (I may write about Coban later, in a post entitled "Why State Department Warnings Are Ill-Informed, Outdated, and Should Be Ignored (or at least taken with a grain of salt).")  

A few days ago, we arrived in Flores, a quaint, safe, touristically-oriented island an hour south from the spot on the same lake where we'd been camping for the several days previous.

   

Rattling into Flores involved a certain degree of culture shock.  There we were, rattly and slightly rough-looking, having happily used the kick-ass lake as our shower for four or five days.  And there Flores was, clean and tidy, like a pastel-colored colonial Disneyland.  A tourist wonderland next to the camping we had been doing.  (Coffee shops! Laundromat! Post Office!) 

The island of Flores is only about 1 kilometer across in any direction, connected to the larger, more vibrant city Santa Elena (and its awesome market) by a little bridge.   

Avocados for days

Oranges for days

Master Negotiator  

We ended up parking for the night on the street next to the lakeshore in Flores.  When we awoke, a hippie dude from Quebec had joined our impromptu trailer park and was sleeping in his own hobovan just in front of us.   (Later, I'm going to write a post about retired Canadians and Germans, hippies, and our other travel companions of miscellaneous creeds and nationalities.)

Definitely trustworthy

So: how did we get stuck?  Picture a road going around the lake, counter-clockwise. Flores and Santa Elena are at one end, Remate, where we camped, is in the middle, and the ruins of Tikal are at the far end.  Before even arriving at Flores, we had already been to Santa Elena once for groceries, propane, and other necessities.  (Round trip, Remate to Santa Elena.)  And before we even arrived in Flores, we tried to go to Tikal.  (Round trip, Remate to Tikal.)  Dogs weren't allowed in the park, even in the car, so we turned around.  (One way, Tikal to Flores.)  The second day in Flores, we tried to get to Tikal but faced silly bus/schedule issues and, despite having been ready to go since 8:00 a.m., ended up missing the last bus departing to Tikal.  So we went back toward Remate to camp on the shore of another lagoon.  (One-way, Flores to Remate, or close enough.)  In the morning, we went back to Flores (one-way, Remate to Flores) to park in the safe little tourist haven and catch the bus.  (Round-trip, Flores to Tikal.)

Frightening

It began to feel like we would never stop driving up and down the same stretch of highway on the same lake in the same region of Guatemala.  (Lovely as it was.)  We owned that road, though.  We knew every pothole, every coco frio saleslady, every stray dog, pig, and chicken, every soccer field, every finca, every air force base, every everything.  People grew so used to the rattlevan that they stopped staring when we drove by.  In other words, it was time to get out of there.  So we finally got ourselves unstuck from the charming Lake Peten Itza and made our way southward and into the mountains.

Next up, maybe: Tikal ruins, a last stop in the jungle, and the interesting, pine-forested Coban.  Chuck claims he has blog posts up his sleeve, too.

Lakefront Property

When we arrived in Guatemala, our trip stretching toward the one-month mark, we realized that we’d moved nearly every day for almost that long. And so, pulling into a campsite on a beautiful two-tone lake 30 kilometers from Tikal, we decided to stay awhile.  We spent several fine, lazy days in a little town called Remate.

We spent time swimming out to the palm-frond covered platform in the lake, strolling through town –-- especially fun on Sunday when the soccer field, usually occupied by a variety of livestock (including some little pigs with their new piglets), performed its intended function. The sidelines became crowded with families setting up temporary kitchens next to the field. 

Mostly, we read and relaxed. Chuck rigged up the solar panels and a front porch for the rattlevan.  One night, we watched a very poorly pirated DVD on a laptop.  (Sadly, I can't recommend the flick "30 Minutes or Less."  So much wasted potential.)

In the evenings, the sun set directly over the lake.  

 

And at night, the clouds made neat patterns in the sky.

It was a nice break from life on the road, but after a few days I got antsy.  (I think Chuck would have stayed there forever.)  So we've moved on to Flores, a little town on an island in the lake.  We're scheming up a trip to see the ruins at Tikal tomorrow, and then we'll hit the road again.   

Guatemala

The border crossing was easy and the countryside is beautiful. We're camping on the shore of Lake Peten Itza, happy after a swim in the clear blue waters. More to come...

Cool Spots

Shocks Update

You may recall the Shocked post about our floppy shock absorber that found itself insufficiently attached to the rattlevan.  I got that business taken care of today and the van now sports a couple of proud, shiny yellow Monroe shock absorbers.  The biggest challenge of the project was securing a couple of first-world quality shocks.  This was a lot easier than we thought it would be.  Turns out, some parts of Belize are all mosquitoes and shacks and other parts are Pennsylvania.  We asked around in Belmopan, which is the capital of Belize, and they didn't have the shocks we required but said that we could find them about 20 minutes away in a place called Spanish Lookout.  Unsure of why we were driving away from the capital towards a small town to find rare parts, we departed.  Then we took a right and found ourselves in a twilight zone of Belize, the US mid-west, and the 4H club annual jamboree.

We've seen the Mennonites sprinkled around Belize. At first, we thought they were Silver Lake hipsters at the burning edge of some ironic farmer trend, but one smiled, so we pulled out the guide book and discovered that a bunch of Mennonites immigrated here and got to farming.  It's interesting seeing their horse-drawn carriages, suspenders and spiffy-dressed kids among the Garifuni, Mayans and coconut palms. What we hadn't seen though, were the liberal ones - the ones that figured out maybe God wasn't worried so much about internal combustion engines and microchips, so they branched off and started riding scooters to jobs at the auto parts store.  That's why I was so confused when I walked through the glass doors and into the bath of fluorescent lights shining on a collection of sparkling auto parts that would make your local AutoZone manager wish he cared more.  I walked up to the long counter staffed by a phalanx of well-dressed and smiling guys and explained the woes of the rattlevan.  I've never encountered such professionalism and depth of knowledge about automotive parts before.  While my helper was searching the computer for the answer to my problems, and other helpers, curious about an unusual vehicle, looked over his shoulder and provided enthusiastic input, I looked around for the hidden cameras and TV producers.

The day before, Beth and I were scanning empty shelves at a local "grocery" for dinner options and thought that our chances of getting a shock for the van that would fit would be slim.  Then, I'm weighing the pro's and con's of nitrogen charged, auto load-sensing shocks with a guy sporting a subtle yet inexplicable accent and a thorough knowledge of suspension systems.  We left with a couple of shiny yellow Monroe, heavy duty shock absorbers perfect for the rattlevan and questions about where the hell we were.

We found wireless, I found Wikipedia and answers.  I learned how the Mennonite guy found his way from Germany to Belize, out of one church, into another and wound up expertly working at an auto parts store while his brother clomped a horse-drawn carriage down the street with a fully bonnetted wife at his side.   Belize is weird.

Shock parts secured, I needed a welder to make those two broken bracket parts back into one bracket part.  We don't have a smart phone or cell service and google doesn't really work like it does back home so I used the local version - I asked people.  Starting with the tire guy, I worked my way to the suspension guy and on to the general mechanic and eventually to the shop down the street next door to the other shop with the sign.  ("No, don't go to the shop with the sign - no good man.") It's like Google and Yelp, but not as efficient, with more driving but more human interaction.  I liked it.  The guys at the shop with no sign shook their heads at the rattlevan.  After lecturing me in mixed English and Spanish about high loads on insufficient suspensions and asking if I'd reconsider my entire mode of transport and even lifestyle, they agreed to climb under and get to work.

I hated this part.  One of the reasons that I didn't remove the part myself and just take it to a welder is that I don't have any jackstands to support the van after I jack it up so that I can get underneath safely.  I went to a shop so they could do it right.  They didn't.  They dragged two, leaky hydraulic jacks from the shop, slid them underneath, added more fluid to the one because of all the leaking, and climbed under.  I asked them to throw some jackstands, or even cinderblocks under the van but they laughed off my silly concerns and slid their entire bodies on sheets of cardboard under the overloaded and precariously perched rattlevan.   Some of you may know that I'm a tiny bit of a safety geek.  As much as I like to put my first-aid kit into action, I'd rather things were safe in the first place and avoid that fun.  Things weren't, but luckily nobody got hurt and I got a rather well-welded part, a couple of shocks installed, and a bill for $30 US(!). 

We went from a developing world store with bare shelves, to a shiny parts store better than any one I've seen in the states, to a shade tree shop with no safety standards or minimum wage, apparently.  Belize seems to be a strange brew and I haven't figured it out.

The rattlevan seems happy with its shiny yellow shocks. I imagined before I drove away that we'd have to change the rattlevan's name because of the new cloud-smooth ride, but knew it wouldn't be the case. It bounces less but it's in no danger of losing its name.

Belize: The Middle Days

For the past week or so, Chuck and I have frequently discussed how to describe this part of our trip on the blog. It’s not an easy task. On one hand, there are lovely, exciting things about Belize. Wonderful surprises, neat connections made, moments of real discovery and joy. And on the other hand, there’s a real sense of dismay, at how people are living, at the utter failure of the Belizean economy, at the broken down infrastructure, at the small-time political infighting about issues I thought were mostly beyond at least public dispute. And, on a smaller scale, at being stuck here waiting for our package, at the sandflies, at the sewage/mud, and at the other minor inconveniences known and fully expected on this trip. So, rather than make any grand statement about the country, it might be best simply to describe – by necessity leaving most things out -- what we’ve been up to.  No wrap-up statements required.

The Border


We had gotten used to Mexico: to our sad attempts to communicate in Spanish, to the wonderful snacks sold roadside, to the topes, to the tolls, and to our routine.  So crossing into Belize was a shock.  English!  Two of the guys offering to help us with customs (we declined) had spent time in LA.  The customs building was shiny and empty and the border officials spoke English and listened to loudly playing American country music. Lena's paperwork was waiting for us, and we were on our way within 30 minutes.

We thought the country music was a fluke, a one-time thing.  Nope.  Almost everywhere, there is country music playing.  Being unashamed fans of even the most ridiculous modern country pop, as well as possessors of some good older stuff, we've taken to driving around with windows down, pretending to be cowboys.  (It's interesting, actually, how music can set the mood on this trip.  During one of our only tense moments in Mexico, driving via a construction detour in Mazatlan through what was clearly a rough neighborhood, we blasted gangsta rap.  Somehow it gave us confidence.  There was Scottish fiddling that seemed entirely appropriate in the Yucatan, and there are other natural if odd pairings as well: reggeaton for crossing the border into Mexico, bluegrass for much of the Mexican desert, the Beatles and Rolling Stones for energy and sing-along.  A little bit of 90s grunge when we're feeling angsty.)  


Crossing the border into Belize was anticlimactic.  We had set that border crossing as our goal from the beginning, due to Lena's paperwork, and so we rushed through Mexico with Belize in mind.  We drove hours each day.  I think we had driven 2600 miles when we finally arrived at the border.  And then, suddenly, the road trip part of the trip was stalled, and we had a sense of, "what now?"  It turns out a destination can be a fun and helpful thing.

Hopkins

My last blog post was about dread tropical diseases (real or imagined), birthdays, and rain.  So when I left off, we were splitting time between the mosquito den and our wet rattlevan, slightly miserable but mostly just feeling sorry for ourselves.  The neighbor kids' continuous affection for fireworks meant that Lena was feeling more sorry for herself than any of the rest of us.  

Perfection

But there were upsides, too. We took ocean baths among minnows.  Chuck learned some Garifuna words from the firework-lovin' kids next door.  Our gracious landlord, Barry,  brought us a bunch of those little "apple bananas" and fresh oranges.  We recuperated. 

Still, we split town the moment we were able.  

See ya, Hopkins

That wasn't, of course, the plan.  The plan had been to stay in Hopkins for a couple of weeks, receive our package, enjoy the beach, write novels, practice yoga, etc. etc.  That was what we told folks we met in Hopkins that first day, including the first person we met, Danny.  We had no sooner than pulled into town when Danny's pickup pulled up beside us.  With a huge grin, he welcomed us to town and told us we could park our camper in his parking lot, no problem. We chatted to him about apartments, and he said he would keep his ear to the ground.  So when we ditched town, it was without checking back on any of our apartment leads, including Danny's.

Later, in a little covered restaurant a 2.5 hours drive from Hopkins -- and literally the only restaurant (or any business, really) for a 15 mile stretch -- we somehow ran into Danny again.  Strange and excellent stuff.  Turns out, he had found us the exact apartment we sought: on stilts, on the beach, $100ish per month.  But by then our hearts were elsewhere and Hopkins didn't stand a chance.

Hummingbird Highway

The road between Hopkins and Belmopan is completely beautiful.  

We ended up stopping to camp at a place along the Hummingbird Highway - a cool little eco-farm/jungle lodge surrounded on three sides by an amazing river.  We thoroughly enjoyed pretending to be afraid of jaguars and snakes.

Hummingbird Haven

I got all geared up for a hike one day before I realized I couldn't just strap on boots and a camelback and set out.  Our hosts, jungle-saavy, impressed upon me the need for a guide, and I set out to take my walk on the paved-ish road instead.

   

The awesome swimming hole (8 feet deep, reportedly) called our names fiercely even though it was cold out.  It was worth it.

Mudpuppy

Junglebath

And Jaime, one of the dudes at the farm/lodge, picked Chuck some herbs to steep for tea.

Both nights we camped at this place, it poured rain.  But during both days, the sun shone, and it was lovely.  The books were good, too.

 Belmopan/Spanish Lookout

We have errands. More errands than you might imagine for two people entirely on vacation.  Errands involving quiet rooms and landlines for important phone calls.  Involving car parts, and groceries.  In other words, we couldn't stay in the jungle forever.  Even if no such thing as a sandfly existed.  (That is definitely not the case.)

So, we set out for Belize's capital, Belmopan, home to lots of international development workers, government workers, and -- by some accounts, anyway -- not much else.

We stopped in a cafe for wifi and to check the status of our package.  It was here that we also checked out two Belizean newspapers.  Really charming little rags, full of election information (and bias) and other bits of news.  And lots, and lots, and lots, of opinion articles about the evils of homosexuality.  Really repugnant stuff.   Apparently some human rights groups are trying to decriminalize sodomy in Belize at the moment, and there is a very, very, vocal sentiment against such a move.  Almost every third article in these papers, and at least every other op-ed, was full of the most old-fashioned type of hate-speech.  And that doesn't even get into the essentially pro-rape op-ed published in one of the leading papers.  Ug.

Business handled in Belmopan, we set out for "Spanish Lookout," apparently home of the best car parts and therefore shocks.  But Chuck will tell that part of the story.  Mennonites!

Hotels and More Hotels


Driving in Belize is rewarding, not just because it's easy and quick to get from point A to point B -- there are only a few roads, labeled "Western Highway," "Northern Highway," and so on -- but because it is so incredibly lovely.

Dragonfruit Eater

And then there are the really wonderful things about being on such a relaxed trip, one with so few deadlines.  For example, we're able to stop for a picnic lunch in just a simple city park in a city most visitors bypass (without feeling, as I frequently do on shorter trips, like there's something else we "should" be doing). Schoolgirls getting caught and scolded for hanging out behind an outbuilding.  Lena performing tricks on the playground equipment.  Cheerful, brightly colored benches.

And then, literally as I write this, I get warned that a tarantula is crawling under our table toward my feet.  And so he is.

Handsome

 For the past two nights -- one near San Ignacio and one in Belmopan -- we've slept in hotels, luxuriating in the hot showers, clean sheets, and air conditioning.  We sneak Lena in at night.  But tonight it's back on the road and back in the rattlevan, and that's actually a good thing.

Next up, probably: Guatemala!

Geo-Locator beacon lost and can't be found :(

I'm extremely sad to report that we've lost our Spot Satellite beacon.  I put it on top of the rattlevan for a clear view of the sky which would not have been a problem except that we left for a short trip without performing our usually meticulous departure checklist.  (It also would not have been a problem if I had secured the little leash that I had on it.)  Today, when we DID perform our departure checklist, we failed to find the Spot to check it off the list, and then we realized what happened.  Despite our hours of searching and miles of walking along a road, I'm afraid it's gone.

In case you don't know what I'm talking about, you can read this old post about it. It was our lifeline to this blog when there was no cell service or wireless and useful to keep people informed of where we are and that we're fine. It also was our panic button in case of extreme trouble.  It's very difficult to replace out here, and costly, so I'm not sure if we'll try to get another or not.  In the meantime, the little map you see on the right will dead end there at the last flag.  I'm about to suspend the service on the beacon, but I guess it's possible that in the meantime, someone has found it and pressed the SOS button out of curiosity and then probably became even more curious when a SWAT dude dropped on his head and started looking around for bad guys.  Hopefully, that SWAT dude will grab the beacon and hold on to it for me.

Oh and yeah. As soon as I'm able to smile about this, I will appreciate the fact that a Geo-locator beacon that can be found anywhere on earth is lost.