From the Caribbean to the Gulf

December 21st - Amanda and I temporarily part ways for the holidays. She heads back to New York to visit her family like a good daughter, and I fly to the Yucatan to road trip from the Caribbean to the Gulf coast with Robert, my friend from home. (I thought it was an OK and relatively sensible plan until I got to Nicaragua where everyone almost feinted when they found out I was going to be away from my parents during the holidays. "Do you have a mother?" They asked. "Do you like your family?" And then, "Do you believe in God?" Not sure how the last one is a logical tangent but none-the-less I have been asked this more frequently than one would think.)

January 4th - Amanda, her friend Josh from Boston, and I meet in Quito, Ecuador to continue our shenanigans southward.

* * *

After traveling for two months with Miss Amanda, the one person who now fully understands my every need at any given second, I was nervous to switch gears a bit to take up traveling with a male. Amanda and I have each other down. She knows when I need space and when when it's best to let me sit and dwell in my own thoughts. Or when all I need is an ice cream cone to turn my mood a 180. We can list each other's favorite foods without two seconds of thought. And when my emotions are a rollercoaster from one moment to the next - one second I'm feeling guilty about American consumerism, the next I'm freaking out about the future, and then, two minutes later I'm crying only because I'm counting the miles left on a public bus until I can pee -how is any male going to be able to put up with me?

But while I was anxious at first, driving across Mexico is exactly what you would expect any road trip to be: hilarious moments of extreme confusion. And a flat tire. And of course the typical guy vs gal, driving vs navigation controversy.

Somewhere between Chichen Itza (one of the 7 Modern Wonders of the World!) and the Gulf of Mexico - aka a 1.5 lane highway decorated with pot holes the size of Delaware, I decided I wanted a turn at driving. I figured it was as deserted a road as we would find, and I couldn't get away with sitting in a car for 2 weeks and not driving at all.

And besides, when driving in Mexico, it's alright if you don't already know how. Because it's like going to Driver's Ed all over again. While in the car. The highways have white instructional signs every couple of feet, crap I mean meters. You should not go above the speed limit. Pass only when it is opportune. If you wear your seatbelt your life will be saved. OK, we got that down. Then the words of wisdom you get on Day 2 of your education: No maneje cansado, Don't drive tired. Cuando llueve maneje despacio, When it rains drive slow. Then around Day 3 you start getting the scare-tactic videos: Nada es lo mismo despues un accidente, Nothing is the same after an accident. Dangit, if only that sign had been in Albuquerque perhaps I would still have my Honda.

As we pull a Chinese Fire-drill in the middle of the road only shared by sunflowers, palm trees, and stray dogs, I comment: "This is the first time I have driven in almost 3 months. And I don't remember the last time I drove a stick." Robert, being the calm bloke he is, said it's like riding a bike and proceeded to play with the CD player.

Let me just say this: Driving a baby puke yellow Fiat Panda 4x4 that mildly resembles a turtle across the Yucatan is an experience no one should miss.

Aeriel: Hey, where are we?

Robert: I dunno.

A: You have the map.

R: We're somewhere. Go straight.

A: There's gas ahead so we must be close to Telchac Puerto, right?

R: OK.

A: What hotel are we looking for?

R: It's in the book.

A: You have the book.

R: I have to read?! . . . It says go west. Which way's west?

A: We've been going west all day.

R: Yea that's what I said. Go straight . . . What are you doing??

(At this point in the conversation we are entering a town. And I get stuck on a speed bump in 1st gear. And then get in a confused dance with a dump truck at the following intersection.)

Needless to say we switched seats pretty soon after.

But I have to say I can navigate pretty well when equipped with the proper tools - map and chocolate in hand. Even though we did pass through the same intersection 4 times in 1 hour yesterday.

See You Soon C.A.

I wanted to write a blog about Central America, to conclude our time spent in this part of the world, to at least offer you a concise summary. This is what has come out instead; it isn't concise, and it certainly isn't a conclusion. Maybe I'll try again next time.

For, if seeing is believing than how can I attempt to describe everything I have seen in 500 words? How can I write of all the places I have been, and more importantly the people that have come to define them? As I sat in the airport on Tuesday morning, flying out of Guatemala City to head to the Yucatan, I was overcome by the impossibility of transcribing my pages of notes into any resemblance of coherent thoughts. Perhaps, I'm just not there yet, not quite ready to form my lasting thoughts on Central America. Or perhaps, I'm just not ready to call it the end.

For two weeks, Amanda and I called what may possibly be the most beautiful place on earth home. Lake Atitlan was formed by volcanic eruption and is the deepest lake in Central America. The water is a plateau of deep blue, the three volcanoes and endless mountain ranges frame the lake's edges, and small towns and farms speckle the coasts. Once on land you are overwhelmed by color - bright textiles sold by indigenous women and bougainvillea flowers ranging from bright oranges to dark purples. And the smells - trash that has sat a little too long lingers with the sweet smell of bread baking in the nearby tienda.

Yet, as beautiful as the scenery was, our time was defined even more by our host family and the women artisans we interviewed each day, and by the struggles that were visible in their eyes even while they smiled and opened their warm hearts to us. We met women who live each day on less than I spent on a pack of gum in the airport, yet who are still willing to serve us a plate of rice, tortillas, guacamole, and the some of the best grilled chicken I've ever had.

As I sit writing this in a hotel in Cancun I feel worlds away from Lake Atitlan, from concrete floors, and from making tortillas in the small kitchen while our ten year old host-brother dribbles a deflated basketball around the chairs. Yet in the words of my new friend I met on the flight from Panama City to Cancun, "As long as you leave something behind, be it knowledge or friendship, your stay has a purpose." With eyes that have seen more than I could ever hope to see, and with legs that carry his 70-something years extremely well, my friend - from Trinidad, educated at MIT, and having set foot possibly on 80% of the countries in the world - perhaps knows what he's talking about.

With that, I'd like to think that in replace of the 600 photos and countless memories, that I have somehow left something behind in exchange. But perhaps it is just part of my heart.

Farewell Central America, I will find my way back to you soon . . .

8 Weeks and Counting!

Today - Wednesday, December 15th - marks the longest I have ever been out of the U.S.A. I left Albuquerque exactly 8 weeks ago with 1 backpack, an empty journal, and a few scattered ideas of what I wanted to get out of this trip. Now, I sit in the mountains of Guatemala, still with only 1 backpack but also with pages and pages of thoughts, experiences, ideas, and even more questions than when I left.

So here's a toast to:

8 weeks;

76 hours spent on 30 different buses;

as many emotions as humanly possible in just 56 days, and just as many emotions in 1 day;

missing home, getting over it;

feeling dirty and grungy, forgetting it;

bug bites;

planning, and then not doing any of it;

embracing "just being" and doing nothing for days, doing too much in too few days;

penny-pinching and eating bread for 3 meals, splurging on pina coladas on the beach;

running on soft sand during sunset, running while dodging tuk-tuks in the dark;

deep conversations about culture, politics, and war, not being able to physically form sentences in any language;

eating really good food, eating some really weird food;

laughing;

speaking only in Spanish one day, forgetting it all the next;

being confused about the future, remembering it doesn't really matter;

thinking 8 weeks is a long time, realizing it's no time at all.

Here's to 8 weeks of pure traveling, living day-by-day, and embracing every moment.

And thanks Amanda for being one helluva travel companion!

High Hopes in Guatemala

(I wrote this for Mercado Global's website blog, but it may never make it up there. So I'll post it here . . .)

Bleary-eyed and yawning at 7:30 a.m., I shuffled from my home stay down the steep cobblestone hill to the boat docks. Craving caffeine to wake up, I quickly ducked into a tourist shop and purchased a cup of cafe con leche for 9.50 Quetzales (about $1.20). “A dollar spent well,” I thought, as the coffee not only washed away my morning headache but kept me warm during the brisk ferri ride across Lake Atitlán to Panajachel.

Feeling rejuvenated and awake by the time I arrived at the Mercado Global office, I was eager to conduct my first interview about the daily life as a female artisan. Barbara Quieju, Business Skills and Asset Development Project Coordinator, helped conduct the interview by translating my questions in broken high-school level Spanish to the native language Kakchiquil. Christina, 18 years old, and Paulina, 23, would like to partner with Mercado Global in the near future in hopes of both increasing their wages and decreasing their struggles. The two young women are from Cipresales, a small pueblo in Sololá. They live at home with their families and have been working as jewelry artisans for the last four years.

Working independently off an astoundingly low budget, while trying to subsist in a time when food shortage has never been higher, is certainly not easy. But just how low is their budget, and how hard is their daily routine? Christina and Paulina report that they work from 7:00 a.m. until 6:00 p.m., with an hour break for lunch. On an average day, Paulina will sell twelve bracelets and earn just 10 Quetzales. For as much as a tourist cup of coffee, these strong women are attempting to buy enough food to sustain themselves for the whole day, as well as purchase materials needed to make the jewelry. This insufficient income forces many women to borrow money from their neighbors or friends; money which they struggle to ever pay back.

After hearing about Mercado Global’s opportunities from Barbara, seven women artisans from Cipresales are eager to begin a partnership. When asked what they hope to get out of the cooperative with Mercado Global, Christina and Paulina both stated that they would like to double their daily income, which would enable them to buy more food, as well as help to eliminate the need to borrow money for supplies. While they hope to earn 20 Q a day, in reality joining with Mercado Global would bring them 8-12 Q per hour. To bring earnings up from just over $1 a day to more than $1 an hour is huge.

Yet when "Fair Trade" equals earning $1 an hour to make gorgeous, handcrafted textiles, what does "fair" really mean? In the States, we complain about the economy downfall and how it is impossible to find a "good" job. But perhaps, what we really need is a little perspective from an entirely different point of view . . .

Honduras: An Emotional Week

Although we spent only 7 days in Honduras, I am struggling to formulate concise, accurate thoughts about our time there. And that's not because we were only there for a few days, or because we didn't see enough. But rather because we saw too much . . .

"Had he gotten himself into such an emotional state that nothing meant anything any more, or had too much meaning now entered his life, more meaning than he could handle?"

Honduras: A beautiful mountainous country, scattered with pine trees and quaint rivers meandering through the countryside.

Tegucigalpa: The capital of Honduras. An aspiring-to-be-Mexico City with busy, littered streets; surrounded by shanty towns and extreme poverty; riddled with government corruption, drug trafficking, and political angst. And toss in the residual turmoil from the coup d'etat that occurred a few months ago last June.

While couchsurfing with our friend Dan in Tegus, as the capital is fondly referred: If we stayed at the AguaClara office past sunset, we ran the three blocks home. When we went walking around the city in broad daylight on a Sunday afternoon, Dan was careful to only pull his cell phone out of his pocket on certain streets. On our final evening, we went to a music club to grab a drink, and drove the five blocks there so as not to get mugged. Over a lovely glass of Cabernet, Dan told us nonchalantly about how concerts with music containing any political insinuations are routinely shut down with tear gas. The front page of the daily newspaper showed a decapitated bus driver one morning, the next a pile of deceased. Why? That's all hush hush, but you can bet your bottom dollar it ain't a pretty, or simple, story. Yes, our week in Honduras gave us plenty to think about.

Amanda and I didn't even realize the effect the city had on us until we were drinking hot chocolate in an outdoor cafe in the quaint, quiet town of Copan, Honduras, situated just 10 minutes from the Guatemalan border. Our nerves took two days, a long run along the highway, and a couple Salva Vida beers to finally rest easy. And we eagerly embraced being a tourist for a day while we visited the Mayan ruins of Copan - the main tourist attraction in this complex country.

Las Ruinas de Copan boast the "longest pre-Columbian heiroglyphic inscription in America." The staircase here reveals over 2000 hieroglyphs on 63 steps that recall the dynastic history dating all the way back to the first founder K'inich Yax K'uk' Mo. (Don't ask me to remember too many more details than that.)

From Copan, we had a 12-hour travel day - which included 2 microbuses (shuttles that careen through the mountainous roads way too fast for comfort), and a water taxi - to finally get us to San Pedro, Guatemala. We are now getting settled into life on Lake Atitlan: living in San Pedro with a gorgeous host family and commuting across the lake to Panajachel to volunteer at the microfinance NGO Mercado Global. The lake is beautiful, the people are always smiling and happy to stop for a moment to chat, and the work here promises to be rewarding. On just our second day here, we were swept into a relay race around the plaza of the Catholic Church by seven neighborhood kids eager just to hold our hands. Running alongside these laughing children was a wonderful, and much needed, reminder of how beautiful Central America really is.

Back in Guatemala where my love of Central America truly began!

Human Trafficking

Well this made my Wheaties taste sour. So without wishing rain on your Tuesday parade, here's some serious food for thought...

In the States we read about the slavery of the 19th century. And then we think to ourselves, "Wow, what monsters people used to be! Glad that's over."

Yet human trafficking, aka modern day slavery, still exists.

The U.S. Embassy compiled a list (that stretches far too long) of countries across the globe that are in some way involved in human trafficking. From Argentina to Burma to Uzbekistan, approximately 800,000 people annually are trafficked across national borders for labor and sexual exploitation. And this does not include the thousands trafficked within their own country. 80% are female. 50% are children.

Guatemala falls within the list of countries where the government does not fully comply with the rules for the elimination of trafficking. Guatemalan children and women are exploited to Mexico, and - don't think the problem is exclusive to "those countries down there" - the U.S. of A. for forced domestic labor and prostitution. All genders and ages are trafficked for cheap agricultural labor - especially on coffee plantations. Along the Mexican border, Guatemalan youth are exploited for forced begging as well as labor in municipal dumps. Child sex tourism is high in Antigua, Lake Atitlan, and Guatemala City, with the main "tourists" arriving from Canada, U.S., Germany, and Spain, according to the 2010 Human Trafficking report released by the U.S. Embassy.

And this is just one of the many countries that is both experiencing such horrible activity by human traffickers and such inactivity by the nation's government.

Sorry, I really can't think of a way to spin a good conclusion. Perhaps send a little prayer or chant a good omen for the world to change . . .

Clear Water Solutions

For years, water treatment solutions among villages in rural Honduras were as murky as the water that was coming out of the crude pumping systems. In a town that lay a few hours outside of the capital Tegucigalpa, houses scattered across the arid, mountainous landscape amazingly had running water. Yet what was even more astounding, was that this water - the water people paid to have access to every month - was coming out brown. Why bother with installing a plumbing system if people are going to buy bottled water anyways because the tap water is too dirty to use?

Among these rural towns that had running water, the water came directly from the river or lake and gave many people dysentery diseases and skin conditions. Flakes of dirt, debris, and bacteria visibly swam in the water. Yet no one did anything. It was just how things were.

Until Monroe Weber-Shirk, a civil engineering professor at Cornell University, headed South with his innovative ideas. Weber-Shirk designed a water treatment system that is able to both filter out debris and disinfect the water with chlorine using no electricity or outside power source. Since 2007, Weber-Shirk, his teams of Cornell students, and the local NGO partner, Agua Para el Pueblo (APP), have brought water treatment plants to 5 communities in Honduras.

Amanda and I were lucky enough to spend this last week getting an inside view of Weber-Shirk's organization AguaClara. We couchsurfed with Cornell grad '06 and Fulbright Scholar Dan Smith, who is working directly with both AguaClara and APP. We were able to personally visit 3 of the water treatment plants and see how simple water can be cleaned, purified, and distributed.

All of the systems work off of the principle of gravity. The steep mountainous terrain of Honduras provides the perfect location for this system. In all of the towns, the water is pumped from a nearby lake or river and flows into a holding tank, where the water is first treated with polyaluminum chloride. Without getting too technical, this chemical acts as a coagulate which makes the dirt molecules bond together.

The water then passes into a floculation tank which helps bind the debris together into bigger particles. The water, all flowing via gravity, next passes into the settling tank where the chunks of matter settle to the bottom. The water at this point (about 3 hours later) is very clear. It is lastly treated with chlorine to disinfect any bacteria.

The entire system is constructed from parts available in Tegucigalpa. The treatment plants are all operated by locals. E.i. the system is sustainable. The people are now paying $2-$4 a month to have clean and disinfected water. We spoke to a local nurse in the town of Agalteca, who reported that cases of dysentery in children under 5 have been cut in half since the water treatment plant was installed 6 months ago.

In less than 5 years, AguaClara has already touched the lives of 14,700 people, and has plans to build two more plants in the near future. And with start up costs of $40,000 to $60,000 depending on the size of the plant and the town's population, the real question is not if the plant is working or if it is worth it, but rather how has something like this not happened sooner?

A few thoughts to chew on:

Approximately 100,000, 000 people are living with water systems that are daily distributing untreated water directly to household taps. (Pulled from AguaClara's website.)

Water usage in Honduras is estimated at 50 gallons per person per day. In the U.S. water usage is 200 gallons per person per day.

Where Things Come From: Meat

Carne de res, or beef, comes from a cow.

Where Things Come From: Sugar

Hate to break it to you folks, but sugar doesn't come from Walmart, Albertsons, or the Piggly Wiggly. It comes from a plant called sugar cane. Through a relatively simple, but time consuming and labor intensive process, sugarcane juice is converted to raw sugar.

This morning, Amanda and I hiked just outside of Agalteca, a small town nestled in the mountains of Honduras, to observe how sugar cane is broken down into dark, sweet blocks of goodness.

Sugar cane grows in stalks reaching 6 to 15 feet tall. It is first cut down by hand. Using a machete, the workers cut the stalk at the base, and then strip it of it's leaves and flowery plume.

The canes are then loaded onto a wooden cart that is pulled by oxen up the hill to the sugar mill.

The cane is fed through this machine made of a single conveyor belt and heavy iron wheels. The stalks are crushed and the juices are squished out.

The liquid sugar is transferred to a large wooden vat. Fueled by a constant fire underneath the vat, the liquid is brought to a boil.

Until it becomes a thick, bubbling, caramel mess.

Next, the boiling sugar is gradually poured into a second vat, away from the heat. The sugar is stirred constantly to avoid any chunks from forming and to bring it to an even consistency.

When the sugar is blending thoroughly, a team of two then works together to pour the sugar into the square molds to cool.

1 cube costs 20 Lempiras. (Just a little over $1). The sugar can be eaten by itself or used in cooking. It is a special gift especially during the holidays in December and January.

The Cleanliness of White

If it ain't white, it ain't clean. In the States, we scrub the bathroom sink and toilet bowl until we can see our reflections in the white porcelain. If there is a rim of mildew or a few cracked tiles with dirt caked in the grout, a shower is too gross for us to bathe.

In rural regions of Central America, where there is no running water, the bathroom toilet is a latrine: a deep hole covered with a concrete seat (like the photo to the left). To shower, you use a bucket and a bowl.

After years of living among the white, sanitized, squeeky -clean nature of the U.S., it is a little shocking to be presented with such down to earth systems of relieving and cleaning. Yet I don't feel any less clean or sanitary. The latrines are cleaned daily, much more often than a toilet in a home in the States. I emerge from a bucket shower here (almost) as clean as I would after ten minutes under hot water with a loofah.

This same white versus earthy comparison can be said of hospitals. In Granada, we visited the public hospital to get Amanda's intermittent fever checked out. (Note: she is now fine and it was just a virus.) The rooms of the emergency ward wrap around an open courtyard. The "waiting room" is outside. People sit on the benches or chairs that snake around the garden of palm trees and flowering shrubs. The building is painted a warm cream color, the structural posts are green, the doors and roof red in color. The consultario office (where we first talked to a doctor about Amanda's symptoms) is small, with one desk, one chair and one cot. We walked across to the other side of the courtyard to enter the laboratorio for a blood sample. Amanda whispered to me as she sat down, "The needles are clean right?" I looked about the dimly lit room. One lady was taking samples, one was looking through a microscope, and another was putting medical tools into the sanitizer. Yes, I told her confidently - but really just to reassure us both.

As we waited outside on a concrete bench for the results, I looked around. A child coughed. An elderly man held his hands in his head, cradling a headache. Amanda lay down with a fever. Could this perhaps be a better waiting room than the ones in the States where everyone is inside breathing in others' germs?

In the States, hospitals are stark, white, and they humm of "clean." And we feel safe and sanitary. Yet Nicaraguans don't leave the hospital with diseases or illnesses that they contracted while being seen by a medical doctor. And nor did we. Like the toilets, just because the emergency room is more colorful and a bit more humble, doesn't necessarily denote it less clean. And although I still would not want open heart surgery here, the sanitary white-ness of the U.S. to the point of insanity suddenly seems frivolous.

Humble Laughter

Stomaching the pig you heard being slaughtered two hours earlier is not the easiest thing to do for breakfast. Especially when it is fried and served with rice, beans, salad, and tortillas at 6:00 a.m.

* * * *

Determined to be able to speak Spanish at least at a conversational level before leaving Latin America, Amanda and I enrolled in a week of intense Spanish lessons at La Mariposa, in the small town of San Juan de la Concepcion. For the past week, we have been studying one-on-one with patient teachers, and re-learning grammar and vocabulary that had been lying dormant for years. It is amazing how much comes flooding back when you study just grammar for 6 hours a day. Yet what has marked our time here in San Juan more than the school, has been our conversations, hearty laughs, and sometimes awkward moments with our host family.

Sleeping, eating, and conversing with locals plunges you into the thoughts, problems, cultures, and concerns of day-to-day life. It is a view that is hidden from hostels, cities, and the long bus rides across the country. It is how you are able to wake up to a pig dying and then eat it fresh! for breakfast, and how you get to know someone who has just returned from work at a sweatshop.

In this humble abode lives Gollita, her husband, and one of her grown daughters. In the other

house on the property lives another daughter and her three children. Yet members of the family flow in and out of the rickety metal gate; stopping by to ask a question, to pass the time, and to snag a bite to eat . . . but mainly just to say hello.

Each evening Gollita serves us a feast. The family sits around the table watching us eat (they eat separately), laughs at our misunderstandings, and quizes us about life in the states. We daily eat our body weight in traditional Nicaraguan food: a heaping plate of gallopinto (red beans and rice mixed together), a fried plantain, weird extremely salty cheese, a salad of tomatoes and shredded lettuce, and small portion of meat. Then dessert -when you can't possibly fit anything else - is a giant bowl of fruit.

Wednesday evening, stuffed to the brim, Gollita told us that she hoped we would be able to sleep through the madrugada (early dawn). Amanda and I chuckled, knowing that neither of us would sleep well at all. Nights are not quiet in Central America, to say the least. Each house blasts their stereo systems as loud as possible. When the people can't hear their own mariachi or reggaeton music over that of their neighbors, they crank it up louder. Radios usually shut off by midnight, but come on by 3 a.m. Add some dog fights. And some dogs barking at the dogs fighting. Toss in some roosters, and the honking of public buses carting people to Managua, the capital of Nicaragua. No, nights are not very quiet in Central America. Gollita said it again: "Espero que puedan dormir esta noche." Why, we asked? What's special about tonight? "It's Thursday, the neighbors kill the pigs tomorrow," she replied. "Fried pig for breakfast!"

Sure enough, at 4 a.m. we awoke to the shrill cries of the pig being slaughtered in the neighbor's yard. The noise is piercing at first; you can hear the animal's initial moment of absolute terror and pain. The shrieks gradually slow down and each cry becomes quieter, as though in his last few breaths the pig finally realizes what he should have known all along, that this has been his fate since birth.

6 a.m. cerdo frito! Good morning Nicaragua! It was enough to make me want to return to my vegetarian habits . . .

The family was so pleased to share this meal with us. Gollita had woken up early to get in line to purchase the freshest pork possible. The people of San Juan de la Concepcion live humbly, but largely. To go to the bathroom, you go in a hole. To take a shower, you pour water over your body, scrub and then rinse - all out of a bucket. To wash dishes and clothes, you carry just enough water across the yard. To dispose of trash, you burn it. To earn enough money, many people work 12 hours days in a sweatshop and commute over an hour each way, without complaining. Yet despite these perhaps humble elements of life, the people celebrate like no one else, taking out loans in order to throw their daughter a proper quinceanera, or their son a huge graduation party. They joke and jest constantly, and are not afraid to laugh. They dine and drink well. And on Friday's they eat fried pig.

Una basura? Qué es eso?

A trashcan? What is that?

Streets throughout Central America are littered with plastic bottles, grocery bags, candy wrappers, newspaper, and snack packaging. In cities, small pueblos, and along rural highways, trash routinely does not find its way into garbage receptacles.

I sat on a public bus cradling my backpack on my lap and trying not to think of the heat that was pouring up from the streets of Granada, one of Nicaragua's colonial cities. Waiting for the bus' engine to roar to a start and counting the seconds until air would be flowing through the windows, I watched a kid lick his candy wrapper clean. Satisfied with his snack, he reached up and dropped the plastic wrapper out the window. Realizing that I was staring, I diverted my attention to another section of the bus just in time to see a woman chuck a plastic plate and fork out the window.

Why do the majority of people here not think about where they should put their waste? Can it be simply attributed to the fact that they don't care? Because surely people would rather have a clean city. Right?

The public bus took us from Granada to Masaya, where we then transfered to a microbus - a 12 person van that typically crams 25 people between the seats. The microbus dropped us off in San Juan de La Concepcion, a small town in the mountains of Nicaragua. Later that day, Amanda and I sat on a concrete wall watching a local baseball game. We finished our cookies that we had bought for 10 cents at the small closet-sized store and looked around for where to dispose of our wrappers. Amanda stuffed hers in her pocket to deposit later. I continued to look around the park's edges. There were no trash cans. The park was covered in litter. A baseball player dove onto a pile of plastic.

In one of my language classes, we spoke about the trash problems in Nicaragua. A large part of the issue, my teacher told me, stems from the education system. Schools don't teach the proper disposal of waste and many kids, who later grow into adults, think that plastic will deteriorate just as a banana peel will. Additionally, there are problems with municipal trash disposal. Families must pay a monthly fee for the city to pick up their garbage every week. When faced with several bills that are difficult to pay each month, many families choose water, electricity, (and unfortunately television), over garbage. Many families instead decide to burn their trash in their yards. Which is not a pleasant or easy thing to breath in. Nor is it good for the environment.

To find a solution for the trash problems of Nicaragua, and of Central America, is a very daunting task. There is so much garbage that needs to be cleaned up before even being able to set a good example. And then, for the trash that does successfully make it out of the city, the landfills are often built on hills and are contained with barbed-wire fences. What will the solution be? Will there be one? While I don't want to be a pessimist, it's hard to think that this situation will be alleviated anytime soon.

A Few Whirlwind Weeks

Rice and beans, sand, waves, surfers, chicken buses, sore butts, fever, hammocks, rice and beans, ziplining, border fees, Nicaraguan emergency rooms, banana trees, and rice and beans.

How do I attempt to summarize everything that has happened in the last two weeks when I have slept in a different bed every other night? When you forget what country, let alone what city, you are currently in, you know that you have been hostel hopping just a little too much.

Yet when traveling with an open itinerary, and rough appointment times, you somehow seem to fall in a groove, moving along at a rapid, but completely manageable speed. And although we have not stayed in most locations for longer than two or three days, we haven't had heavy hearts about leaving any of these places either. Somehow each spot we have visited, be it beach or colonial city, has managed to wrap itself up on its own, saying: "Thank you for stopping by, we think we've shown you all there is to see, now you best be on your way".

After our epic journey to cross the border from Panama to Costa Rica, we found our way serendipitously to Mal Pais, a small beach town on the western coast of the tourist-invaded country. It took Amanda and I only several seconds of spotting the beach and also seeing a sunset for the first time (due to the rain in Panama) to both know that we were going to anchor our feet into the sand for quite some time. (Some time meaning 6 days - still our longest stay in any one place.) Yet after a week of tanning, making friends, learning to surf, and rekindling my love of running, we both somehow knew it was time to leave. Over a romantic dinner date, the two of us planned our departure for the next morning. That night, as we wandered back into our hostel, the entire place had an eerie quiet that we had not experienced in the last five days. Perhaps it was our confirmation that our time in Mal Pais had come to a close.

We next headed to Monteverde, Costa Rica, a small tourist town that is nestled near the Monteverde and Santa Elena Cloud Forest Reserves. The town would not exist if the cloud forest were not such a major attraction - to scientists, naturalists, and tourists alike. After spending a day hiking through the forests, and the next ziplining above the treetops, we sat on the porch of our mountain lodge drinking Cabernet Sauvignon and realized that yes, it has been lovely, but no more time was needed.

Our next stop, San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua, offered us more sun, and the opportunity to compare another beach to Mal Pais. (Conclusion: Mal Pais really is that pretty. And the people are that friendly. So don't go.) We decided to depart the day before an international surf competition. Gasp! What were we thinking? We were going to miss the biggest surf competition and the best parties Nicaragua has seen in a while! Yes, it was time to go.

Granada, Nicaragua, offered us two days of rest, a cute hostel, a quaint colonial city, and the opportunity to visit a Central American emergency room - which I think just may deserve it's own blog. (No, Amanda does not have malaria, and she is now equipped with some mysterious yellow pills.) But the city is expensive and it was here, that Amanda woke up asking me, "Where are we?"

Everything happens for a reason: be it landing on a beach that wasn't originally part of our plans, or finding our way to a city so that we can unexpectedly pay a visit to the hospital when feeling a little under-the-weather. On the road, ideas for places to stay are born spontaneously and out of the blue. And just as some of these stops bud in a single day or in a flash moment, they somehow find closure and fizzle out just as naturally. To put it, perhaps as cliche as possible, when the bloom dies it is time to move on.

Day Trip to Montezuma: A Photo Blog

The roads connecting the small towns scattered across the Nicoya Peninsula are, to say the least, horrendous. Giant potholes, large rocks, and naturally-formed inverted speed bumps always promise an interesting drive. Small cars are simply not practical. At times, despite what Chevy and Ford may show you in their commercials, even the best SUV's are not either.

Which is why, if you're smart, you drive a Quad.

Because they can do anything.

And can easily get you through the most difficult terrain to some of the most remote locations. Like the Montezuma waterfalls.

But once you have successfully driven to the park's entrance, the challenge is not over. The hike, like the roads, are not for the lazy.

And while getting here was half the fun, the view was definitely worth it.

Waterfalls within minutes of a beach? Yes please.

War: Food for Thought

The Vietnam War lasted for 103 months, from August 1964 to March 1973. It was previously the longest war in the history of the U.S. Until America declared war on the Middle East.

As of November 7, 2010, the U.S. has been in Afghanistan for 109 months. I am not going to look up death tolls and devastation numbers, it is too depressing. And I don't want to ruin how happy I am sitting in a cabin in the middle of a jungle. But we all know, it's a lot.

Whatever reason you believe the U.S. sent troops eastwards - whether you think it was because of oil, 9/11, terrorists, to better the lives of the citizens - one thing is certain: the U.S. daily employs acts of violence.

Compare that to the current conflict between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. The conflict that has probably not graced the States' attention once, but that is splattering the front page of all newspapers here.

The San Juan River marks the border between Costa Rica and Nicaragua. Just over a month ago, Nicaragua sent troops to the river to dredge the way for bigger boats to more easily navigate the area. This was no problem, until they began tossing the debris on the Costa Rican side of the waterway.

Costa Rican President Laura Chinchilla Miranda declared that Nicaragua was invading Costa Rican territory. Nicaragua blamed the invasion on a Google Map image of the region, claiming they didn't realize the land belonged to their southern neighbor. Google maps has admitted their error of mis-marking the land, giving 1.7 miles of territory that is legally Costa Rica's to Nicaragua. Google has since fixed the error, but not before blaming the U.S. State Department for inaccurate information.

While it seems silly to think that a Google map error is a reason for dispute, the issue of territory invasion is one that would quickly become a military battle among other countries. That is, countries with an army.

In 1948, at the conclusion of the civil war, former Costa Rican President Jose Figueres Ferrer abolished the Costa Rican military. The military budget is now used for security, education, and culture. There has not been a civil war since 1948.

Thus, unable, and more importantly unwilling, to respond with violence, Costa Rica called on the Organization of American States (OAS) for help. Through peace talks and negotiations, the OAS has voted Costa Rica in the right and has ordered Nicaraguan troops to retreat. While the conflict is not completely resolved, there is no news of a death count, no plans for war, and the latest headlines read: OAS urges Nicaragua and Costa Rica to talk out differences.

Talk out differences? There's a thought. Huh...

Does Costa Rica really have life figured out? Here, you ask someone how they are doing and they reply with the phrase, "Pura Vida." Pure life. People are calm, laid back, not in a hurry, and are happy to stop what their doing to chat with you. The citizens do not want an army. The locals talk about how they are in a war with Nicaragua, and how it is really serious. Which it is, I'll give them that. But just have to wonder, that if war for them means a month long tension resolved by discussions, votes, and just a little intervention, life is pretty damn good.

Pura vida. Let's all follow suit.

A Word on Nomadic Hygiene

Backpacker [bak-pak-er] - noun

1. A person who carries everything they own in a backpack.

2. One who resides in cheap accommodations, often sharing a dormitory with up to eight others, and typically spends no more than one week in a single place.

It is important to understand that while some of the backpacker customs vary from other cultures, particularly America, they are not dirty people.

A note on backpackers' hygiene:

a. It is not surprising, and is often expected, for a backpacker to be seen wearing a shirt at night, then is known to sleep in it, and also wear it for the entire next day.

b. An article of clothing is not declared dirty until the hour before a backpacker does laundry. (This includes clothing splattered with mud.)

c. Laundry is necessary only when all undergarments have been worn. (Or, in extreme cases, when everything is wet and molding from intense continuous rain.)

d. Showers usually are taken every day. (In special circumstances, once a week by bucket is acceptable.)

e. A backpacker's shower typically last 45 seconds. This is because 96% of the showers backpackers use are frigid.

f. A backpacker washes his/her hair about every 2-3 days. Conditioner is optional. Camp soap is often used if shampoo is difficult to find. Note: If the backpacker is female, braids are often put into place when hair has not been washed for several days. This is usually due to the water being too cold.

g. Makeup is almost obsolete among backpackers. Some females may put on mascara once a week, though this rare.

While some of these habits may be hard to adjust to initially, a backpacker is typically fine with all of these conventions after the first 3 weeks.

Itineraries Are Really Just Rough Drafts

As Amanda and I find ourselves deeper in Central America and further along in this trip, the more we are convinced that itineraries are silly ideas. An itinerary is more a rough draft that should be scribbled down, and then tossed aside, to be referred back to from time to time.

Emerging from the Comarca dirty, damp, and muddy, we sat on a bus to David, a small city close to the border. We had planned to spend one night doing laundry, showering, and catching up before heading north to Costa Rica to complete our drying-out process on the beach. Yet as we cooked our stirfry and drank cheap red wine in the hostel kitchen, the evening news flashed images of landslides across Costa Rica.

While we had been hiding out from the downpours in Klaus' hut, Costa Rica was experiencing even more rain. Hurricane Tomás swept through Central America last week, showering Costa Rica with 37 inches of rain in just four days. As of this evening, 12,000 families are stranded without clean water, food, or medical help, and 27 people have been killed in the storm. 100,000 people are without clean drinking water due to the rupture of pipes from flooding.

123 roads and highways across Costa Rica were declared closed last week because of intense flooding and landslides. The Inter-American highway – the main drag connecting Panama to San Jose, Costa Rica – was one of them. Thus, a glitch in our plan.

We decided that we should leave the not-so-dashing city of David rather than sit around and wait for the road to be cleared in Central American time. Joining forces with two other travelers, we boarded a small shuttle bus to Changuinola, the very Northern corner of Panama. From there, we hopped in a taxi to the border town of Sixaola, were we physically walked across the “frontera” over a bridge comprised of abandoned railroad tracks and wooden planks. After a (too easy) pass through immigration, we were able to catch a bus headed straight from Sixaola to San José.

In summary, the $15, 6-hour bus ride from David to San José that we had marked in our itinerary did not happen. What did happen was an epic border crossing that included: 2 buses, 3 taxis, 1569 stops along the side of the road, $22, and 12 hours.

And here in San José, life seems normal. The only commentary our taxi driver had to offer was: “It's stopped raining here, I'm glad of that.” And: “Oh sure the water's still safe to drink.” Not sure about that one, Sir, but thanks.

Needless to say....Beach tomorrow? Yes please. Oh wait, only after a 2 hour bus ride from San José to the coast. Then a supposedly short ferry ride to the Nicoya Peninsula. But...we will see what happens!

Comarca Ngäbe

A Snapshot:

Squatting on an empty gas can, I watched quietly as two kids hopped and danced barefoot on the dirt floor of the kitchen hut, while their grandmother added more sticks to the fire. Perched atop three rocks, rested a large metal bowl filled with yuca root. (Yuca is a fibrous starch that is very filling, but holds little nutritious value.) The bowl was covered with banana leaves to keep the moisture in and boil the root to a mushy, baked potato consistency. The youngest toddler fell over backwards mid-dance, and started to whimper. The adults all laughed and spoke rapidly in Ngabere, their native indigenous language. Realizing, he would get little sympathy, the young
boy stood up and giggled too, wiping his runny nose on his dusty palm. Despite the downpour outside, the kitchen was dry. Although the sides were open, the thatched roof made of penka palm successfully blocked out both moisture and wind.

The grandfather handed us large cups of coffee. Among the Comarca Ngabe people, coffee is usually offered when one is welcomed into another's home. Grandma first brought a pan of strong coffee to a boil, strained the grounds out, and then added an obscene quantity of sugar. She then poured in cold, unboiled water - to both cool it off and make enough for everyone. Not sure whether it was the thought that we were drinking liquid giardia, or if the lukewarm coffee actually tasted bad, but it was difficult to swallow. We managed to chug it down in the manner of the Comarca people who eat and drink everything quickly; or as they say, juego vivo, or "get it while you can."

This is how we spent our first afternoon in the small village Aguacatal, nestled in the hills of the Comarca region of central Panama. We had spent the morning harvesting rice with Grandpa, and as payment, we were invited for lunch.

Getting to the Village:

After leaving El Valle, we met up with Amanda's friend Klaus, who is working as a Peace Corps volunteer in Aguacatal. Desiring a more extensive view of Panama than the city and El Valle had to offer, we asked Klaus if we could crash his hut. Eager for some company and the opportunity to speak English for a few days, Klaus agreed. We spent Halloween day commuting the 5 hours from Panama City to Tole, the town closest to his remote community. From Tole, we had a 30 minute ride in a Chiva - a covered truck bed, and then a hike up the mountain. Heads turned as not one, but three, gringos trudged along the steep, muddy hills, struggling to carry all of our belongings while juggling umbrellas.

An hour later and thoroughly soaked, Klaus announced we had reached his community. I saw green hills, dense banana trees, and one hut in the distance. The houses were spread out, mostly made of sticks and a thatched roof of either penka palm fronds or bundled grass. Some roofs were made of corrugated tin hauled from miles away. Klaus' house was one of the few made of timber, and one of the few with a latrine.

The Facts of the Comarca:

The Comarca Ngäbe-Buble is an indigenous region of central Panama. Of the 16,512 registered homes:

- 70 % have no running water

- 77 % don't have latrines of any kind

- 99% have no electricity

The average annual household income is $519.00. Average family size: 6 children.

95% of the people are living in poverty. Most people largely live off welfare.

Loss of Culture?

At first, the community looks preserved, as though one could imagine how the people lived before the Spanish conquistadors arrived. Yet, as we sat receiving our bowls of yuca, seasoned with salt, and watching the family interact, it became more apparent how bits of technology and Latino culture has begun to creep its way up the red mud mountains.

A teenage boy whips a cellphone out of his dirty jeans. Our yuca is served in Tupperware dishes. Flashlights are scattered about the beds; a chainsaw lies against a tree outside. The younger children speak Spanish to Amanda and I, while Grandpa and Grandma speak mostly Ngabere to Klaus.

We asked Klaus about this potential loss of culture. When the road from Tole was built, Latino culture become more available. The trip into Tole from the village was reduced from a 5 hour venture to a 1 hour outing. As Klaus put it, the more the Ngabe people see Latinos, the more they realize how poor they are in comparison. One reaction is to conform. Yet this means they need more money, which as a whole the Ngabe people do not have. The rice they harvest will be eaten that day. The same goes for bananas, and chicken eggs, and yuca. The community is the epitome of subsistence living; they do not produce enough to ever make a profit.

As such, men are more and more heading out of Aguacatel to find work for their families. Some leave for a solid month to bring back $300. Their communist ways of thinking (and acting) are gradually being replaced by capitalism. Is this bad? Should it be stopped? Progress is inevitable, history tells us that. Technology - at least cellphones - apparently is too.

Yet it would be nice to see potable water solutions or nutrition improvements find their way up the mountains with those phones...

Our Final Lesson:

Yet, these observations aside, our week in the Comarca was eye-opening even on a personal level. In one week we were presented with the unspoken question: How far will one go to support oneself and ones family? In just a few days, we had materialism slapped in our face, and the sad fact that in urban life, one tends to forget about the truly important elements of life - living, loving, and laughing.

A Brief Stay

By 7 a.m., the roosters have been cock-a-doodling for three hours, the neighbors next door are blasting Mexican pop music, and our two sisters are practicing ballet, as we sip our coffee on the front porch and watch the baby chickens scamper to keep up with momma hen. You breathe in the fresh air, shoo an ant off your foot, and life is tranquil.

In the mornings it seems crazy to think that we are planning on packing up our bags and heading out of El Valle tomorrow morning. Yet, as Amanda and I have recently discovered, life should be written in pencil. For ideas change, and what was first envisioned does not always pan out as hoped.

While we would both love to stay in this quaint town – despite sleeping like Houdini to avoid the puddle on my bed, and despite Amanda's ant nest that expands daily outside her door – work at our non-profit is not what we had hoped. The small organization currently has five volunteers, four too many. In a desperate attempt to find us a project, Amanda and I have been assigned, due to our communications background, to expand and improve the website. While we initially thought we could manage this project well, each hour it seems more and more sinister to spend our time in such a gorgeous country on a computer. Instead of plunging head first into Panamanian culture, we are instead remaining connected to the technology, the stress, and the emotional ties we were trying to get away from in the States.

Thus, we head out tomorrow. To where? Not really sure. Yet one thing is certain: when you have six months to live your life to the fullest, a month online is not the way to begin.

El Valle de Anton: In Pictures

The orchid center in the morning:

(a.k.a. sun)

Leaving the orchid center and walking home: