Week 4 in Guatemala: The silliest / most awesome journey of my life.

 

I recently purchased the $ 12 deal with Skype whereby you can call anyone on a cell phone or landline in any country in the world from your computer and speak for as long as you want over the course of a month. Probably the best deal that there is, or ever has been, in the world, for anything, ever. Having such a deal I manage to speak to Zoe, at the University of California San Diego (in a Master of Fine Arts program for acting), most nights for a decent amount of time. Zoe’s birthday was approaching (September 19^th) and she joked with me about how if I actually cared about her I would fly to San Diego to see her for her birthday. Unfortunately, given the fact that I am in a fairly inaccessible part of Guatemala, and that I am running on a pretty tight budget, going to see her was close to impossible. Or was it? The thought briefly crossed my mind that it would be awesome to surprise her, especially as she had specifically told me not to do anything without consulting her.

 

I didn’t think about it until the next day, while my teacher was explaining some boring grammar to me in the classroom. I decided to distract him with my plan: “tengo un idea completamente loco…” (I have a completely crazy idea). I proceeded to explain to him my surprise visit. He thought it was a great idea, but said he would miss me during the time I was gone (which was an absolute lie). I ended by saying, if I can find cheap enough flights, I’m doing it. During the class break I looked up flights in the school computer cluster. Unfortunately, the cheapest round trip flight from Guatemala City (the nearest airport and four hours away by bus) was close to $ 900. Game over. But then I remembered that Cancun, Mexico didn’t look too far away on a map, and flights were bound to be cheap from one of America’s biggest tourist destinations. I punched in the dates and waited. Digits rolled down the screen until kayak.com found the cheapest flight for me: $ 315 round trip. That was doable.

 

Quick note to Dad, before you cancel my entire gap year: Any money that may or may not have been spent on this trip was not the money that you had loaned me for my Spanish classes in Guatemala. I recently received a sizeable amount of money from Win Bennett, my former housemate, member of the Cargill family, and late rent-payer. The amount was more than enough to cover my trip, all expenses included.

 

So it was possible, but the next task was finding out how to get to Cancun from Xela, Guatemala. I went to one of the local travel agents and discovered that through a series of fairly long bus trips, I could make it to Cancun by late Wednesday night. I would then be able to fly out on Thursday morning, making it to San Diego on Thursday night to celebrate Zoe’s birthday that night and the next day, her actual birthday. But this would mean that I would have to leave Xela in exactly an hour in order to catch the first of four buses, at 2.30 p.m. otherwise I wouldn’t make it to San Diego in time. I wasn’t sure if that was enough time to make it back to my house, pack my bags, get to the bus station and buy the ticket, as it was already 1.30 p.m., but I was going to try. I ran out of the travel agents and jumped into the first taxi I saw. I explained to him that I wanted him to take me to my house, wait for me, and then take me to the bus station, which he was fine with.

 

Very near the last corner before my house, we hit a complete standstill of cars. The clock was ticking and I was beginning to think my journey was over before it had even begun. We sat there for a good 7 minutes before we arrived at the house. As the taxi driver began to slow down to stop he started shouting at me. I had no idea what he was saying. Finally I understood that he wasn’t allowed to park in front of the house, so I paid him half of the original sum and we went our separate ways. I dashed into my house, briefly explained my plan to my family, to which my Guatemalan ‘mother’ replied: “tu es loco de amor” meaning you are crazy for love. I threw together a hodgepodge collection of clothes, Spanish homework and toiletries and I was out of the house in less than 10 minutes. By this stage it was 2.15 p.m. and it was still uncertain if I was going to make it, but my host mother kindly offered to drive me to the bus station. It was tight, but I made it with a few minutes to spare.

 

After I bought my bus ticket I realized I had forgotten my bus route plan that I had written at the travel agents, my Bible for the trip. I tried to ask the man who sold me the ticket if he had any idea which buses I should get once I arrived in Guatemala City. He had no idea. Shit. Then I realized my Lonely Planet had the number of the travel agents. Sweating from rushing around Xela to get ready in time, I try to find the nearest pay phone. I throw some coins in, dial the number and unsuccessfully try to explain that I need the same bus route he had given to me thirty minutes ago, before my money runs out. I’m out of coins and I still have no idea where the fuck I’m going once I get to Guatemala City. Ballsack.

 

I’m in luck, however as the ticket man offers me the use of his phone. I call back the travel agents, re-discover the route, and I’m set for my adventure. I throw my big bag in the storage compartment under the bus and jump on with my backpack. The bus looks like it is from the 50’s, no air conditioning and windows that continually flap open and close in the wind. The ride to Guatemala City takes about four and a half hours and the majority of the journey is spent high in the mountains on windy roads. The bus driver seemed to take pleasure in throwing the bus around the corners as fast as he could, and most of us had to hold on to the seat in front to stay upright. To tell the truth I felt rather unsafe.

 

The bus made several stops along the way, including one where a bunch of people boarded to sell food/drinks and/or proselytize. A small boy came on the bus with fries to sell, so I bought a pack. They were excellent so I told him not to bother going any further back in the bus and to sell the rest of the fries to me, which he did. I also gave a preacher a few Quetzals (Guatemalan currency) because, while I had no idea what he had said, he seemed to know more or less what he was up to.

 

A rather plump Mayan lady sits down next to me at one stop. It reminds me of the fact that many Guatemalans are fat. This is something I don’t understand. The seven people that make up my family here in Guatemala eat altogether about the same as I do per week as an individual. I have come to the conclusion that it is not the amount of food that Guatemalan’s eat, but the type of food, combined with a fairly lethargic lifestyle that causes many locals to have substantial guts. Most food is fried because it tastes good, and, at least I thought, because this is the safest way to prepare food, especially vegetables, which can do all sorts of damage to your bowels if not cooked/cleaned properly. In fact, I discovered that they actually only do it because it tastes good, and don’t really care about health implications.

 

So, sitting in half of my chair in the bus and allowing the Mayan lady’s left butt-cheek to occupy the rest, I chatted with her about this and that in Spanish for a couple of hours. Like most women of her age in Guatemala (around 60 years old) she had an enormous amount of children and grandchildren, around 10 and 20 respectively. She was a nice lady, but did try to get me to give her my new iPod touch, which I thought was rather funny.

 

It was about 7 p.m. and there was an hour or so before we would be in Guatemala City, so I thought I’d do a little bit of Lonely Planet reading about the nation’s capital. The first line in the guide book goes as follows: “Depending on who you talk to, Guatemala’s capital is either big, dirty, dangerous and utterly forgettable, or big, dirty, dangerous and fascinating.” As I read further, I realized that I would be arriving in perhaps one of the most dangerous parts of the city:

 

 “The area around 18 Calle in Zona 1 has many bus stations and even more lowlifes and hustlers. Nearly half of Zona 1’s robberies happen here, the worst black spots being the intersections with 4a, 6a, 9a Avs [exactly where I was going]. This part of town (also a red-light district) is notoriously dangerous at night; if you are arriving by bus at night…take a taxi.”

 

And to top everything off, I read: “The incidence of robbery increases around the 15^th and the end of each month, when workers get paid.” It was the 16^th.

 

Needless to say, when we arrived I got straight into a taxi and went directly to the next bus station. Arriving at the station I knew that there was a bus I could take about 10 hours north to a place called Flores, Guatemala, and from there I could take another bus further north, in the direction of Cancun. I had no idea what time the buses went so it would just have to be down to luck if I made it to each bus station in time. If not I would have to wait until the next morning. Thankfully, luck was on my side and there was an overnight bus leaving in an hour and a half for Flores. During that hour and a half I ate a dodgy microwave cheeseburger in a dodgy café in the dodgy bus station. Throughout this time I was convinced that someone was going to try and steal my bags.

 

After an unpleasant wait, I went through a security check and was then patted down before I was allowed to board the bus. It was pretty empty so I managed to nab a couple of seats to myself, which was great, because I could spread out a little bit to sleep during the ride. And aside from watching a couple of movies dubbed in Spanish, that is what I did for the ten and a half hour journey up to Flores. Overnight buses are never that much fun, though, and this was no exception; continually waking up and realizing there were still hours and hours to go.

 

Finally we arrived in Flores at around 8.20 a.m. From Flores I could catch a bus that would take me further north in Guatemala, then through Belize, and finally drop me off in Chetumal, Mexico. I inquired about this bus and found out that there was only one bus a day. Initially I thought I had missed it, but he explained that it left at 8.30 a.m. Another stroke of good luck. This was short-lived, however, as I realized I had no cash on me and when I tried get some out at the ATM in the bus station, it refused me money. I then tried to use my card directly with the ticket guy. With only five minutes before the bus left, this was my last shot. The card was rejected. I had no other options and really did not want to spend the entire day and night in this random part of Guatemala so I asked the man to try again with my card. He swiped and there was a long wait of inactivity. Eventually the machine began making the whining sound as of printing as my receipt came out.

 

The bus I boarded was pretty similar to the first bus of my journey: fairly clapped out with no a/c. Regardless, it was good just to be continuing my trip in the right direction. At this stage my iPod had run out of battery, reading was a pain, the views outside the bus were less than stunning, and I had done as much sleeping as I could the night before on the previous bus. The voyage therefore, was without a shadow of a doubt, the single most boring event of my life. For 12 painful hours I sat, wide awake with nothing to do in the bus. The only relief was an irritating border crossing into Belize, and then a quick rest stop once we were further into Belize.

 

The first time I realized when crossing the border would not be as simple as handing over my passport, smiling and having my passport stamped was when a man, several hours into the journey, climbed onto the bus and began explaining that we would have to pay the Belizean immigration officials $ 20 in US dollars, and that we would have to change our Guatemalan Currency, or we wouldn’t have the money to cross the border. I was dubious about this, while I watched other tourists hand over Quetzals for dollars, but Given that I didn’t have any money, of any kind, on me, I didn’t even have the opportunity to fall into any kind of money-changing trap. I was worried, however, that I would not be able to get money out of an ATM before I crossed the border. We were traveling through fairly remote areas and I wasn’t sure if there would be an ATM at the border crossing. I inquired with the sketchy money-changer and he claimed I would be able to obtain money at the border.

 

Getting off the bus at the Guatemala-Belize boundary, we were confronted by yet more money-changers that would hold thick wads of cash in their hands, which they would flick through, near your face, telling you aggressively that you needed to change money and that they had the best exchange rate. I asked about the nearest cash machine and they informed me that I would have to take a taxi to the local bank, a 5 minute ride away. It turned out that another passenger on the bus, an Israeli traveler, needed to do the same so we decided to go together. Before entering the taxi, we came to an agreement on the price, which came to approximately $ 2, there and back. I was then able to take Quetzals out at the ATM, and directly change them with the bank into dollars, giving me the best possible exchange rate. The Israeli guy did the same, but had to take out substantially more, ($ 50) because the Belize government had recently been in some trivial row over something with Israel, so decided to punish Israeli tourists with a large fee for entering their country, even if it was only for a few hours, while en route to Mexico.

 

When we arrived back at the border in the taxi, and we handed over the equivalent of $ 2 to the taxi driver, he claimed that it was only $ 2 for one way, and we had to pay him double. We both called bull-shit, as we had agreed to the fair earlier and knew the guy was taking us for a ride (no pun intended), so paid him the original agreed price.

 

First I needed to have my passport stamped by the Guatemalan officials in order to emigrate. I handed over my passport, the man stamped it, then asked for 10 Q (about a dollar). At this stage I only had dollars on me and only a few coins in Quetzals in my pocket. I handed over about 5 Q in change and the man seemed satisfied. I thought, “how nice of him”, but then though, why the fuck should I be paying him anything at all. He probably just pockets that money from tourists who are none the wiser.

 

To immigrate into Belize I handed over my passport, had it stamped, was then asked a fairly decent amount of accusatory questions, in really good English, about the content of my luggage, before I was let into the country. I then remembered that Belize was an English speaking country, in fact the only English speaking country in the whole of Latin America. It also has a rather interesting pirate-history. From the 16^th century onwards English pirates would continually harass Spanish galleons exporting gold, silver and hardwood to Europe. But before I could read further about Belize’s history in my Lonely Planet, I discovered from my Israeli friend, that his traveling companion was having further problems at the border. It turns out the $ 50 that my Israeli friend took out was to pay for a visa to enter Belize, which the Belizean border officials could make there and then. For this, a couple of passport-sized photos were needed. By chance my Israeli friend had some on his person, but his traveling companion didn’t, and, as such, had to take a taxi to the nearest place where he could have passport photos taken on the Guatemalan side of the Belizean border.

 

To complicate matters further, a German tour guide who had been traveling on buses with me from Guatemala City to return to his wife in Cancun, informed me that there was a lady on the bus who had an eye injury and urgently needed to get back to Belize to see a doctor. He explained that a Coke bottle had somehow exploded in her face while she was in Guatemala, and caused damage to one of her eyes. She was from Belize, and needed to see an ophthalmologist in the capital, Belmopan. She was wearing sunglasses so I couldn’t see how bad the injury was, and couldn’t work out whether she needed to be in the capital urgently because she had an appointment that she would miss, or because she needed urgent attention. I also couldn’t make out whether the German tour guide was encouraging the bus driver to leave without the second Israeli if he didn’t arrive in ten minutes time because he was genuinely concerned for the lady, or because this was holding up his trip and increasing the time it would be before he saw his wife. Either way, the lady looked like she would survive, and I thought it was an extremely bad idea to leave a guy all by himself at the Guatemalan-Belize border. I therefore, encouraged the driver, along with my Israeli friend, to wait.

 

Close to twenty minutes later, the second Israeli traveler came into sight, smoking a cigarette, and we were on the road again.

 

The next pit stop was for the driver to take a quick bathroom break. Conveniently he stopped beside a food stall, cooking what looked like great food. I was extremely wary, however, of street food, given that my amoeba a couple of weeks earlier was almost certainly caused by the food I had eaten at a street-stall. However, I buckled for three reasons: 1) a very friendly local told me he ate there every day and had never been ill, and that the food was phenomenal, 2) One of the Israeli’s told me not to be such “a little girl”, and 3) I was fucking hungry. The food was indeed excellent. I had some lobster with some tasty sauce, with rice, beans, potato salad and vegetables, all for the princely sum of $ 5. I liked Belize already, and had only been out of the bus for 5 minutes.

 

But before I had received my food, I heard the bus engine slip out of idling and into gear and saw the bus pulling away. I had to run for it to stop it, and leave my food behind. I boarded the bus and asked the bus driver if he could wait for a second while I grabbed my food. He said we had to go, but now that he knew that I was off the bus, I was relatively confident, but not completely sure, that he wouldn’t leave without me. I jumped off, grabbed and paid for the food, and ran back on.

 

The part travelling through Belize was perhaps the worst of the trip, mainly because it was very hot and, instead of a/c, we had hair dryer-esque wind coming in through the windows. The roads, like those in Guatemala, were windy, uneven, and seemed to have an unnecessary amount of speed-bumps. Instead of building a major road and having minor roads running off it into villages and small dwellings, there was only one main road that ran through everything. Therefore hundreds and hundreds of speed-bumps were laid across the road to force traffic to slow down while passing by villages.

 

Many hours were spent sweating into my jeans before we reached the Belize/Mexican border of Chetumal. There we crossed (with a fee again, of course) with relative ease in comparison to the last border crossing. Instead of an hour and a half, this only took half an hour. Back on the bus again and after a total of 12 hours in the bus and crossing borders, we arrived at Chetumal bus station. I was happy to be finished with the second last leg, but was not looking forward particularly to getting on the fourth and final bus. It was another 7 hours north on the road from Chetumal to Cancun.

 

Luckily the next bus to Cancun left in only 15 minutes. While I lined up to buy a ticket, the clock ticked and I was worried I was going to miss it. During my wait, a lady tried to squeeze in front of me, and when I said excuse me, she asked me if I was in the line, to which I replied, “yes”. She then tried to queue barge in front of the Israeli’s and when she failed at that, she tried to go directly to the front and persuade the ticket salesperson to sell her a ticket before everybody else, as if she was the only one cutting it close for a bus. The entire line of people were fairly unamused, and the salesperson was unsympathetic, so the silly knob slunk back to the end of the line. Good thing too, because I only just made my bus. I said a hurried goodbye to the Israeli’s and scuttled on to the final leg.

 

The Mexican bus was about as different as 1^st class and economy are in a plane, compared to the Belizean and Guatemalan busses. It had a/c, nice seats and several televisions. Also, the road from Chetumal to Cancun was excellent, which added to the comfort of the journey. It was still exceptionally boring, but fairly painless in comparison to the other busses.

 

Arriving in Cancun, I knew where I was going to stay (the first and cheapest place mentioned in my Lonely Planet named Blue Hostal) but didn’t know where it was. I asked the German tour guide if he knew its location and he said his wife would be able to drive me there. He had been living in Cancun with his Mexican wife for a few years, and led tours all over Mexico for German tourists. I didn’t get to the bottom of what he was doing in Guatemala, but it was probably job related. After a 25 minute wait for his wife, she arrived in a sporty little car that clearly would not fit me nor my luggage as well as her husband and his. Instead, she pointed me in the right direction and told me it was very close.

 

A five minute walk away, I started to hear blaring music which I thought might be coming from the roof deck of my hostel. The Lonely Planet had said that they thumped out music late into the night, and it was therefore not for early bed-goers. It was already about 11 p.m. and I still needed to do a few things before I went to bed, like eat and buy my plane ticket online (I was praying that the price hadn’t gone up), so I wasn’t worried about late night music. I let the music be my guide and found the place, and immediately asked for the cheapest accommodation. It was the most horrific excuse for a dorm I have ever seen. Bunk beds placed virtually side by side, with only mattresses. No sheets, no pillows. I couldn’t do it. I asked for the cheapest room, which wasn’t actually that much more expensive. The beds had sheets and pillows, but there was an awful smell. There were no other rooms available, however, and not having slept properly for two days, I settled for a night with a stinky room. It turned to be emanating from the bathroom, where it was rather potent. The smell was in between the smell of puke and poo and made going into the bathroom an unpleasant experience. In the room I could just about handle it.

 

First thing first, I had to re-find my plane ticket online, and book it. I was extremely worried that the price might have changed since I saw the deal on offer two days ago in Guatemala. I had my computer with me and made sure the hostel had wireless before I agreed to stay there, so I was hooked up to the internet. Thankfully, the price was the same and I paid for it online with ease. Supper was next. I had eaten close to nothing on the trip, but didn’t have much of an appetite because I was so tired, and so excited to be flying to San Diego the next day. I settled for some yoghurt drink and a bottle of water from the local equivalent of Seven Eleven, and shortly after had a shower and went to bed. I should mention that the sheet on the bed looked filthy and that there were no top sheets or blankets. I should also mention that it was about this time that I noticed that the music was still playing upstairs on the roof deck, at 1.30 a.m., really really loudly. My room was located directly beneath the roof, and, as such, it sounded like the bass speaker was actually in my room. My bed vibrated with each bass beat.

 

I tried to get to sleep for about half an hour before I had had enough. I went downstairs to ask the guy behind the reception desk what time the music would stop. He couldn’t help let out a little bit of a laugh, before saying, “around 4 a.m.” I returned to my room, disgruntled, but sure that I would eventually fall asleep, given how tired I was, regardless of the music. I managed to drift off at about 2 a.m. only to wake up a couple of hours later in an a/c induced cold sweat. I threw on whatever clothes were at the top of my bag, and turned the a/c off. The music woke me back up at 6 a.m. I couldn’t believe it was still playing, let alone at the same volume as it had been all night. My flight wasn’t until 11, but I couldn’t take staying in this shit hole any more, so I decided to pack my stuff up.

 

Just before I left I decided I wanted to take a look at what an earth warranted such loud music on the roof all night, up until (and past) six in the morning. I shot up the stairs to be faced by a rather strange scene. Needless to say, like the rest of the hostel, it was grotty and dirty. But what stuck out was the fact that it was only local men, drinking beer who were present. There was no way that they could hear each other, there were no girls there, and the place was as clean as my arsehole in Guatemala, so I really couldn’t see the appeal. With much relief, I left the ‘Blue Hostal and bargained with a taxi driver about how much he would charge me to go to the airport. Once we came to an agreement, I hopped in.

 

Cancun airport was completely empty when I arrived; not a single other passenger in sight. I went to check in at the Continental desk, and handed over my passport. Given that I didn’t have a printer I couldn’t print out my itinerary or receipt of purchase, but I did write down my confirmation number, which airlines sometimes ask for if they have trouble finding your online purchase on their computer system. This, they asked for which was the first red flag. Then the man asked me if I had actually bought the ticket, which I had the night before. To cut a long story short, it transpired that for some reason, while I had reserved a seat, I had not actually properly booked a seat on the flight, even though I had purchased the ticket online in exactly the same way I had done many times before with Continental. I had no idea why it hadn’t worked and why there was a problem.

 

The man informed me that the transaction had not worked because the price was incorrect online and that the round trip in fact cost $ 1,300. My heart sank. I put my face in my hands and thought about how far I had come to take this cheap flight. I had left at 2.30 p.m. on Tuesday, and it was now 7 a.m. on Thursday. That was over 40 hours of traveling, 30 plus of which was in buses, and I hadn’t even finished my journey. Now it transpires that I would have been better off flying from Guatemala City at $ 900, only four and a bit hours from where I was in Guatemala. I wanted to cry but didn’t have the energy. Another Continental member of staff who had come to help her co-worker with my ticket told me not to worry, which provided me with no comfort whatsoever. My head only came out of my hands when I heard the man tell me that he had made a mistake and that the original ticket price was correct and that I could purchase it directly through them. I told them both that they had almost given me a heart attack, but didn’t say anything more because I was so relieved that I all my traveling hadn’t been in vain.

 

I went through security towards the gates, feeling giddy that the adventure had almost worked. All I needed to do was take a couple of flights and a taxi and I would be at Zoe’s house. However, I had a boring four hour wait in Cancun’s International Airport. Because I was so early, I was, literally (when I say literally I really mean literally; see picture) the only passenger there. The airport was pretty decent to be honest; it looked brand new, but I felt like I was in a scene from 28 Days Later, given the lack of people. It was ghostly. The only other people there were people working in the various shops and food outlets. Nearer to the flight, the airport began to fill up. The flight was delayed about half an hour, but other than that the airplane part of the trip, including a couple of hours layover in Houston, Texas, went without a hitch, bar the ticket incident.

During the Houston/San Diego flight I asked the man sitting next to me about the best way to get to La Jolla, where Zoe lives, and he said taking a taxi was the best idea. When I got into the taxi, I gave the driver Zoe’s address which she had given to me because I said that I was going to send her a present. When I said Mirimar Street, the taxi driver insisted that it was in fact Mirimar Avenue and that I had made a mistake. I said I was fairly sure that I had taken it down correctly, but because he was from the area, I gave him the benefit of the doubt and agreed to go to Mirimar Avenue. During the drive there I sent a text message to Zoe’s best friend, Maria, to see if Zoe was in the house. I found out that Maria was staying with Zoe when I called Maria the night I was in Cancun; I wanted to see if she agreed that it was a good idea that I was going to surprise Zoe, or whether I should tell her in advance. She confirmed that the surprise was the better option. In the reply text Maria let me know that she and Zoe were still at Zoe’s apartment, but were going to go out to another person’s house soon to kick off Zoe’s birthday celebrations.

I was again cutting things fine, and the taxi ride was taking longer than I had expected. We arrived at Mirimar Avenue, and the driver was counting down the numbers on the street until he got to 3819. The street looked far too big to have apartments on it, and I was dubious about whether we were in the right place. When the taxi driver couldn’t find the number, he started to second-guess that he was right about Mirimar Avenue. Eventually he got onto his walkie-talkie and asked the dispatcher if there was such a thing as Mirimar Street, which, it transpires, there was. I was indeed right and this taxi driver had just potentially ruined my chances of surprising Zoe. I would have to call her to find out where she was if she had already left the house. The taxi driver backtracked and we find Mirimar Street after about 10 more minutes. We have a little bit of trouble finding the exact apartment, but eventually find it.

I take my bags to Zoe’s building and try to find Apartment G. I head up a flight of stairs and find it immediately. My heart pounds as I knock on the door. I think I hear Zoe’s voice, saying, “hello?”, but I’m not sure. The door swings open, and there she is. She screams and initially runs away from me, but then comes back after the initial shock sets in. The rest, as they say, is history.

This was my first time in San Diego, and I took to the place immediately. Americans claim San Diego has the best weather in the U.S. and with much justification. Each day I woke up to brilliant sunshine without a cloud in the sky. The days were warm and dry but not too hot, and with the occasional light sea breeze. It was the polar opposite to Xela, where it was cold and rained every afternoon. I was in heaven. Added to that, San Diego is just beautiful. UCSD, where Zoe is a graduate student, is literally beach front property. From many of its buildings you can see the ocean, and the stunning beaches with surf. I liked how spread out San Diego was in comparison to cities on the east coast, and the relaxed and easy going attitude of the west coasters. I imaged it would be a lovely place to live, and couldn’t understand why Californians ever wanted to live on the east coast. They have everything on the west coast, except it’s better.

Aside from seeing an excellent musical called Memphis, which I am sure will hit Broadway in the near future, the highlight of the trip was going to San Diego Zoo. My great friend and local San Diegan, Jon-Michael daVirro had informed me that it was the best zoo in the States. I could only, therefore, assume it must be the best in the world, and probably the biggest too, given that everything in the States is bigger and better. The combination of me not really being into zoos (thinking they are more for children than 23 year olds) and having high expectations about this particular zoo, meant that I was bound to be disappointed. I wasn’t. San Diego Zoo had every single animal I had ever heard of, and many more. I later saw an advertisement for San Diego Zoo on the side of a bus, saying “If it’s not here, it probably doesn’t exist.” And that was true, as far as I was concerned.

Aside from seeing the usual elephants, rhinos, giraffes, pelicans and many various other bird species, monkeys, apes, lions, tigers, snakes, hippos, and lots of other animals that I had never seen or heard of before, the best enclosure had to be the gorillas’. Zoe and I had the honor of seeing the head male gorilla spectacularly mount one of his harem in front of all of the other gorillas, which no doubt included his children, and possibly grandchildren. It was quite a sight, and when he put his arms up in the air while he was doing it I couldn’t help but think he was showing off. A gorilla enthusiast, with her long camera strapped around her neck at the ready, assured Zoe and me that it was a privilege to be witnessing this act, something which I didn’t doubt. This lady also happened to know each ape by name, their ages, and their life history, complete with where they were from originally, which had been born in the zoo and so on and so forth. She had a year long pass to the zoo and let Zoe and me know that she came to the Zoo at least twice a week. Half of me thought that was rather sweet, but the other half had me thinking, what an earth are you doing with yourself?

After a wonderful week in San Diego, it was time for me to reluctantly return to Guatemala. Not only did I now know how awful my impending trip back would be, but I didn’t have anything to look forward to once I got there. I was almost inclined not to return and go somewhere else in Central America, but I had promised my family and my school that I would return, and left some things in my family’s house in Guatemala to make sure I kept this promise.

After exactly the same plane journey, but in reverse, I decided I would take a different route back to Xela, Guatemala, from Cancun. Instead of going from Mexico, through Belize and eventually to Guatemala, I decided to take one individual long bus ride through Mexico to a town called San Cristobal de las Cassas, and go directly from there to Xela. On the basis that the buses and the roads were much better in Mexico than Belize or Guatemala, I thought this would be a good decision. Turned out I was right. This assumption, and the fact that I purchased one of those neck rests just before I hopped on the bus made my journey infinitely better. Although the bus ride was about 22 hours long, I slept like a baby for about 12 of these hours with the comfort of my neck rest, and spent the other hours watching some good dubbed movies on offer.

We arrived in San Cristobal in the afternoon, and I realized it was too late in the day to travel to Xela. I would have to spend the night there and go the next day. I looked up a place in the Lonely Planet, proceeded to get totally lost, and eventually caved and took a taxi. The backpackers’ hostel had a great feel to it, with an open courtyard in the center and lots of plants and greenery. The dorms were decent too. The man behind the desk spoke perfect English and had in fact lived in the States growing up. I also met a couple of Aussies who had been travelling in Mexico, finding surf, who intended to head to Guatemala the next day too to continue their search of waves.

I decided to take a look around San Cristobal in the short space of time I had there. It too had a lovely feel to it. It was a spectacularly beautiful little colonial town, with cobbled, carless streets, and handsome architecture. I could imagine spending much more time there quite happily. It again made me question why on earth I was returning to the anus of the world that is Xela.

On my search to find a place to buy a bus ticket from San Cristobal to Xela, I bumped into the Aussies again and we agreed on meeting up for dinner and perhaps watching a movie at a local ‘theater’. I put theater in quotation marks because they are actually just restaurants with a darkened back room containing a projector and comfy chairs. We ended up watching Thank you for Smoking, a fun film and then getting fondue (not my favorite but I was hungry) for supper afterwards.

I woke up early the next day to grab the shuttle to Xela, which I was told would take about 6 hours. It took 8, and wasn’t quite as direct as I thought, given that they dropped the three of us going to Xela off at a gas station and put us in a car for the rest of the journey. However, this trip was so much better than its counterpart on the way up that I didn’t really mind.

When I arrived in Xela, my family was glad to see that I was alive and had survived my week away, but I wouldn’t say that they were overly ecstatic to see me. To be honest the feeling was mutual, and after six buses, four taxis, two cars, and four airplanes, totaling over 100 ours of travel time, I felt a bit miffed to be back in such an armpit of a city.

Week 2 and 3 in Xela, Guatemala: amoebas are not your friends. September 1st to 14th 2008.

 

An evangelical missionary from the United States told me in the local gym I recently joined not to eat at cheap places in Guatemala because “they come with friends.” He explained that these friends were actually amoebas that would end up living in your intestine and cause stomach cramps and diarrhea. They stem from an array of poorly sanitized food products, such as unwashed lettuce where snails can leave mucus behind, which spawn amoebas. The lettuce used in the three tortillas that I bought during the night out drinking with Marcos and Andy could have contained this mucus, because they gave me a fairly horrendous few days spent mostly on the loo. But after having ridden out the runs after my day on the volcano, I was fairly confident that I had merely suffered a case of food poisoning.

 

What worried me however, was that the next time I drank the local beer, a week or so later, the exact same thing happened. I was up all night and ill the next day with stomach cramps and diarrhea. Could I be allergic to Guatemalan beer? Please, God, anything but beer. I managed to walk slowly to school that morning only to tell my teacher that I was too ill to study that day and had to return home. He asked me to tell the head teacher, who then told me that I had an amoeba. She explained that amoebas can attack but then lay dormant in your intestine for a couple of weeks ago before they attack again. Having been at the school for over 20 years and seeing foreigners like me get bugs like this no doubt all the time, I trusted her and took the prescription name that she gave me to the pharmacy. There I received 12 blue pills (4 per day) for the princely sum of 10 Quetzals, or $ 1.40. At that price, I should just take them all the time I thought. That was a bad thought. I found out that these pills are designed to totally flush you (and your amoeba) out. It was a horrendous three days, while I felt weak and had to endure fairly painful stomach cramps.

 

To add to this, on day one of the pills, I had one of the strangest encounters of my life with another human being. During the morning while I was attempting to watch television in Spanish, and wanted nothing more than to be left alone, Aida (sister of the father of my family who does all the cooking/cleaning/washing and has more facial hair than Santa Claus) tells me someone is outside to see me. Confused as to why anyone would come to see me (I hardly know anyone in Xela aside from a handful of people at my school) I step outside, to be greeted by no one. I tell this to Aida and ask her to describe the person to me. She said he was Chinese (here, there is no such thing as Asian; everyone from Asia is called Chinese, even if they are in fact Japanese or Korean or from any other Asian country) and that he might have run round the corner. I go outside again, and try to find the character. I managed to catch a glimpse of an Asian guy I recognize from walking by him couple of times on my walk to school each day. Most students do the same walk every morning so it is not uncommon to see the same people a few times. He looks at me, but then walks away.

 

I go back into the house and explain to Aida that I have never met the guy and he must have been mistaken. Wrong. That evening Aida again tells me someone is there to see me. This time the same guy is standing outside my house, talking to someone. I take another look at him and he doesn’t say anything so I go back into the house once more and again explain to Aida and my host family mother that I have no idea who the guy outside is. I return to my room only to be followed by my host mother who hands me an envelope from the man outside. Without opening it I go downstairs to confront the mysterious person to find out what an earth is going on. We speak in English and I ask him what the letter he gave me is about. He tries to explain but I still don’t understand what his purpose is. I couldn’t work out whether it was his bad English, or the fact that he was incredibly bad at explaining what he was up to, or a combination of the two, which made it so difficult for me to understand what the fuck he was on about.

 

Slowly I began to realize why the message wasn’t getting across. I started to pick out the words “project”, “pictures”, “model”, and “you”, and realized this absolute knob wanted to take pictures of me as a model for some alleged project he was doing. It all sounded a bit fishy to me. I then opened his letter in front of him and it confirmed what I had thought I understood. On the front were the words “Estudiante Extranjero” which means “foreign student”. Here is the letter, in full, word for word [aside from my little inputs]:

 

Hi, I have recently ran into you on the street here in Xela and I am wondering to see if you are ever interested in photo shooting as a model for me. I know you are a foreigner [well done Sherlock Holmes], well me to, just that I am not so sure whether you are from North America or Europe [not sure what the fuck that has to do with anything]. I am from Japan and my name is Ryan Ibuki [and I am a rapist], 25 yrs. Old.

 

Anyway, my cell number is as follows: 4265-4778. Just give me a call so that we could arrange the event then.

 

Wish you luck on your study.

 

Friend,

 

Ryan I.

 

PS. Do give me a call because you’ve really got the potential, okay?

 

 

 

I was pretty stunned by the whole thing, and obviously wanted nothing to do with it. But to complicate matters, there was a homeless man just outside the house who wouldn’t stop interrupting us in complete gibberish. When the mother of my family tried to tell the homeless person to go away, he carried on. She therefore invited the Japanese guy into the house until the other guy left. Oh shit. Thank goodness homeless gibberish man went away pretty sharply because I was feeling very awkward being in the same room as someone who had stalked me to my house. Ryan, who incidentally claimed to be enrolled in a university in Xela, left shortly after. I was left to explain to my host family the entire situation, which they first found confusing and then found amusing. It has become somewhat of a running joke now when I tell the family that I am leaving the house to go to a café to study because they will always ask me “con su amigo de Japon?” (with your friend from Japan?). It was a good joke initially, and one that I in fact preemptively cracked, saying one day that I was going to meet up with the guy as a joke. Now I wish I had never said that because they still think it is hilarious and I was over it before I cracked it the first time.

 

I have also made my first Guatemalan friend, who was partly to blame for what aggravated my amoeba the second time. It is currently world cup football/soccer qualifying season. As such Guatemala has been playing in qualifying group with the United States, Trinidad and Tobago, and Cuba. I had seen Guatemala draw with T and T the week before, but tonight was an important match against Cuba. Guatemalans are madly keen on football so I thought it would make a fun night if I headed to one of the local bars to watch the match. I sat myself at the bar and ordered a Gallo. I ask a rotund Guatemalan sitting by himself at the table in front of me what the score is. 0 – 0. He asks me if I am rooting for Guatemala, to which I reply “por supuesto” (of course). From that moment on he treated me like a younger brother for the rest of the night. Beers were bought, other family members arrived, Guatemala were scoring goals, I was being hugged by my new friend and the bar was going crazy.

 

This guy, named Victor, plus his enormous gut, could seriously put away some beers. He teased me because I wasn’t drinking enough, so I told him to look at the size difference between us, which he found relatively amusing. At the end of the night he gave me his number and told me he wanted me to come and watch a local football match that weekend with his whole family. I said I would love to and two days later I found myself at the local stadium with three other students whom I had recently met, with Victor’s number in my hand. I used one of the student’s cell phones to dial the number in the hope of getting through to Victor. There was no way I would find him because the stadium was packed. However, through some pretty poor Spanish on my part and some excellent luck, I located Victor and his family and encouraged the three others to join me. He had saved us the best seats in the stadium and even put down plastic trash bags so we wouldn’t get our arses wet on the seats. He introduced me to his wife and two children and later explained that he had another wife and another two children. At 36 years old, this was fairly impressive. He was only 18 when he was married and his first wife gave birth to his first child.

 

The football match itself was a combination of football and a pyrotechnic show. Huge numbers of fans brought their own fireworks and flairs and would set them off at various stages during the match. It was absolute mayhem but a very good fun and certainly an experience. Xela, Guatemala’s second largest city was playing Guatemala city, who are ranked 2 and 1 in the national league respectively. Xela held off Guatemala City for the first half, but then goals started streaming in in the second, with a full-time score of 4 -1 to Guatemala City. The fans weren’t best pleased and throughout the match offered some less than polite words to the Guatemala city team and referee.

 

As the game came to a close I was happy that I would soon be returning to my house because my feet were soaking wet and cold. I also felt rather good that I had finished my last dose of amoeba pills and had survived.

 

The next day I intended to finally find an outdoor running route without enormous amounts of dangerous and pollution-causing cars. I thought that if I ran toward the nearest mountain and up it, it would give me a better chance of being out the way of cars. Thankfully, this plan worked. I now have a pretty decent and hilly running route with some ok scenery, farms, and cattle/horses/goats along the way. The only real problem is that there are quite a number of dogs that line the path, some of who seem to be guarding particular bits of land. Most are fairly benign but some are pretty unfriendly.

 

Today I ran the same route but a little bit further and on my way back I was confronted by two rather fierce looking dogs barking at me and staring me down. I had to go past them; it was the only way back, so I decided the best idea would be to pick up a large stick in case they got too close. As I neared, their barking increased and they didn’t seem to back away. I threatened them with the stick and managed to scare them back a bit and nip around them. They then began to chase me but I used the same stick trick technique to scare them off. I thought my adventures were over, but on a fairly steep downhill part near the end of my run, a dog came at me from behind out of nowhere and scared the absolute shit out of me. It almost bit my fucking leg amidst loud barks but I turned towards it and raised my fist and shouted as loudly as I could at it which seemed to do the trick. Not the most fun route, but certainly better preparation for the marathon than running in the gym.

 

I have also found a local hospital that I would like to volunteer at. It offers free care to people with severe pulmonary disease, such as tuberculosis, and also to aids patients. Work will be three times a week for 4 hours each time, for a minimum of a month. It will be hands on, cleaning, bathing, feeding the patients and so on. I meet with the head nurse on Wednesday, and will start work then if all goes to plan.

Week 1 in Xela, Guatemala: A shock to the (gastro-intestinal) system. August 25th to 31st 2008.

 

Am woken up on my first morning in Spanish by the very small, and fairly old, Edwardo (father of the family I am living with) who sports an absolutely awesome white mustache. Eat a breakfast which was essentially exactly the same as supper the night before, plus some food they call moush (oatmal/porridge type stuff but without many oats and with a lot of watery liquid stuff). I virtually crap myself when Edwardo hands me a map and points out my Spanish school (which looks pretty far away), thinking I am going to have to find the place all by myself. I am grateful when Edwardo steps out the door with me.

 

The school is about a 10-15 minute walk away, which isn’t in itself bad. The fact that there is more traffic here than in Manhattan, but with roads a quarter of the size, and ‘drivers’ who ‘drive’ with absolutely no concern for pedestrians makes it a pretty horrible journey to and from school every day. That, coupled with the fact that black smoke spurts out of every car/bus/van exhaust pipe and hangs in the valley that Xela sits in, makes it unpleasant to say the least. Last point of complaint: the sidewalks are only wide enough for one person to walk along. Locals never move to make space, even if they are walking two abreast, so if there is an oncoming pedestrian or two, you have to get off the sidewalk and step into the road which is a pretty hairy experience given said quality of the ‘driving’.

 

Arrive at school and see a group of locals outside, whom I assume are teachers. Edwardo shares a few words and one of them speaks to me in Spanish. Another embarrassing effort to explain that I speak no Spanish ensues. I feel a bit better when the teacher says “no hay problema”, which I assume means, it’s not a problem. Meet my teacher, and spend the next two and a half hours desperately trying to speak Spanish with her. It is a struggle, but I assume being thrown into it this way, and having one on one lessons, is the best mode of learning Spanish quickly. A half an hour break ensues where I meet the other students, teachers and staff. They have a ping pong table which I am pleased about, plus bread and tea is provided during the break. It is a welcome food-type, after all this fried stuff I have been served.

 

Back to the classroom for two more hours of painstaking Spanish. I am given homework and head back to my house for a 1.30 p.m. lunch. Lunch, which happens to be the biggest meal of the day in Guatemala, is much better than breakfast and supper. For a start, I am given some kind of meat, and even some vegetables, accompanied by rice. I am still offered tomales (the maize things) which I decline. I feel completely awkward because, for the first time in my life, I am unable to contribute anything to the conversation at the table. It is a strange feeling, but something I will have to get used to before my Spanish improves.

 

Go up to my room/prison cell and try to do my homework. Not a great environment to work in, but at least I have a desk. Realize I am still hungry. The portion sizes in my family are freaking tiny, and it is certainly not the right thing to do to ask for more, given that they, like most families here, don’t have a huge amount of money to live on. Would love to go out and buy some food or eat at a restaurant but come to the conclusion that a) I don’t know where any supermarkets/restaurants are and b) even if I did, I don’t know enough Spanish yet to let people know what I would like. It is a tough situation, but one that motivates me to crack on with my homework so I won’t starve.

 

I get the picture of what the food will be like here when I have supper. Exactly the same as the night before: friholes fritos (refried beans), huevos (eggs), arroz (rice) and chili (chili, obviously). Am absolutely knackered so I hit the sack shortly after eating, with a kind of “oh fuck me in the face” type of feeling about the next 8 weeks.

 

The rest of the week follows much the same pattern, except that I get up 5.50 a.m. to go running some mornings before breakfast with another Brit named Mark (Marcos in Spanish) in the same program as me. He is a nice chap and provides some good release from Spanish. Having said that, we attempted to practice our Spanish on each other while running during the mornings. If any locals heard us, they would have probably thought: what a couple of total phalluses, two totally English guys with a day of Spanish under their belts trying to converse in that over their mother tongue. In fact, that is exactly how I felt. Either way, it wouldn’t do any harm I thought. In any case, the runs in the morning are a good way to kick start the day and good training for the marathon I intend to run with my Dad in Sacramento, CA on December 7^th.

 

By the third night I come to the conclusion that I am no longer going to eat supper with my family because the portion sizes are too small, it tastes like dumplestiltskin, and I would rather slowly eat my own balls. This is good timing because I am beginning to get to know my fellow students, one of whom is leaving so we go out to dinner at a Parisian restaurant in town. I am so hungry that I order two main courses and the others are amazed/disgusted. I tell them that I eat more than anyone I know aside from the man/beast/string bean/streak of piss in the wind/pole that is Rob Neville. The table of students consists of 3 lawyers who had just finished the bar at NYU, Marcos a recently exed UBS man, and me. All are very amiable and have excellent Spanish compared to Marcos and me.

 

For the rest of the week I either eat with people or by myself at The Blue Angel Café, a very cheap place serving excellent food. I think I ordered Spaghetti Bolognese with garlic bread for four nights in a row, with limonada con soda (fresh lime soda). It came out to just over $ 4 each night, so I can fit it into my tight budget I think.

 

Still feeling fairly lost in terms of Spanish and my way around Xela, I decide to go out for a night on the town with Marcos on Friday. We hit a bar named, Pool and Beer (in English). The clue was in the name: when we got there, there was pool and beer. I meet an interesting and extremely friendly local named Juan Pablo with faultless English. He is 24 and has a 30 year old Argentinean girlfriend, Maria, who looks about 18. Juan Pablo attended a private local school and has spent the last two years traveling with his girlfriend around Latin America. He now runs a hotel (and delivers fruit on the weekend to Xela on the side) at a local tourist spot on the Pacific coast of Guatemala. After two years, his girlfriend is returning to Argentina, and they are uncertain about their future. I lend a sympathetic ear and he explains the whole story. In the end, I let him know that if it was meant to be, it will work, regardless of what country they were each in. If they were meant for each other, countries are merely places and their relationship will overcome the distance. What a sage, even at the humble age of 23, giving advice to these older people.

 

I get the picture that Juan Pablo is fairly well off for Guatemalan standards when he takes us in his brand new pick up truck to the next bar, a bar well known for Salsa dancing. He drops us off, giving me his email address and heads back to his place with Maria. The place is packed, and full of good salsa dancers. Hitting the dance floor would be suicide given that I have no idea how to salsa, plus I have two left club-feet. Marcos, a Canadian guy whom we met named Andy, and I buy another liter of Gallo, the local brew to try to muster up some Dutch courage. When the clock strikes 11, they finally start playing some music that even spastics like myself and the other two tourists can dance to. Fully lubricated with Gallo, we start making knobs out of ourselves on the dance floor. I can’t have been doing too badly, however, because the girls that I met on the bus weren’t too embarrassed to say hello when they saw me, and even surprised me with a four way hug, which was slightly too aggressive in my opinion, given that they made me spill my glass of beer all down my arm. Either way it was fun to see them and to introduce them to Marcos and Andy.

 

Incidentally, Andy has his own website: www.spandyandy.com where you can watch him dance in spandex in various spots around the globe. I recommend checking out this particular video shot in Vancouver: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oiQAnUkvrRM

Definitely worth I look. I’m just disappointed that he didn’t whip out that tight outfit that night.

 

We stayed at the bar until closing, and were in desperate need of some food to soak up the beer. The only place open was a “street meat” stall, one of the places you should avoid like the plague because they are notoriously unhygienic and the chances of you getting dysentery are about 2:1. Therefore we each bought three tortillas filled with disgusting shit-meat which we downed in about four seconds. Feeling temporarily satisfied, Marcos and I walk Andy to his hostel. It is fairly dangerous to walk alone late at night. For example, the other day we met two girls that had been robbed at knife point just outside the Blue Angel at 7 p.m. the night before. It is good luck that Marcos and I happen to live with families that live next door to each other.

 

Wake up the next day with what can only be some hybrid form of dysentery. I describe it to my family as an upset stomach, but it was more like a fucking upside down volcano erupting out of my bumhole. I kid you not, one session the eruption was so forceful that it actually displaced some of the water from loo, into the air, and then onto the floor in front of me. It was the most amazing achievement of my dumping career. Spend the entire day getting lighter, as it were, and become increasingly nervous about the hike which I agreed to go on the next day with my fellow students up Santa Maria, a local volcano. I had already seen enough eruptions, but in all seriousness, I wasn’t sure that I was going to make it because I was feeling fairly awful.

 

At 4.30 a.m. the next day I had to make a game time decision: spend the day at home crapping in my loo, or spend the day on a volcano, crapping on a volcano. I didn’t want to let the guys down (dropping out would have meant that they couldn’t go because the trekking company sets a 4 person limit per guide) so I take the longest dump of my life and head out the door to be met by Marcos. We arrive at the meeting point outside the place we had booked the hike just before 5 a.m., the meeting time, and are met by Jason and Kim, two of the NYU lawyers. No guide. Fifteen minutes later we see lights in the distance, and our guide casually rolls up in his ancient SUV.

 

A short drive and we are at the base of the volcano. I glance up and it looks fairly unimpressive and small as the sun rises. This is deceptive, as it is a tough three and a half hour hike to the summit, and in my state I struggled a bit. Thank goodness Marcos and Kim were fairly unfit because it meant at least 3 of us walked at around the same pace. Jason, who is a runner, had no problems. I hadn’t been able to buy water the day before because I was so ill, but thankfully the guide gives me one of his spare bottles. I don’t want to drink too much though, because I am scared it will go straight through me and upside down volcano may meet reel volcano.

 

Even in my weak state, I couldn’t fend off the boyish/immature desire to be the first one to reach the peak, so I started running about 30 feet below the highest point. Instead of feeling elated when I stood atop the tallest rock on the volcano, I felt so out of breath that I thought I was going to faint and crap myself at the same time. The altitude made everything worse. I was standing at 3772 m or 12 375 ft. The view, however, made up for it. It was utterly magnificent. You could see the city of Xela, and all the surrounding volcanoes.

 

What stole the show, however, was a nearby volcano which Santa Maria looked directly down onto, which erupted every 45 minutes. Huge plumes of steam emanated from its crater and it sounded like a jet plane going past. I couldn’t but help draw the parallel between it and my unfortunate situation.

 

Another interesting sight on the summit was a group of 30 or so people praying. They appeared to be some Christian group, involved in much wailing and crying. One man kept on crying/saying the words “Padre lo siento…” (father, sorry…). It was a strange sight but I was impressed by the fact that they must have been up earlier than 4.30 a.m. to reach the summit before us.

 

An hour or so was spent on the top of the volcano, giving us time to take pictures and soak in the wonderful 360 degree view of Guatemala, which included its Pacific coast.

 

The hike down was much easier in terms of strain on the body, but more treacherous because the paths were steep and slippery. We all slipped a few times and I, for one, bit the dust at least once, but we all arrived safely back at the car in one piece. During the hike down I came to realize what an intelligent bunch I was with. They each explained to me in extreme detail the credit crunch, how irresponsible lending was the major cause of this, and about America’s current economic situation in general. The two Americans, who claimed not to know much about politics, then proceeded to flesh out the Barack vs. McCain political race for the next hour. Art was also discussed, including the controversial Jeff Koons whose exhibition I saw this summer at the MET in New York. Religion was the next topic and so on. It was a fascinating series of discussions and made the trip down an easy and enjoyable one.

 

We decided not to end our action packed day there. After a quick turnaround, we went with the same guide to agua caliente (literally, hot water). We thought these geothermally heated pools of water might make our muscles feel better after our long hike. As soon as we arrived it started raining and we were freezing. A group decision was made to go into the lowest, and least warm, pool first. It was fucking boiling, especially as I had a bit of sunburn on my legs from the hike. After a while we acclimatized and attempted to get into the middle pool. More burning feeling on the legs but it was a good pain. Onto the final pool and I felt like I my legs were being cooked. I couldn’t get in and was afraid that if I did, I would ever be able to have children. But I took the risk and my balls are still in tact. Didn’t want to get wet, so I took out an umbrella to fend off the rain:

 

It was a fun experience and a great way to relax after a day on the volcano.

 

And speaking of fun experiences, joy of all joys, that night, Sunday 6 p.m., (1 a.m. GMT) I laid the first solid dump I had seen in 48 hours. Volcano had cured volcano, and I was in the clear.  

Leaving Nueva York

Day 1. August 25th 2008. New York to Xela, Guatemala.

Get up at the crack of sparrow's fart (4.20 a.m.) after only having gone to bed at 3.50 a.m. Leave Simon and JM's apartment in Manhattan where they have generously put me up for the week. It is sad to say goodbye to Gado, and JM a few days earlier, but I'm sure I'll see them on my year off, whether in Latin America on my travels, or in Hong Kong, or both.

Manipulate New York's poor excuse for a transport system that is the subway and arrive at the nearest subway station to LaGuardia Airport, which still happens to be a $ 12 taxi ride away. Banter a bit with the Colombian taxi driver who tells me I should go to Colombia instead of Guatemala.

Arrive in pretty good time at LaGuardia and attempt to check in, as the online check in didn't work earlier that morning. Am helped by a rather rotund Salvadorian woman who accuses me of lying to her about my stay in Guatemala. It is a long story but it turns out that Continental Airlines won't let you fly to Guatemala unless you have proof that you are leaving Guatemala within 90 days, the number of days the Guatemalan government allows you to stay in their country as a tourist without having to leave. With my one way ticket I was unable to prove this. It is $ 475 for the cheapest, apparently fully refundable, ticket which happens to be to San Salvador, El Salvador. I am dubious, but I fork out the money because not going at that time would royally fuck up my entire travel plans for when I arrive in Guatemala. I am also made to pay a $ 20 processing fee, which is not refundable. What a bunch of utterly inept bellends at Continental. I bought the ticket online, giving all the information they needed (passport details etc.) to work out that I would have to buy a return ticket, but they only let me know less than an hour before the flight. A bunch of retarded monkeys with lobotomies could have handled the situation better.

Only just make my flight to Houston, Texas after being patted down and all my items checked for traces of narcotics/explosives. I have to admit, I do look rather threatening in my sky blue v-neck sweater, boat shoes and glasses.

Eat a fairly horrific chicken/horseshit sandwich at Wendy's in Houston airport and shortly board the plane. Desperately finger through my "The Complete Idiot's Guide To Learning Spanish" all day; a good crash course in Spanish, and, indeed, intended for idiots like myself. I am worried that I will make an utter arse of myself as soon as I step off the plane in Guatemala City.

Arrive in Guatemala city, and make an utter arse of myself as soon as I step off the plane, while attempting to converse with Gustavo, my very kind and patient, and possibly gay, chaperon. I later find out that it is unlikely that Gustavo is gay, given that he is married to a woman.

Incidentally, when I went through customs, the Guatemalan custom’s official did not ask me for any proof that I was leaving the country in 90 days, nor did he ask me anything else. He took my passport, stamped a 90 day pass in it, and said to me in English: “enjoy your time in Guatemala.” They are chomping at the bit for more tourist. The last thing they would do is turn someone away.

Gustavo initially takes me to the nearest Burger King, I assume because he thinks I am American. I fumble through saying something like, "me gustaria comer las comidas typicas". Actually, that is a lie. I had no idea how to say that but somehow I managed to sign-language that one. Thinking that I am understood, Gustavo proceeds to take me to a Guatemalan shopping mall. Believing that all is lost, he takes me to the food court and I eat some very good Guatemalan turkey soup with rice and some rather strange maize based food wrapped in a leaf. The drink that came free with the meal would have been retched up if I wasn't so thirsty. It was sweeter than honey, but had more of a sweaty sock taste to it.

With my teeth firmly stuck together in some sugar/concrete/turd jaw lock, we head back to the car and Gustavo puts me on a bus to Xela (pronounced shey-la). I meet 3 American girls from UCLA who all speak pretty good Spanish. They either think I am brave or just an utter knob for coming to Guatemala knowing absolutely no Spanish. They also find it ridiculous that I opted for the roller suitcase instead of the usual travelers’ backpack. I was the one that had the last laugh when we got off and I coolly rolled my suitcase along while they were struggling with their bulky, and much less fashionable bags. Turns out that the girls also intent to attend a Spanish school in Xela. I am beginning to get the worrying picture that this is all Xela has to offer. Much banter is had, but I shortly fall asleep, which was quite something, given that the roads are bumpy at best.

Finally, with my ballsack firmly stuck to my boxers and the inside of my left leg, we arrive in Xela. No one is there to greet me so I ask one of the Americans to make a call for me on the bus station phone. All is resolved when a squat Guatemalan man gets out of a pickup truck and points at me. I jump into the front of the pickup and find myself squashed between this man and someone who could quite possibly be his son. They soon realize how pathetically little Spanish I know.

We arrive at the house and I am introduced to the family, which seems to be rather large in number. Husbands are here, wives are there, granddad is talking, I’m totally confused and have no idea what the fuck is going on, meanwhile I have been introduced to eight people. I will be lucky if I remember anyone’s names.

My room is pretty basic and decrepit, with a bed, a desk, and a set of drawers. However, I am pleased to find out that I have my own bathroom. The sink has no hot water (that I can live with), but the mother tells me that my shower only has hot water occasionally. Awesome. I wouldn’t mind that if this place were tropical, but it’s not, and it gets fairly cold at night.

I unpack, am fed a pretty ordinary dinner of eggs, rice, beans, and more of the maize-foodstuff. Have a shower (score, it’s actually lukewarm). Must buy shampoo tomorrow. Just because I am living the simple life in Guatemala doesn’t mean I don’t want my hair to look awesome.