Roadspill

Here is April 27th AND 28th!

Livingston, Guatemala
Sunday, April 27, 2003

40+1.

The morning is simple: eat breakfast, buy hot sauce & fruit drinks, wander. Try as I might, I’m not stumbling across the hotbed of Garifuna music I had expected. Maybe there is more back in Belize? Or in Honduras?

The manager of the Rio Dulce is a friendly and talkative Swiss. He has short, spiky dyed blonde hair. He is on the short side, and is bent over the counter, adding bits of dried plants to bottles of thick liquid. He smiles as he describes his fine collection of rums, elixirs and flowery shirts. The pride he is showing for his love potion leads us to conclude that there may be some similarities between Livingston and Flores.

Pangs indicate that it is time to feed the growing beast in my stomach. Wandering around is made all the more difficult by the oppressive heat. It just doesn’t quit. This is the sort of heat that Red Adair feels when he’s putting out oil well fires.

I notice that a man, quite similar in style to our hotel manager, following us. Almost every time I stop and turn around he is there. At a bar. At a restaurant. Outside a store. Strange.

After sweating off a few dozen pounds searching for a good and Brent approved cheap place to eat, we arrive at a place almost directly across the street from our hotel. The menu looks great, the prices are low, and we can watch the world go by in shaded comfort.

We place our orders for something based on rice or beans or chicken or beef, order a pint, and kick back. We talk about a lot of things, including the woman scammer from last night. I feel pangs of guilt, and we discuss whether maybe she was telling the truth. We end up coming to the same conclusion: she was a big time scammer. The food arrives and we tuck in, while discussing the chances of our Vancouver hockey team in the playoffs. It is quieter today, probably because the heat has knocked the energy out of the entire population. What must summer be like?

Our peace is interrupted a soft voice. “Doug?” it calls out.

Oh oh.

It is the girl from the night before – and I am completely stunned. Brent thinks I have a new friend, until I introduce her as “that girl I told you about.” I didn’t add “… who is a big scammer!!”

She comes up and starts talking about how hard a night it has been, and if I’ve reconsidered my refusal to give her a loan. Brent and I look at each other, look at her, then our food, back to each other, her again and so on. This goes on for quite a while. If she’s a scammer, she doesn’t look like one. But I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it?

Since we’re halfway through our meals, we are annoyed with her now. And her crocodile tears. Please let them be crocodile tears, I think to myself. I look at her and sternly say, “uuuuh… no.”

Now, normally, that would be enough for any potential scammer to bugger of and scam some other pasty-white, middle-aged touristas. But not her. No. She has to stand there, blubbering slightly, staring at us with this how-can-you-throw-me-to-the-wolves-when-I-look-like-a-candidate-for-Miss-Wholesome-Godfearing-USA expression on her face.

“BUGGER OFF!” is what I want to say. Instead, I stare at Brent who, in turn, is staring at my food. I pray that she will just walk away. And at the same time, I feel the guilt of someone who’s yanked a food from the mouth of a starving child.

I look at my food in silence. And then, miraculously, perhaps stunned by the awkward silence, she wanders off.

“SCAMMER!” I scream inside my head.

Turning to more important things, I realize that I have not yet had a Magnum on this trip. A Magnum is an ice cream treat-on-a-stick that comes in various flavours – almond being my fav – and is available around the world except Canada, the USA and Belize. But they’re available everywhere else on the planet. At one time I used to save Magnum wrappers from my journeys, until I realized that it was stupid. Now, I always have a Magnum, as it is actual proof I am traveling. Q12 later, I am stuffing my face with a Guatemalan Almond flavoured Magnum. It is a challenge to devour it before it melts. The mess on my face is my Gold Medal.

We play hide from Danny throughout the evening. I think he is too bombed too know who we are, but we take no chances. When we see Danny coming, we hightail it in the other direction.

There is a hockey game on tonight, back home, and we’re determined to see it here. It’s being broadcast in America on ESPN2. But we only get ESPN Espanol here. The glowing drink bar is closed, the TV in our hotel lobby doesn’t get ESPN, and neither does a restaurant that we try. The internet should have the game audio streamed, so we bound into one internet café, ready to stare at the walls while visions of Vancouver hockey players dance in our heads. Unfortunately, the air temperature in the café approaches that of molten steel. Despite the availability of cold beer, this will not do.

There is another internet café up the street, so we decide to give that one a try. But the Gods are against us: it closes at 9. Disappointed, we give up. There is just no way that we’re going to be enjoying Hockey Night in Guatemala ce soir.

We stop into a store and pick up a couple of cold beers and then head for the 2nd story deck of the hotel. Perched up here, we watch the world go by. It’s relaxing and quiet and beats melting in an internet café listening to streaming audio buffer.

Danny comes stumbling up the road, and we take some evasive action: hiding behind support beams and our own feet (this can be easily done in a hammock).

Some other guests come up to the balcony. From what we can tell, they are a middle-aged Dutch couple and a couple of 20ish Norwegian women. As we relax in our hammocks, we can’t but help hear their conversation. The subjects include dope and sex. It makes for a very interesting alternative to the hockey game. And Danny is nowhere to be seen.

This is a fine ending to a fine day.

--------------

Monday, April 28, 2003
Livingston, Guatemala
40+2.

Mr. Rooster and his band have decided that 4 am is a good time for everyone to wake up. And so they cock-a-doodle-doo at full volume without even a break for air. These must be special non-breathing foul bred specially for psychological warfare.

At 7:30am the room is 400 degrees, and it is time to get out before we actually perish. With this heat and humidity, death is a very real possibility. And I won’t even talk about the rash.

This is our last morning here. And, worryingly, my stomach is feeling funny. There is something going on inside, but it isn’t severe. And at this point it isn’t a concern.

Breakfast today will be taken at the Rio Dulce. We do this for efficiency sake, and this is one of the few times were we eat in the same place we stay. Perhaps it’s a fear of recognizing a cockroach from the room in our meal. Hello, again!

I have mentioned that the taste of fruit here far surpasses anything available at home. This is because fruit is allowed to ripen before it is picked. With this in mind, I order the banana pancakes and a coffee. The total cost is Q21 (US$3).

The banana pancakes are amazing. I don’t know if I have ever tasted anything so amazingly good. So many chunks of banana are crammed into the pancakes, that laws of physics are being broken. And the taste is out of this world. It’s like super banana. I never knew that bananas could taste so… banana-ey.

The clock tells us that it is time to head down to the dock and grab a water taxi back. This seems to be a turning point: the realization that this is not normal living, and that it will soon come to an end. By Saturday I will be back in Vancouver, attending a wedding. It seems so far removed from this reality. And that, quite simply, is the magic of travel. It’s like being in a parallel universe: one where there are no bills, no chores, and no work. It’s a wonderful, if fleeting, experience. And it makes the bills, the chores and the work worthwhile. This is what separates from the animals. When was the last time you saw a hippopotamus backpacking around Mexico?

At the main dock there are quite a few people waiting for various water taxis to take them to one of many destinations. Due to the early hour, there boats are loading quickly, meaning that we won’t have a long wait before departing. We are swarmed by a bunch of guys yelling “Boat! Boat!! 70Q! Boat!” I think for most people, this can be intimidating. I find it mildly annoying, but, we do need a boat, and these are the guys to see.

After paying, we have to wait about 20 minutes. I walk over to a nearby park where there is a statue of Jose Marti, the Cuban poet. There is a bust of him, and I manage to translate the plaque enough to discover he once visited here. Nearby. An obviously bored Guatemalan soldier surveys the scene. Is he guarding Jose? Livingston? Poor guy.

As we wait for the final 5 people to fill the boat, we notice that all the other passengers are French. We notice this because they are dressed impeccably. And don’t smell. This is not the case for the 2 Canadians in the boat. I’m sure somewhere in France, someone is writing a blog describing 2 smelly, poorly dressed Canadians. “Mon Dieu! Les Canadiens! Sacre bleu!”

Being on the boat brings instant relief. Suddenly all seems cool and comfortable. It’s the first time in days that I’ve felt like I am not melting. As we fly along El Golfete, I notice we are following a different route. We pass more thatched roof homes, more expensive looking eco-inns, and all sorts of people doing everyday chores along the water. This new route takes us down narrow channels. Brent tells me to keep an eye out for crocs.

Without warning, our boat pulls up to a dock and we are expected to get out. Scam! Damn!! We are being forced to spend a half an hour and half our loot in some sort of ecological interpretative centre. The highlight of this is a huge market selling all sorts of overpriced local wares. Now, I have no issue with artists selling their wares. Nor the markup. The more they can make to continue being artists, the better. But I am not pleased at being forced to stop here. Brent sensibly points out that this is just the way things are. And, he’s right. Judging from the amount of product flying off the shelves, it appears to be a brilliant marketing plan. And, the location is pretty nice.

Our secret itinerary has more in store. We stop at the dumb hot springs again. One of the French folks dips a toe in. Thrilling. Then we slow as we pass a huge cluster of lily pads in full bloom. This is actually nice enough for me to grab my video camera and shoot some shots that will never be seen again.

Next stop, an island that appears to be nothing but mangroves. I’m not quite sure of why we’re stopping here, but I think there is one less person on our boat. This would be a dandy place to dump a body.

We pass lots of fishermen in their impossibly low-to-the-water boats. I have no idea how they avoid being swamped. I wonder how far back in history the design goes. The green on green shoreline is dotted with shacks and palaces – which get denser the closer we get to the mainland.

Our thoughts turn to the Crow Bar and Jose’s steak sandwiches. We still have to catch a bus for the four-hour ride to Flores, so it’s a good thing we hit the road, er, water, early.

Castillo de Sam Felipe (Fronteras), Guatemala:

Instead of putting ashore at the dock near Crow Bar, we dock on the other side of town. And we also don’t realize or think to ask if the boat will continue to the other side. It does.

We offload and are walk through the remnants of a carnival/beerfest. It is hot again and it stinks too. And, the amoebas are beginning to samba in my belly. After walking past dusty trucks and trailers, crossing the main road, being set upon by currency changers and transport arrangers, we sit our tired asses down at the Crow Bar.

“Two Tecate and two steak sandwiches, please.”

Jose Lopez is behind his bar. I can’t recall if I introduced Jose in the last installment, so bear with me.

Jose hails from El Salvador. He worked for CBS News as a cameraman for 20 years. During that time he was posted to such holiday spots as Sarajevo and Rwanda. After 20 years of that, he returned home to shoot news in his native land. But he was not impressed with the lack of quality and the attitudes that are prevalent in Central American broadcasting. In fact, many of the work stories that Brent has told me over the years are very similar to what Jose is now telling us.

Jose got so frustrated with things that he left El Salvador and bought this bar. He’s been here for a few years, and his regulars include a number of American ex-pat sailors who have found that this is a safe harbour to hang out in.

Our steak sandwiches arrive, and my amoebas are now doing the mambo in my belly. I choke back half of what should be a delicious steak sandwich – and pass the other half on to Brent. I barely finish one beer as Brent disposes of his second. Something is wrong.

I have had the experience of being sick on the road. Once, I got food poisoning in Portugal. That was the single worst experience of my life. I had food poisoning one other time in Nova Scotia. That was the second worst experience of my life. The last time I was in Guatemala, I was relegated to bed by what I think was either some freaky mould spores or the use of DDT. But it wasn’t food poisoning.

I should have food poisoning. After all the street food, it’s no wonder that my guts are mixed up. I cross my fingers and hope that this is something minor. I don’t relish the thought of dry heaving for 24 hours in some hot and humid hotel room.

Brent goes up to the bus station and takes care of arranging our passage to Flores. It is Q150 for a premier bus that is scheduled to depart at 2. We pass the time in the Crow Bar, chatting with Jose.

At 2, we walk a short distance to the bus station, which is really an office near the main road. There is nowhere to sit, other than on the ground. The heat is peaking now, but I am feeling no worse.

At 2:15 there is no sign of the bus. Nor at 2:30. At 3, a woman from the bus office tells us that the bus has left Guatemala City late, due to traffic. Big surprise there.

Finally, at 3:30, our premier bus arrives. There is lots of room, but both the air conditioning and the video system are not functioning. For entertainment, I stare out the windows. The amoebas are now staging their microorganism production of Chicago.

Fire is used here to clear land. Thick smokes hang everywhere, and combined with the heat, makes for a pleasant experience. The bus, which is supposed to be direct with no stops, stops frequently. We assume that the driver is making a little extra by making deliveries while running his route. I drift off as the amoebas continue the song and dance.

Flores, Guatemala:

This times the bus stops in the centre of town. We hop off and are immediately pounced on by a “fixer,” who I am sure tried to fix us up back in 1999. He refuses to leave us despite our protests that we have a hotel, know where to eat, and have been here before.

He walks with us all the way to the hotel. We’re back at the Hotel Mirador del Lago where the prices are very affordable. Q70 (US$10) for a double; Q40 for a single.

We get the same room we had a few days ago. With no airflow, it is hot. Brent wants to go find dinner and adventure, but I elect to crash and see if the Amoebas will close up shop. I drift off and sleep through the night.

- 30 –