July 7th marked the 6 month mark to our travels, which brought with it the sense that we should be reflective about our time up to this point. So I’m here in a safari tent in the Masai Mara in Kenya writing down some randomness.
• Traveling for this length has caused a curious warping of time for me. It’s the never knowing the date or the day because there’s no need to (which is great), but it’s more than that. Time as a measuring tool has lost its usefulness. The last 6 months have gone by so much faster than I had anticipated, so trying to think back to February or just last month leaves me usually scratching my head. Instead, I convert it to what country I should have been in during that time, and think about the experiences in that country to gain a mental foothold about the past experiences. But if I try to just think about the experience and fit it into a time measure, it feels so much longer ago than it should. I guess I’ve had so much input to absorb—cultures, peoples and experiences, that processing it all makes my brain work in overdrive and changes temporal perceptions. Anyway, it has me all jumbled up. I must ask Mari what day it is at least once a day.
• People ask us whether we’re sick of each other yet since we spend all of our time together. Oddly and surprisingly, no. It’s been remarkably easy to get along, work into a travel groove of sharing responsibilities and watching out for each other, and avoiding each other’s areas of contention. We’ll revisit this at the end of our travels and see if the answers remain constant. But to date, we’ve had one blowup so far with each other in Istanbul, which isn’t too shabby.
• I’ve always known I liked animals but traveling has confirmed my love for them. When I look at the percentage of photos committed to animals as opposed to world heritage sites and masterpieces of art, I’m embarrassed. But I keep clicking away.
• I’m still afraid of bugs, but I’m trying. To be fair, the types of bugs we’ve encountered aren’t the ones you swat with a newspaper, they’re the types you hit with a bat.
• I’ve recently recognized that traveling has had an effect on my hygiene. I’ve noticed I’ve taken to rubbing the griminess from my neck and face into those little dirt cigars and flicking them away…often…and in public. I also clean the dirt from my nails all the time, mostly because there’s dirt in my nails all the time. Both habits are disgusting, but oddly enough I might still be the cleaner of the two of us.
• Climate change is real and its effects are being felt all over the world. It’s the consumption levels of the rich countries that cause it, but it’s more apparent in poorer countries whose resources can’t be committed to aid in us ignoring the problem. Hope we get it together.
• I feel comfortable saying the world loves Obama. I feel accurate saying the world hated Bush.
• If there’s a hope that has been growing in the last half year, it’s that I hope I am malleable enough to be changed by what I’ve been seeing and the people I’ve been meeting.
Six months. Time and travel have a way of combining to create what feels like a time warp. Think about when you go on vacation. You are so concerned with making the most of what limited time you managed to get off of work, while simultaneously dreading the return that the trip is usually over before you know it and you wonder how time could have moved so fast. I’m sure this is how I will feel the last few weeks before our return home (in another six, or so, months). For now though, looking back at the last six months fills me with a mixture of gratitude and amazement bordering on disbelief that this is my life. I may not know what is happening at home in terms of national and local news, what happened to the island’s inhabitants in the current season of Lost, or who won the NBA finals, but there is also so much more I do know. One of my goals of travel was to learn-about the world and people and perceptions and myself. I will spare all a complete list, but here are a few random travel lessons I’ve picked up in the first six months of our journey around the world.
Travel Lesson #1: There is no substitute for common sense, gut feelings, and being appropriately cautious and wary. There is a fine line between being overly cautious and appropriately so, which I am learning to navigate.
Travel Lesson #2 (Lesson one aside): Remembering the selfless generosity and acts of kindness that we have been shown in all countries by friends and strangers alike. This fact is to be recalled during all the other times I start to lose faith in humanity.
Travel Lesson #3: While we may have most of the best and the brightest (people, schools, gadgets, infrastructure, etc.), the United States is not either of these adjectives. We are simply an infant country, albeit one with power and riches, that has, is, and will make mistakes that will need fixing. What happens in the US truly affects every country in the world and their opinions of us as Americans vary from one end of the spectrum to the other. In some countries, learning I was American has garnered marriage proposals (two, to be exact), while in another country caused a police officer to refuse to help us with the simple task of directions.
Travel Lesson #4: I don’t have to love it, but I CAN live with only what I can carry on my back. Read: It is possible, although maybe not attractive, to go without make-up and hair product, wearing the same clothes for days.
Travel Lesson #4.1: Do not pack an ounce more than you can comfortably carry.
Travel Lesson #5: When bargaining, show no weakness (although a little humor can go a long way). Also, do not attempt to have a side conversation in another language that you are not yet fluent in, especially since everyone else speaks more languages than your average American.
Travel Lesson #6: Carry toilet paper and small change at all times-both worth their weight in gold. Keep ziplock bags and duct-tape handy-ziplocks for storage of liquids and leftovers; duct tape for fixing pretty much everything.
Travel Lesson #7: Climate change is real. There is no doubt about it. It is sad and scary to know that many of the places we’ve seen will be diminished or non-existent in the not too distant future. The fact that people can either turn a blind eye, or worse, claim it’s not happening is unbelievable.
Travel Lesson #8: While it is not necessary nor practical to eat as I do back home, I get irritated if I don’t eat for a long period of time. Snacks and the occasional ice cream have prevented many an outburst.
Travel Lesson #9: Always ask and be sure of the price before agreeing to anything (cab rides, rooms, entrance fees, food, etc) and always appear sure of yourself even if you have no clue where you are.
Travel Lesson #10: Despite the whole purpose of getting away, having frequent internet access is a must, not only in terms of planning and uploading photos, but for keeping in touch and staying connected. Honestly, I do miss home-some days more or less than others, but what keeps me going on the tougher days are updates from friends and family.
Thanks for following along on our travels thus far. Stay tuned!
After leaving Central America, we flew to San Juan and spent a couple of days in Puerto Rico. It was a little strange at first. It was a comforting and appropriate transition in that it was nice to be back in the United States (or territory of) again, but also where Spanish continued to be spoken everywhere. We were lucky enough to stay as couchsurfers with our very cool host in San Juan. His apartment was surrounded by similar high rise condos, and just a few blocks from the beach, museums, restaurants, and stores so we got to do a little exploring.
The day before we left, we were able to get reservations to go on a kayak tour of Fajardo Bay, a bio-luminescent bay in Puerto Rico. A friend had recommended we check it out if we had a chance, and it was worth it. We were instructed to meet our tour guide and fellow kayakers at the Ritz Carlton Hotel at sunset. Jeff and I decided that we might as well make the most of it and went several hours early. We took a cab and walked straight through the lobby to the pool area. Coming from the type of environments that we have become accustomed to, the Ritz Carlton was like an oasis, a beacon of luxury. Since we were already in our swimming suits (in preparation for the tour), we blended in as best we could. Jeff brazenly grabbed a towel and an ice water infused with orange, and we did our best to walk nonchalantly toward some empty chairs. We set up shop and lay out by the pool for the rest of the afternoon until it was time to leave for our tour.
A bioluminescent bay is exactly what it sounds like—a bay that glows in the dark naturally. This phenomenon occurs due to the microorganisms in the water. With movement or upon being touched, the water lights up, becoming a neon blue-white. This only occurs in two places in the world. I wish we could have taken pictures because it was an unbelievable experience, one that I can not do justice to with my writing. The sight of the water illuminating in the dark was awesome. Fish jumped out of the water, creating shooting comets. With each stroke of our oars a bright fluorescent light would shine for as long as the movement continued simultaneously highlighting both our path and showing us where we had just come from. I scooped up handfuls of water and watched as a tail of electric blue followed and I tossed brilliant blue droplets back into the bay.
I feel justified in blaming our kayaking abilities (or lack thereof) on the fact that we were so in awe of the bioluminescence all around us. We ran into some communication difficulties, leading our kayak in a zigzag, running into trees and the riverbank, and eventually needing to be towed out by one of the guides. Just as we began to get the hang of things and build confidence in our ability to maneuver our kayak, the tour came to an end. By then, our clothes were wet, we smelled like lagoon water, and my arms felt like they were about to fall off. Still, the experience itself was well worth it.
I had wondered what it was going to be like, not only being Asian, but Asian American, during our travels. I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, but so far, it has been a mix of moments that have either been humorous, cultural, and educational, with only a few incidents based on the ignorance or curiosity that stems from lack of exposure to people like us. In general, if we don’t happen to be having a conversation, most locals tend to assume we are from mainland China (or Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese or Thai, usually in that order), and therefore we are greeted in some fashion in any one, or a mix of, these languages. If we are overheard speaking English, I’m sure it is assumed that we are from the United States (aided by our Western looking travel duds). This usually elicits the following reactions: 1) nonchalance, in areas where Western tourists are fairly common, 2) solicitations to purchase something, 3) unabashed open stares or 4) calls of “Chino!” (pronounced “chee-no”) or “China/chinita!” (pronounced “chee-na” or “chin-ee-ta”), meaning something close to “Chinese guy/girl”.
In Nicaragua, we were told by our friend, Mark, whom we stayed with, as well as later by several of our teachers that “chino” and “china” are not meant to be offensive terms-that culturally they are simply descriptive words, used the same as “skinny guy” or “tall girl”. One of our grammar teachers even went as far as to say that these terms are actually terms of endearment and affection, which initially I was a little (really, a lot) skeptical about. We often overheard mainly children, but also plenty of adults calling out “China” or “Chino” as we passed or over their shoulders, in what wasn’t always necessarily in a friendly, nor “affectionate” way. However, my skepticism decreased somewhat over time. For instance, we were on a night tour of some caves with a large group from the Spanish school, during which the tour guide had taken some pictures with my camera. After which, I had found myself at the back of the group when she called out, “Where is the Chinese girl?” This drew some awkward looks from many of the socially conscious, politically correct fellow Americans, but to me it was a kind of proof that my ethnicity (aside from the fact I am not Chinese) is simply a visible fact, at least it is here. That Asian is asian (or simply “Chinese”) to most people in Latin America-that it’s not meant to be derogatory, the way it would likely be taken in the United States, where by now, it is assumed that people are aware that there are different ethnicities and cultures within the broad classification of Asian Americans. The equivalent of this would be how people might say “Mexican” in regards to anyone who appears to have ethnic roots in Latin America, regardless of whether they are Nicaraguan, Guatemalan, Panamanian, Chilean, Argentinean, etc. Another example that comes to mind is one of the staff members at our school, a local Nicaraguan whom Jeff befriended. As a daily greeting he would shake Jeff’s hand and say, “Tranquilo, chino!” (the rough translation being, “It’s cool, Chinese dude”), with the same amount of respect and affection of a typical friendly greeting. Our teacher even told us that everyone in the town refers to his 4-year old as “chino” because “his eyes are on the small”, so to speak. The local gas station attendant is greeted as “Chino” (although he is clearly not), simply for the same reason, as well as the fact that no one knows his name. We also spent part of a lesson learning popular jokes in Spanish, where the punchline is a Spanish phrase made up of a combination of “asian” sounding phonemes. This may be totally politically incorrect, but given the circumstances, I just had to laugh.
For me so far the lowlights have occurred during times where we have been walking through markets or towns and locals, most likely as I mentioned before out of ignorance or mere lack of exposure, have started spewing what can only be described as “asian word salad”. They start shouting out any and every word related to anything that might be considered “asian”. For example, on my way through some stalls at the market in Managua, I was followed in one instance with shouts of, “Ni hau…..Konichiwa?…..Chow mein?……Ho Chi Minh!!”, none of which I bothered to acknowledge. While heading out of a tiny town in Honduras, in the back of a pickup, Jeff and I were treated to a some martial arts moves, complete with sound effects including “ching-chong, ching-chong” and a hand-on-crotch pelvic thrust in our direction by a couple of young boys. Jeff, at this point, was ready to sling something back, but refrained. As I said, lowlights.
Anyway, I have come to the conclusion that what really matters, at least here and for now, is the spirit in which things are done and words are used. It is different from what I am used to and how we are groomed to think, and the way we perceive similar behavior at home, but I am learning to accept, and in some instances embrace, these cultural differences for what they are-differences and cultural realities.
I guess it’s only natural that I’m the one writing this entry. I’ve always liked turtles and friends draw parallels between me and the genus a little too freely. But there is something about them that draws people to them like no other reptiles do, as evidenced by their religious significance in Polynesian culture. So on April 3rd, we arrived at Reserva Pacaure to work with Leatherback turtles, the largest of the existing species, during their nesting season. We wanted to experience a connection between these prehistoric relics and do so while improving their 1 in 1000 odds of egg-to-adulthood survival.
I started my first patrol at 11 pm under an almost full moon, the black sand beach still dark to my maladjusted eyes. The unevenness of the beach, coupled with the washed up driftwood made my first minute’s steps small and unsure. Only the constant sound of the ocean and the white of the waves kept me steady with their rhythm. About 45 minutes in, I caught up with another person on the beach, a Research Assistant sitting close to where the beach met the forest. We started talking for a couple of minutes in the dark, when she asked me how it felt. I responded with, “what?” to which she answered, “to see your first turtle,” as she leaned to the side, revealing a Leatherback a foot away. I had missed seeing this animal as big as a clown car. But now it sat there preparing her nest as those before her had been doing for nearly 200 million years. For the next hour we worked with her; measuring, relocating the eggs, and camouflaging the tracks—-but mostly just connecting with the experience. I watched her return to her element and continued my patrol.
As the night wore on, my steps gained confidence, getting used to the slope of the sand and eager to come across another sighting. Shooting stars and fireflies broke into the monotony of the trek and made me feel nature was encouraging those who tried to aid her. At 4 am, walking back to the lodges, we came across another nesting turtle. We worked with her till nearly 6 am, the sun rising as she finally made her way back to the ocean, enabling a rare site—seeing a Leatherback by day.
Since my first night, Mari and I have gone out patrolling nightly, doing what we could to help, and feeling closer to nature in the process. We were scheduled to leave on April 10th, Good Friday, but have extended our stay through Easter. So while the rest of Central America will be observing Semana Santa, we’ve opted for a subtler communion, right here with the turtles.
Since our flight to Costa Rica departed at dawn, we opted to spend the night in the Guatemala City airport. Apparently, although it is an international airport, people simply do not stay overnight. We arrived close to 8 p.m.-all the airline counters were dark and deserted. In the food court restaurants above, the “late night” shifts were wiping counters and storing food. Even Pollo Campero would not let us order any pollo. Fortunately, trusty old McDonalds was still serving the last of its fast fried goodness, which served as our last meal in Guatemala.
We found a row of leather seats and settled in for a long night. There was not a passenger in sight and the only people we saw were the occasional guard, janitor, or flight attendant heading home after a full day’s work. I fell into an uncomfortable and restless sleep, each set of footsteps convincing me that we were seconds away from being kicked out to spend the night outside on the streets. When I had finally fallen into a sound sleep, I awoke to an airport security officer asking for our passports. He asked us a series of usual questions (Where were we going? For how long? Where did we come from? What time was our flight?), and then asked us to follow him. Anxious and groggy, we followed him to the entrance of the airport where he conferred at length with the woman guard at the door, trying to make sense of what to do with these stupid foreigners who apparently were camping out after hours at the airport. Fortunately for us, they allowed us to stay, albeit in significantly less comfortable plastic chairs attached together by metal armrests, making lying down impossible. Jeff courageously asked (in Spanish, no less) if we could possibly move back to our leather seating area, to which the guard replied, “Solamente aqui” (”Only here”). So there we remained for the rest of the night, staring at the shiny floors, empty kiosks, the vast empty silent space of the concourse, and the darkened food court above. When the doors to the airport opened at 4 a.m., employees appeared behind their now illuminated stations and a slow but steady stream of passengers began filing in. We grabbed our bags, headed to the ticket counter, checked in, and then proceeded to our gate as we watched the duty free shops and cafes open their gates to serve the early bird travelers and to wait for another two hours to board our plane.
Being told the prices of things in other countries is a little like constantly having to adjust a barometer. Price equates to value, and so by adjusting to the countries price systems, I gain a better understanding of the country, its resources and/or direction. I might not put such a high value on Pizza Hut, but Guatemala apparently does.
So last week when Mari and I were told of a $5 volcano hike, not only was the bar not raised, we didn’t even pick it up. But the guide told us it would take 5-6 hours, so we thought if nothing else we’d get some exercise and save a little on the day doing it.
Our first inkling that we were going to get our money’s worth was when our bus stopped at the foot of the volcano, and 2 men got on the bus to try to sell us walking sticks. The French people beside me purchased them, which did nothing to persuade me of its need. As we got off the bus, a dozen horses met us and were being offered as taxis up the mountain. Mari and I said no. Instead, we lined up behind our guide, a man who looked to be in his late fifties and topping out at about 5 feet. In Spanish he told the group to go at our own pace, take rests if we need it, and to walk carefully. Then he turned around and sped off up the mountain. We followed suit, racing up the hill, at a pace too fast to take in our surroundings. Instead, I concentrated on 3 things: not slipping on the thousands of Pumice stones lining the path, trying to catch my breath, and not falling to the very back and becoming “that guy.”
About an hour into the hike, a Spanish mother of 2 overtook me for the final time catching up to her daughter as she ran up the hill back and forth on the trail because the hike in itself didn’t offer enough of a challenge to her youth. Behind me was an American, one of the few people having a more difficult time than me, in full Under Armour outfit, sweating ridiculously. A European boy near me constantly asked his dad if he could get off his horse taxi and walk the path. I almost asked the dad if I could have his son’s horse ride if he didn’t want it. Mari overheard near the back of the group an American accent say, “I’m already walking as fast as I possibly can!” 2 hours in and the French couple with the walking sticks passed in front of me. Damn.
Every once in awhile I would turn to Mari to see how she was faring. The length of the hike seemed inversely proportionate to the length of her answers and the fairness of her face. Near the top of the volcano, Red Mari made an appearance and was only answering that she was OK by nodding her head.
Eventually though, our ascension up the mountain turned into an even-leveled hike as the terrain turned to a volcanic black sand with sharp rocks jutting out. The fog rolled thick here, giving an other-worldy sense to all the fast-walking Euros, Mari and myself.
Finally, we got to a steep hill entirely made up of loose volcanic rock. And to our right was a slow flowing river of lava. There was no guard, no fenced off area, no rules besides those of common sense. So, people made their way to the lava, scrambling in every direction. Some ran up the hill sending mini-landslides of loose rocks on others, some went directly across to the lava eventually standing on recently cooled magma, red hot lava still visible through cracks a couple of feet below where they stood. Above me I heard an American yell “dude, it’s so hot…it’s so hot!” as he ran back from the lava sending rocks flying down the hill. His walking stick was on fire, a foot from the lava where he had just been.
My barometer had me sensing that this is so cool, and would NEVER be allowed in the United States.
3/27/09
Guatemala was never on our original itinerary, but things change. Talking with travelers along the way convinced us to do a “highlight” tour of Guatemala. According to the travel websites, guides, travelers, and even a few locals, these are the places you visit if you are in Guatemala: Flores/Tikal, Antigua, Semuc Champey and the Lanquin caves, the villages of Lago de Atitlan (there are more of course, but these are the big ones). So we have managed to get to all, with the exception of Semuc/Lanquin, which we opted not to do since we’ve had our monthly fill of water and caves.
Right now we are in one of the lakeside villages of Lago de Atitlan, called Panajachel (also known as “Gringotenango”, 1) because of all the tourists and 2) the fact that many of the nearby towns end in something “-tenango”. After arriving and looking around for a place to stay (wow…have I reached the point of not having to have reservations?? Stay tuned.), we settled on the third option, Villa Lupita, slightly off the main drag. First option-too expensive; second option-too grungy (the shared bathroom was gag-reflex inducing). At this point, I have developed travel standards. They are that the room be relatively clean (spotless is not something you get at the places we are staying), and in a relatively secure area or building. TV, internet, soft pillows, clean towels, mirrors, and additional furniture other than bed and occasional shelving unit are serious luxuries. I have learned that there is no such thing as a mattress pad, which is why I love my sleep sack, and that “hot water” means that at least sometimes there is hot water.
Aside from the dual bouts of food poisoning, we have been lucky so far with food. Very few places we’ve been to have had anything extraordinary, but when you’re aiming for under $4 per person per meal, you don’t expect it. My problem is that I love food and living in San Francisco has spoiled me beyond belief when it comes to variety and cuisine. We found a little place here in Pana that serves dinner; a piece of chicken, coleslaw, rice, tortillas, and beverage for 10 quetzales (roughly $1.25 USD). It’s nothing fancy, but filling and a decent meal for an unbeatable price. Jeff said he could easily eat there every night of our six day stay (and in all seriousness, he really could). I wanted to say “Me too!” It’s not that it’s a bad meal, but after our third night in a row, and looking at all the other menu items that are available, not to mention the row of restaurants across the street, it’s the lack of variety that gets to me. But I remind myself that I am in “Travel Mari mode” now, so I will suck it up and enjoy the especial de la semana (”weekly special”).
On SCUBA
Self-Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus—I’ve known what the acronym has stood for since I was 7. Alex Keaton, in an episode of Family Ties, taught his sister Mallory what it meant, thus teaching me. What I didn’t know though is how much I would love it. Everything about it; what I see, how I move, where I go. But within that experience, there’s one moment that does it for me. It’s the difference of maybe 3 inches, constituting the space from my mouth to my eyes.
It’s that space that we’re taught to fiercely protect as our life functions of breathing and receiving nourishment, as well as 3 of our senses all center from our mouth, nose and eyes. So we’re taught at a very young age, either by loved ones or nature, that you can’t breathe under water. We’re conditioned, rightfully, to hold our breath. Down we go. Ready? 1, 2, 3! You don’t want to feel that burning in your lungs. Yes, it triggered the coughing. Yes, it will stop after a short time.
The eyes as well–It hurts. It stings. Better to close them so the shampoo/chlorine/saltwater doesn’t get in them. Isn’t that better?
So when you first get into the ocean, head bobbing above the surface, and the dive master gives the ok to descend, he’s really asking you to trust; trust a piece of Plexiglas, trust a silicone seal, trust a tank of condensed air and trust the tube to deliver that air to you. And I do. So I breathe as my mouth is underwater. And I keep breathing as my nose drops down. And I keep my eyes open as I fully submerge, allowing me to see the other divers all dropping the 60 ft. to the reef at different rates, giving the impression of soda pop bubbles in reverse. It’s completely liberating—seeing what I shouldn’t be able to, breathing when it shouldn’t be possible. The rest of the dive is just icing.
On Tree Houses
I checked another of life’s to-dos off my list this past week after staying in a tree house. There was just enough room in it for the twin size mattress, our upright backpacks, and Mari and myself to stand. We rigged our flashlight on a karabiner for a DIY chandelier. But despite its unvarnished nature, the experience was fantastic. It was living a Disney movie (at least when I liked Disney). Swiss Family Robinson had nothing on us, as Mari freshetted off the side in the middle of the night. In truth, it was more Peter Pan than Swiss Family Robinson, as it felt like a chance at childhood again—an opportunity to remember back to wanting to be an astronaut, or imagining having superpowers. It was a glimpse where 22 ft. in the air, lofted in a tree, we refused to grow up—at least for 5 days.
It has been a couple of weeks since we have been able to post, due more to lack of consistent (free) internet access than lack of activity. We weren’t able to leave for Belize as planned via ferry, due to rough seas, so we hung out with a group of fellow stranded travelers, discussed alternate plans, and ended up staying as a small group in the nearby town of Omoa. The five of us took what I felt to be a semi-arduous hike, through ankle-deep mud (in flip-flops no less!) in an attempt to reach a waterfall, which turned out to be more like a small babbling brook. We must have taken a wrong turn, but it was a fantastic hike and we were in good company. The next morning we got on the ferry and made it to our respective destinations in Belize, where we parted ways (if you guys are reading this, hope you enjoyed the rest of your trip!). We spent one night in Placencia, a small, very quiet, beach town with seemingly not much more to do than snorkel, swim, and lie around. Luckily a couple of local girls befriended us, giving us the local lowdown, and we had a fun evening at happy hour (with free nachos!) at the new Rumfish bar in town. Spent the night at Deb and Dave’s Last Resort, cabin-style lodging, and my first shared bathroom experience. But shared baths are really only such if you actually have to share them, and in our case, it was always open and vacant when needed (yay!).
The next morning we caught a water taxi (getting used to these now) to take us across the lake to catch a chicken bus from the town of Independence to Belize City. Four and a half hours later, of which half the ride was spent sitting three persons to a seat, we arrived in Belize City, taxied to the ferry building and took another ferry to Caye Caulker. Apparently, if you go to Belize you either go to Caye Caulker or Ambergris Caye, as they are pretty much set up for tourists. That being said, we did pretty well staying on our limited budget, found a guesthouse cabin for $10 a night per person, complete with private bathroom and porch with hammock. Aside from Jeff experiencing backspasms towards the end of our stay, which rendered him bed-bound, we had a great time. We completed our first scuba dive (technically second, but really the first dive done without the security blanket of our instructors in Roatan, upon whom I had developed an incredible amount of faith in). Needless to say, the dive was spectacular. Within seconds of descending, we saw several nurse sharks swim by, followed later on in the dive by giant green eels (I’m sure there is a more scientific term), lobster, stingrays, and varieties of colorful fish that I have never seen.
We had been planning to go back to Placencia to experience the whale shark migration with our two new friends, however after doing an indepth cost analysis, and with Jeff’s back going out, we had to make the decision to keep heading in our original direction. After another ferry-taxi-bus combo, we made our way to San Ignacio, where we found very spare and semi-clean lodgings at a hostel. By the sheer coincidence that sometimes occurs during travel, we spotted a couple whom we had met as stranded ferry companions back in Honduras. We arranged to take the much talked about ATM tour together the next day. I have to say I was a little wary, given that everyone had said it was “the coolest tour ever” and all the guidebooks herald it as “the one must-do experience in Belize”. All I could hear was a little voice in the back of my head saying “overrated”. Luckily, I was wrong. Splashing, slipping, swimming, crawling, and climbing through ancient caves, seeped in Mayan culture, shadows, shining stalagtites, and rock formations, through clear cool waters was, I cringe to hear myself say it, magical. Totally NOT overrated. Definitely one of those moments I had hoped to have during our travels.
We are currently in Flores, Guatemala, a beautiful island town with views of the water, shops, restaurants, hotels, tour companies, and not much else. It feels almost like a ghost town during the day, as most visitors take day trips out with the various tours to places like Tikal. We did just that a couple of days ago. Instead of going with a tour company, we took the advice of our friends and tried it on our own. We arrived at mid-day, stayed at one of the only three hotels in Tikal, and bought a park ticket that was good for the late afternoon as well as the full next day. Our afternoon at the ruins was awesome. For some reason, we ran into only a handful of people during our entire stroll, sat atop Templo IV as the sun went down (but not set, as that would have cost us 50 more quetzals), gazed in awe at the well preserved ruins in the Gran Plaza at dusk, then raced out of the jungle as night fell. We had planned to enter the park again at six a.m., but a debilitating case of traveler’s diarrhea and food poisoning prevented that from happening. Instead, after some time spent on and above the toilet, I attempted to shuffle my way out of the room and through the park (I should also mention that I had somehow managed to strain a leg muscle the day before), armed with a roll of toilet paper. We saw some cool wildlife, but I was feeling too crappy to learn their names. As expected, I did not enjoy much of the day. We took off soon after, somehow managing to survive the one and a half hour ride back to Flores, where I now appear on my way to recovery while Jeff gets his turn to experience the full wrath of Montezuma’s revenge. This has been only to the benefit of our budget, as we have subsisted on Gatorade and crackers for the last two days.
