Roadspill

FINALLY! More from Guatemala. Hop into the wayback machine and pretend it is Wednesday, April 23rd. Ready?! Zaaap!

Wednesday April 23, 2003 “Of Pandy, Hammered Boy, and Juan Carlos.”

“Ashee! Ashee!” yells Brent & Roh’s landlady. This human alarm bell is standing outside of my window beckoning to her cat to come in. When Miss Nell isn’t calling Ashee, she’s sweeping the back porch or tending her seven dogs. It’s 7am. And it smells like pee.

Morning begins with word that the Canucks have won. This is a good way to start the day. We’re off to Guatemala today, and I am packing as light as possible. I still seem to have some learning deficiency when it comes to how much stuff I need to bring with me. You’d think after all these years, I would have learned.

We walk down to catch our mini-bus at the Belize water taxi terminal. It is a decent day – not too hot. Yet.

Getting on the bus we are caught up in a group of crazed German backpackers who are all freaking about getting onto the bus. Because of the gaggle of Germans, we are forced to put our luggage up by the driver. A German, perhaps thinking we are Americans, makes some snide comment about the luggage belonging at the back. We ignore him and he responds with “They will not listen.”

Brent explains that it is impossible to move luggage to the back and everything is fine where it is.

Once we’re on the road, the most annoying of the two Germans removes his skanky shoes, revealing a bandaged foot that is oozing weird coloured fluids. With a self assured grunt, he places is weeping foot squarely atop Brent’s pack and the Canadian flag sewed there. Being polite Canadians, we decide to let this breach of travel etiquette go, electing instead to play mind games.

We overhear that they are planning to visit the Maya ruins at Tikal and don’t have a place to stay. Knowing that there is precious little in the way of accommodation there (and what there is is expensive), we talk loudly about the great places to camp at the main gate to Tikal. And the wonderful and affordable inns that dot the area. So there!

We also notice that the quiet one looks like someone pounded him. Not surprising considering their lack of social skills.

We’re bombing down the Western Highway at speed when suddenly a tire blows. Good thing that the driver wasn’t challenged with an out of control vehicle – we could have easily rolled. Or so we think.

Standing outside we are in the brutal heat and looking at the shredded tire. It’s funny how accepting you get when you’re in the third world. Bald tires? Who cares! Broken struts? Whatever! Leaky gas tank? Bring it on!!

I take the opportunity to whip out my camera and shoot some shots for a friend back in Vancouver. She is working on a documentary on a hydro electric project in Belize and asked me to get some shots. As luck would have it, there are plenty of power lines, destination signs, and differing views to capture.

A little bit later a balder than bald tire has allowed us to continue. We pull up in San Ignacio, a town in the west central part of the country. It is much nicer here than in Belize City. We get settled into an affordable little place called the Tropicool Hotel. The manager is rather, um, firm with his rules. No this. No that. It’s like a prison. But it’s cheap AND it’s clean. And cleanliness is almost as important as cheapness.

Brent and I head next door to Eva’s – a small pub & restaurant run by Bob, an ex-pat British soldier. There are lots of ex-pat British soldiers here, due to the fact that Belize was a British colony until 1982. I think a lot of them decided that mangoes, palm trees and sun were a much better alternative to the industrial north of Jolly Old.

Bob is a cool guy – short and balding, and is often hunched over a computer building a website dedicated to his military unit. People come and go, and everyone seems to know Bob. And now we know Bob.

Brent has been raving about his excellent history of ordering stewed pork here. Recently he has been disappointed, so this is a test. I order the same and find it ok. American sized portions of rice and beans, but a little skimpy on the pork. Still, for a couple of bucks, it’s just fine. And the beer is still about a dollar.

There are several things to do while we are here. Thing number one: shoot a feature for CBC television (a kids show) on Pandy, the host of a kids show in Belize. What makes this interesting is that the TV station is lower than low budget. It is basically a homebrew collection of home video gear that is attached to a transmitter. But hey, it works.

Pandy, his real name is Kent Pandy, is an affable Belizean who has been doing The Pandy Show for 11 years. He doesn’t get paid for it, and until recently, he did everything: camera, sound, host, get prizes, direct. You name it. He still does nearly everything, except now he has a technician switching between cameras.

On the day we meet Pandy, he is dressed in his work clothes. Pandy works for the station as a cable television technician. He stutters, speaks Creole, and has a great outlook on life. And the kids (and adults) of San Ignacio love him.

Brent and I meet Pandy at the station; a thatched roof affair perched atop the highest hill in town. There is an orchard of satellite dishes outside the studio and dust is kicked up as cars pass by.

We shoot the interview with Pandy outside the studio. Then we want to get shots of Pandy back in town getting prizes and walking the streets like the King of Kensington. Pandy tells us he is going to ride to town on his Pandymobile – an old beat-off motorcycle. When he tells us that the bike has no brakes, our eyes light up! This is going to be great television!!

We proceed to shoot various angles of Pandy on his Pandymobile careening down the quite steep road that leads to the centre of town. Pandy stops himself by dragging his feet – and it’s a wonder that he has any shoes left.

At the bottom of the hill, we set up a shot with Pandy lying on the ground & the bike on its side. His line: “Kids, don’t try this at home!”

After Pandy picks himself up, he heads to town while we flag down a cab -- an easy thing to do when you look like tourists. And I certainly do. Dressed in shorts, a flowery shirt, and bone white skin, I am the poster child of the goofball tourista. At least I don't have a camera hanging from my neck.

In the centre of town we grab shots of Pandy interacting with everyone, picking up prizes, and explaining to us the cooling wonders of “ice” – which is like a snow cone. Considering the oven hot temperatures and our slowly melting skin, enjoying an ice is like winning the lottery.

It’s getting close to airtime, so Pandy has to take off. Brent and I hire another cab and head back up the hill to the studio. As we’re standing outside, a total dread-man comes wandering our way with a guitar. The dread-man is actually Lyric Man… and he is the guest on the Pandy Show tonight. Brent has seen Lyric Man before – and tells me that he’s great. I feel blessed: CBC wanted a lot of humour in this piece, and Pandy and the Pandymobile and Lyric Man are sure to provide lots of comedy.

Inside the studio, the clock is showing that we are late. The show goes at 6 and it’s about 5 after. Pandy explains the concept of Belize time: the main theory of which is that time is but a suggestion.

The studio is a collection of old home video cameras and a snake’s nest of cables. The technician appears calm, with an ID and music being broadcast to the waiting audience. Finally, as the clock hits 6:14, we’re ready to go. Pandy is sitting at a desk with the Spanish words “Lunes Deportivo.” I believe this means Monday Sports although it could mean Loonies Deported. In front of Pandy is his collection of prizes to give away: binders, shampoo, and a dolly. Lyric Man is sitting beside Pandy, his head topped with a Rasta coloured knit hat. Three kids, brought by the tech, are on a nearby couch. They are really excited. And it turns out that two of them are 8. And one is the other’s aunt. Work that one out!!

The countdown begins. 3…. 2…. 1. We’re live!

And there is no sound.

Back to the station logo and music – as the tech runs to check a wire. Nothing. Pandy gets up from his chair and starts plugging and unplugging cables. Enigma’s “The End of the Innocence” plays in the background.

After what seems like a year, they finally solve the problem (an unplugged cable) and are ready to go live. Lyric Man bangs out a Pandy Show theme song. The kids clap. And Pandy is on the air in Belize!

Over the next half hour or so, Pandy takes calls from kids – who speak English, Creole and Spanish. He gives away prizes, and Lyric Man sings a song about the alphabet – with only a couple of mistakes.

At the end of the show, we bid everyone goodbye and head back down the hill towards town. It has been a most bizarre experience and the story that we’ve captured will be hilarious.

As we walk down the hill, I turn to Brent and say how amazed I am that the whole day came together so smoothly. Just as I utter the words “the Gods were smiling upon us,” I lose my footing on the steep gravel road and end up going arse over teakettle down the hill. So does my video camera. Luckily, it doesn’t hit the ground too hard. It is enough to give it a wee dent.

I am a different story. Clad in shorts, I slide several feet on the gravel on my shins. Talk about pain. I have a 7-inch by 4-inch road rash that is full of dirt and stinging like mad. Is there a larger cosmic meaning here?

Back at the hotel I endure the pain of cleaning my wounds, and Brent endures the pain of hearing me clean my wounds. It is very sad.

Next on the agenda is a visit with Ivan Duran and his wife Katja. This is not to do the interview, but to just get an idea of what he is up to. We give him a ring and he offers to come pick us up.

Over several beers, we discuss the music scene in Belize, politics, and the recent elections. Katja hails from Montreal – and could become other great ex-pat story. At the end of the night they are kind enough to drive us back to the Tropicool and offer to drive us to Ivan’s studio (which is near the border) the next day.

It has been a good day.


Thursday, April 24, 2003 “The Border”

I managed to get a few winks after all, and the injury sustained on Pandy Hill is much less painful. Because of the heat, we are up quite early again. Brent and I head next door to Eva’s for a quick breakfast.

After that, we gather our gear and walk a couple of blocks to Ivan’s house. There we snack on some sweet breads and guzzle some amazing coffee. We talk with Katja about the art on their walls. The place is decorated like a gallery. Truly a creative house.

After catching up with the war news on BBC (a blessing), we hop in the car with Ivan and head west to his studio at Benque.

The studio is more like a complex: several buildings containing the offices for Stonetree Records, which is Ivan’s label. His family is well known for their printing business and that has helped Ivan weather the storms of business.

In the studio where he does most of his recordings, we are surrounded by all kinds of percussion instruments. Ivan starts to play some of his recordings and I feel like a kid in a candy store. Its one thing after another after another after another. I have never heard music like this: Garifuna drumming, female Garifuna singers, and the raspy poems of someone called GrandMaster.

The Garifuna people are blacks who are more Carib than the Creole. They settled in Belize, Honduras, and in the town of Livingston, Guatemala. Their music is quite amazing, and Ivan has recorded a lot of it. He is sitting on enough material to release 4 cds.

GrandMaster is the most amazing – Ivan brought Grandmaster into the studio and recorded him performing his poems with Garifuna drumming accentuating his words. Ivan was kind enough to let me record a couple of the tracks. Then we sat down and did an interview for CBC Radio.

The drummer on these tracks shows up at the studio. His name is Chi Chi Man and he is a Honduran Garifuna. He shows us the hand made drums he used on the GrandMaster recordings. This is truly an amazing vacation!

Ivan is like a little kid, almost giggling as he plays his collection of music. We can’t believe the quality or the diversity of this stuff.

+++

Of course, what would one of my trips be without a visit to a border? We ask Ivan if we can leave our gear at the studio while we indulge my border addiction.

We’re heading towards a small village on the Belize-Guatemala border called Aranal. The unique thing about Aranal is that the soccer field lies on the border – thus every game played here is international. Possibly the only international soccer played in Belize.

I think that dust is the national colour in these parts. Everything is coated with a fine layer of off-white.
The Belize Defense Force has an office and lookout here. It seems a logical place to start, as we’re not sure where the actual line is, nor what the reaction would be if we strayed into Guatemala. The border here has been subject to much contention over the years, but recently things have simmered down.

The Belizean soldiers are friendly. They are members of the Dragon Unit, who are like a police-military hybrid. Corporal Roches explains the area and points out the landmarks that show where the border is. He takes out to the divided soccer field and points to the location of the actual border. There are no border posts, but there are the remnants of a cairn in the back yard of a Guatemalan family. Apparently cairns were placed every two km along the border, but the locals keep taking the stones. There are only three “real” border markers along the entire length of the line. Roches says that the one near the official crossing at Melchor says British Honduras on the Belize side. Belize was British Honduras before 1982.

After exploring the areas and taking pictures, we hop into a cab and tear back to Ivan’s place to collect our belongings. We bid him and Chi Chi Man adieu as we cab it towards the border. I am happy to have gotten a great interview with Ivan and the opportunity to hear music that probably would have remained unknown to me, if not for my wacky travels. Who needs the Lonely Planet guide? I can’t image traveling any other way.

BENQUE VIEJO, BELIZE…

There is a sight problem at the official crossing. Just day’s prior, some Belizean government official decided to ban citizens of 6 nations from Belize due to SARS. Canada was one of those. After much discussion, this was rescinded for Canadians, but the message was not being passed down to the worker bees at the border crossings. Upon leaving Belize, there was some question as to whether I might be banned from returning. Oh well.

Imagine being covered with honey and thrown into a pit of ants. That pretty much describes the scene of tourists and moneychangers at the border. They come running up screaming exchange rates and waving calculators. And having just gone through the immigration process for Belize, and facing the same for Guatemala, these guys know that you are in a weakened state. Hell, 7 quetzals for a US dollar sounds like a great deal. It’s not. Both Brent and I play the game and get better rates: approaching 8.

I am not as concerned with getting a good deal as I am in finding the rare border marker between the two countries. I look around in the no mans land between Belize customs and Guatemalan customs. No sign of it. We ask locals and officials. No one seems to know.

We pass through Guatemalan customs easily – and they don’t even try to charge us the special gringo tourist fee. After getting our passports stamped, we have to walk across a bridge to pick up a mini-bus to Flores. For some reason, we think that we’re going to find the marker near the bridge, even though we are a few hundred metres into Guatemala. Our search proves fruitless.

MELCHOR, GUATEMALA…

On the other side of the river, we are again attacked by moneychangers. And they’re offering an even better rate. Remember this for next time. We grab some snacks and water – we’re completely dehydrated due to the heat. Luckily there is a mini-bus that is set to depart for Flores, our next stop on the way to Livingston. It’s only a few hours, and the price is Q35 (about US$5 each).

The van is tiny, crowded, and the sliding door on the side not only has a kid hanging onto it, it is broken. Since there are a couple of square inches of room left inside, the driver trolls for more passengers. Eventually he gives up, and we start heading west. The kid is still hanging onto the door, outside of the van. I’m not sure if he’s cooling off, holding the door onto the van, or providing some sort of counter balance.

The windshield is nearly fully blacked out, with only the narrowest of strips to look at the road through. Sylvester the cat swings with a chicken from the rearview mirror. It is sort of an obscene vision.

Our bones are being shaken like a martini as we bomb down the terrible road. No pavement here: just rocks. This lasts for 50km when, suddenly, we are blessed with pavement. To our right runs a river that is dotted with groups of women doing their washing. Occasionally we swerve to avoid horses, pigs, dogs, and chickens.

FLORES, GUATEMALA…

We’re here. Almost. Flores is unique in that it sits on an island, connected to the mainland by a causeway. The town on the bank of Lake Peten is Santa Elena. And that is where the mini-bus deposits us. Brent and I hoist our packs onto our backs and set our to cross the dusty causeway. There is little room for pedestrians, especially extra large ones like ourselves. I think that with all the shaking, we have become Gumby like and are able to contort ourselves (like in the Matrix) to avoid large trucks and small motorcycles.

This is my second time here. I was here in late 1999 and early 2000 – and not much has changed. My road rash is making itself known again. I cross my fingers in the hopes that evil germs don’t find this back way into my bloodstream.

Our hotel is cheap. And relatively clean. Only the equivalent of US$10 a night. Or $5 EACH! God love Guatemala. Not only is it cheap, they sell cold litre bottles of Mexican beer (Tecate) in addition to the local Gallo. We unload our stuff, pay, grab some beer, and head for the deck. It has a great view of Lake Peten and we sit and relax as the sun slips from the sky.

After a litre of beer, it is evident that we need to find food. We head to the main drag of town and to a place we were at 4 years ago. Back in 99, we sat at a bar/store and were entertained by a little hellion named Rudy. He was the son of the people who owned the store and delighted in showing us his paper mache masks. That was cute. When he brought out the matches and started hurling fire at us that was not so cute. I think he must have been 6 or so back then.

So it was a big surprise when we ran across a little boy who looked very familiar. Brent asked if he was Rudy. He was. But he was much better behaved (no fire) and seemed totally uninterested in us.

After a pint, we headed next door for some nachos and quesadillas. We enjoyed the food with even more Mexican beer.

Brent had seen a sign offering an even better Tecate beer deal. Something like US$3.50 for 2 x 1 litre bottles. Hello! And they have a television, so we’re thinking that we can catch a little playoff hockey at the same time.

Everything is going great – we’re the only people in the bar and we have the remote. Life couldn’t be better.

Two rather drunk local men wander in and immediately take an interest in us. One has brought a bunch of cds and wants to play them for us. The bar tender takes out the Mana disc that has been playing in the background. He then mutes the TV. And then, as a peace offering, gives us a bowl of corn chips.

“Romance Songs” is scribbled on the CD that one of guys is holding up and asking, in Spanish, if we want to hear it. Confused, we don’t know if he’s trying to be friendly, introduce us to new music, or, pick us up.

The other one, we’ll call him Hammered, slithers into the seat beside Brent. He is obviously quite loaded. Both are drinking mixed drinks, and suddenly two litres of Tecate arrive, courtesy of CD boy. I’m sure I catch a wink.

There are many instances where knowing the local language is a great thing while traveling. This is one case where its not. Brent has made the mistake of talking to Hammered in Spanish. Now Hammered is basically humping Brent’s leg. Things get even worse when Hammered points to Brent’s crotch and asks what he calls his package.

CD boy asks me, in broken English, if I’m married. I say no. His eyes light up. Brent, wanting his leg back, mentions that I have a hot sister. This does not have the desired effect. Hammered moves even closer. CD boy asks why I am not married. Brent answers for me, saying my wife is dead. CD boy tells us that they are brothers. Right.

By now, we have totally forgotten about the television and are trying to choke down the beer in the hopes of beating a hasty retreat. Having experienced a similar experience 4 years earlier, I wonder if Flores is some sort of hot bed for Latin men seeking male tourists.

The beer doesn’t have a chance to warm up as we choke it back. The drunk guys are into their own bottle of hooch, and it appears that the liquor they are ingesting will become our saviour. Hammered is beginning to teeter and is having problems speaking and fondling. CD boy sees this and decided that it is time to go. Brent and I stare blankly at the TV, secretly saying prayers. Finally, they wander off into the night.

Whew!

There was something good to come out of the event: two free litres of beer. Because of that, we decide that a walk would be a good idea.

On my previous trip I snapped a shot of a half torn down building. The façade was still standing, but there was no back wall. So the picture is of a window that looks out to Lake Peten instead the interior of a building. Brent and I decide that we want to try and find that building. Of course, it’s long gone, but still it gives us the chance to walk around a bit.

Another thing I love to do when traveling is to shop. For hot sauces. We enter every store we see just so I can load up on small bottles of liquid death.

We enter one small store and I almost faint. Standing before us is Juan Carlos. Juan Carlos was someone who crossed our paths four years ago. He was intent in picking one of us up. Especially our buddy Steve. This was quite amusing at the time as Steve is not the most accepting of alternate lifestyles. He looks directly at us and I am sure he recognizes us. Although he could be thinking “fresh meat!”

Brent wants to take a picture of Juan Carlos to bring back to Canada to give Steve as a wedding present. Brent has had more to drink then I have, so I emphatically say NO!

Our late evening stroll around Flores brings us to an internet café. It has been a while since we checked the CNN War (aka the War in Iraq). And it’s also a chance to send a couple of emails and perhaps have a short online chat with folks back home.

Juan Carlos walks in, and I bury my head. He passes by us, and sits in a corner by himself. I have no idea what he is surfing for, and I don’t want to know. But part of me wants to give him Steve’s email address.

Brent starts giggling and I look over. Someone has left their Hotmail account open as well as their MSN Messenger account. And there is someone on the MSN account. We fire off some silly lines but don’t get much of a response. This is probably due to the language barrier and “wanker” not being a commonly used Spanish colloquialism.

It is becoming obvious that this day needs to end. We walk back to the hotel, Juan Carlos nowhere to be seen, someone in Guatemala wandering why their friend in Flores keeps calling them a wanker, and I am happy to be on the road. Life continues to be good!