Took a run out to La Reunion today with the two abuelos.  It’s a golf resort.  Look it up.  Very beautiful.

Located at the base of several volcanoes, it is about 25 kms from Antigua on a nicely paved road (after a few miles of filling-remover track to get to it.  I swear: if you have loose follicles when you arrive in Antigua, you’ll be bald by the time you leave!).  Of course there are the usual stretches of rubble-strewn, dirt-and-mud sections but, for the most part, it is an easy drive.  Well, the last kilometer is a smidge ‘uncomfortable’  as it is a winding, cobble-stone, picturesque lane that is steep and  curvy as it wends its way up the base of one of the volcanoes to the clubhouse and hotel.  Again with the bobble-head.

La Reunion is gorgeous.  Absolutely what a foreign ‘dream’ golf resort should be except, maybe, for the country it is in.  The temperature is perfect.  The views are perfect.  And even the golf course – a Pete Dye design – is absolutely stunning.  It is also empty.  Reasons……….?  Well they are myriad but, for starters, it is too far from anything else.

La Reunion is one of those ‘destination resorts’ that is not really destination enough.  Plus it comes with a huge price tag.  Golf is $150.00 a round.  Rooms $350/night.   We sat on the terrace taking in the view while a golf widow knitted on the lounge next to us.  Boredom writ large all over her too-rich-to-move face.

I asked the sales rep (yes, I am a glutton for punishment), “So, how is it going?  Lots of sales?  Seems a bit quiet right now. Lovely, tho, really.  But not a lot of cashflow, I am sure.  How much does it cost to buy a unit?  And how many people live here right now?” 

“Yes, signor, it is quiet.  Economy very bad.  We have ten residents right now but the plan is to have hundreds of units filled.  Someday.  Maybe.  I hope.”

Ain’t gonna happen anytime soon.

La Reunion must have over 150 employees just to ‘operate’.  What it took to build is anyone’s guess………a bazillion?  It covers ten times the area a normal golf resort covers……….I am guessing 2000 acres.

There are lot of these ‘five star’ jewels around the world and not enough 5 star wallets to support them.  I wonder what will happen?  What now, Dubai?

I was gonna offer to be a marketing consultant but I don’t wanna do it, can’t likely do a good job, nor do I think they would like my plan…………

“Signor, this is what you have to do.  First get China Air to fly direct from Beijng into Guat City.  By way of Tokyo and Seoul.  Jam the planes full of Asian golfers and bring ’em in by the 747 load.  These cultures do ‘resort tour packages’ in a big way.  ‘ Specially golf.  Plus they have the money.  Let the gringos dribble in.  There might be some.  Someday. In the meantime, follow the money.  It’s in China.” 

Yeah, I know what you are thinking……...”Geez, Dave, did you once earn a living with ideas like that?” 

Guest contributor.

I stay in touch with what is going on at home.  One of my friends wrote me this morning………….

“You certainly are missing out on the excitement of this gusting 60 knot SE’ster. R &RM still has his water frozen.  Probably C&J, too.  It has been howling a few days now!”

Earthquake was a 6.2 according to the net. Just right for fun and conversation (and blogging). Everything settled back to normal immediately thereafter. And then we went out for dinner.

Guatemala has a weird cultural habit. Maybe it is just Antigua. I dunno. But, anyway, they set off firecrackers all day long. Just about every day.  And at all times of all the days, tho mostly at night.

There seem to be two types – the ones that you might expect at a Chinese New Year celebration: a few hundred in a bunch going off like Rice Krispies on ‘roids. The kind that sound like rapid light arms fire (military vernacular).

And then there are the ones that sound like they were dropped from the Enola Gay. These puppies BOOM!  I mean, like: you can feel the vibration in the air sometimes!  A shotgun going off in the air over your head fifty feet from you doesn’t make the noise these min-bombs do from blocks away. Some are so big, I thought at first it was a volcano popping.

Abuelo last night figured it was a real ‘firefight’ between shotgun totin’ desperados and Alberto.  Hard to say.  Honest!  I am pretty sure it was just the usual bigger-than-sticks-of-dynamite fire-crackers but we’ll check for bodies later in the day when we go out.

Last night we had rapid light arms fire-type noise all night long to the cranked-up accompaniment of party music at a neighbours house. Good fun, it seems. There would be riot police if it was that loud in Vancouver. Bylaws would be passed.  The premier would promise to crack down on something. Latin music, I hope.

I think the hockey riots were quieter.

And, of course, the occasional Manhattan project would boom every hour or so just to remind you where you were.

The really interesting part is that this ‘assault’ can be heard all over town at different times and at different places every day of the week. Maybe a bit more on weekends. Maybe a bit more again at festivals, funerals, weddings and parties.  Or for any reason, now that I think of it.  But, no matter, the fireworks are as ubiquitos as car horns, motorcycle drones and diesel buses. Describing Antigua without the fireworks is like describing Vancouver without the mountains.

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Is it the same guys going about in trucks all night long or is it a cultural habit enjoyed spontaneously by denizens of all neighbourhoods?

Last night we had the addition of half-a-rooster adding to the din. This poor ditz just didn’t have the call down pat. He’d ‘cock-a-o-woooo’ . Missing the doodle. That I found disturbing.

To answer the obvious question: Yes. I sleep through it all. Mostly. The damn chicken gets me now and then.

What kind of weird bird-gene deviation leaves out half a ‘crow’?  Where’s the ‘doodle’?  His timing was bad, too. He’d half-rise to the occasion at about two in the morning, make a few goofy, limp-taloned efforts and then fade against the latest barrage of gunpowder ‘blasts’ from the guys-who-have-all-the-fun-with-explosives. Sunrise, it seems has nothing to do with it.

There is no way that rooster gets lucky.  Think about it: first you are born a chicken.  Then you are born a chicken in Guatemala.  Then you are cursed with a speech impediment and finally, you have no sense of timing to speak of.  To add to the misery, you have to compete with bombs going off and a whole other village-within-a-village of dogs compelled to add to the ongoing cacophony.  No wonder he gives up half-way through.

OK, it is not much for a blog entry, I admit, but I, for one, am really, really glad I am not a Guatemalan rooster.

Maybe you have to be here to really feel it?

Old is old.  Can’t deny it.  But Sal’s parents sure do a good job of ‘resisting’ it.  These guys rock.  Well, they roll, lurch, tip a bit and stumble too, but they are pretty much ‘on the ball’ overall and happy to get out and about.  As a group, we’re a bit slow but, when milling about amongst the hoi polloi of the publico mercado, speed is not much of a factor.  We get around.

Nice thing about the local mercado: R is still tall enough to see in a Mayan crowd.

While Sal and the two A’s (abuela and abuelo) went searching for veggies, I sought out my ‘butcher, Raoul, again.  We did meat business once again in his 10 foot by 10 foot cubicle complete with bandsaw, sink, stool, boxes, side-of-beef, tiled front counter and three other members of his family.  Wife was all smiles.  Kids were nice.

Butchers in the mercado do not cut meat in the same manner as do NortAmericanos.  They just slice ‘blobs’ off of ‘hunks’ hanging overhead and, for the most part, everything ends up looking like stewing beef.  To get BBQ-type steaks the first time was a challenge and so I go back to my now T-bone-educated Raoul

Raoul wants to give me his undivided attention but he has other customers so I wait my turn.  Everyone likes that – especially me.  Lots to watch and learn about while waiting.  Interesting.  No matter what they say, they all walk away with stewing beef.

Stewing Beef and More

The customers who have a bit of English stick around to help me with Raoul.   Today I could not get my request across.  I finally drew pork spareribs on a napkin (the universal translator) and everyone shrieked the proper name at me.  Still haven’t a clue.

Too much pride, laughter and congratulatory smiling all around to say, “What?!”  Instead, I do the gringo nod, smile and say “Gracias”.

Raoul doesn’t carry pork.  So he sent his wife down the way to ‘borrow’  some from his cousin.

Mind you, that limited selection tends to limit the both of us to the ‘quasi’ t-bones.  I am going to have to remember how to ‘cut’ some other ‘types’ and teach them to Raoul.  He wants to learn.  He’ll get more gringo customers that way.  I was a butcher-boy when I was 14/15 but I have forgotten everything.  Still, I am not above making it up as I go.  Should be fun.

Currently experiencing an earthquake as I write this………been going on for about 30 seconds now.  I’d guess; 6.0, maybe 6.5.  Ponds a’sloshing, wind-chimes singing, plants and trees rocking to and fro. Glasses and cups clattering in the kitchen.  Pretty neat.  R says very calmly, “Well, P, maybe this is how we are going to die!?  Should we do something?”

We all just grin.

A few hours at the mad Mayan mercado.  An earthquake.  Maybe a nap. Happy hour.  Dinner.  Ho hum……..all in an ordinary day in Antigua.

Everybody has ’em!

On our street, we have two security guards, Alberto and Roberto.  Almost as indistinguishable as their names. They are both short, squat Mayans in security-guard-type uniforms and they each carry sawed-off shotguns.  Mossbergs.  Police ‘specials’.  The kind with the pistol grip and short barrel.  They don’t sling ’em over their shoulder.  They don’t leave ’em in the car.  They don’t even carry them casually with one hand.  The two ‘bertos’ (never together – one has the day shift, the other does nights) are always at-the-ready’ with the shotgun held in two hands and across the chest.

Equally as ‘ready’ are their smiles.  These are nice guys.  Almost child-lke.  I usually give them candies when I see ’em.  They like candies.  They like me.  I am Da-veed numero uno.  There are two lesser Da-veeds located around the corner somewhere.  I am pretty sure they don’t give out candies, but I do.  Thus my ranking.

Go to the local supermercado and there are two, sometimes four, ‘guards’, all with shotguns.  They stand by the doors (and there are doors front and back) and watch for any shoplifters that need to be blown away, I guess.

Guarding the Store

Interesting side note: at the back door there is also a lottery ticket salesman complete with a portable amplifier and speakers capable in itself of blowing someone away.  The guy with the microphone yells and screams at the crowd at somewhere around the 500 decibel level with Latin background music accompaniment.  I swear: the guard could likely shoot a person and not be heard!

There is usually a gun-totin’  guard at any ATM machine, too.  Which is kinda funny.  The local ATMs are often out of cash but the guard is hired by the day.  So there he stands, guarding……………an empty, bolted-down-and-fully-exposed-in-public ATM.  Armed.  Serious.  Alone.

I may start to carry more candies.

We once were stopped behind a box-van and the driver and the swamper got out to quickly unload a few ‘flats’ of eggs into a nearby tienda.  While they did that the security guard for the bank next door came over and ‘stood guard’.  We watched the eggs enjoy shotgun protection from truck to store shelf!

There are shotgun totin’ guards sprinkled liberally about the town and even on the outskirts.  Every good hotel has at least one.  The public park sports a few.  ‘Course the cops all have ’em and every twentieth vehicle is a cop car.  And then there are the noticeably fewer at the publico mercado and bus depot but that still adds another say, half-dozen.

My guess: there are at least two hundred shotguns-at-the-ready sprinkled about the town at any one time.  The town is about 8 blocks square.  That is an average of 3 or so shotguns per block.  And I may be underestimating.

Pinatas.  Shotguns.  Really, really loud noise.  I am starting to understand this country.

…………Cat Stevens, Otis Redding, Classic Beatles, the Stones and Simon and Garfunkel.  I mean, pulleeez………….Mariachi?

What are they thinking?

I’ll give you Margaritas, guacamole, hand-weaving and even cerveza and limes.  I’ll even throw in salsa, burritos and re-fried beans.  Hell, I like cactus, dessert, volcanoes and crazy bus-rides in baubled-and-chromed  chicken buses.  But, c’mon?  Mariachi?!

I mean, can we talk?  Ya gotta tell the truth, don’t ya? Tell it like it is- ya gotta do that!!  And only Latin America’s Santana got even close to good music . 

Damn!

Help me out here………….

Most tourists are afraid of Federales and banditos.  I live in fear of Mariachi bands.  C’mon!  Tell the truth. You, too, right?  It’s torture, right?

Am I alone on this?

Or am I like my daughter who has her own special curses.  She can’t abide the presence of a painted-face, circus-type clown.  Honest.  She has clownaphobia (coulrophobia).  Makes her crazy.

“Geez, is it just me or are circus clowns not really, really, really creepy?  I mean Chucky was a clown, right?  They are like psychos in heavy make-up.  What’s funny about that?  Keep ’em away from me!” 

You say ‘clown’, I say ‘Mariachi’.  Same visceral response – fear and loathing.  Emphasis on the latter.

They should fear me!

Sheesh!

On their way here, Sal’s mom and dad had to make a connection at an airline hub in the US.  To do so, of course, they were put through the Homeland/Airport/Nonsense security ‘process’ we have all come to expect  including that quasi-X-ray screen and a metal-detecting wand and having to take off their shoes and explain any liquids in their carry-on.  Hard to find a stupider waste of tax dollars or human effort but I am sure the government will exceed those soon enough.

On the face of it, checking passports seems sane and logical if not just a little quaint by comparison.

Maybe not.

Sal’s father was in the passport line ahead of his wife.  He is 88, bald and has a prominent, if not large, aquiline nose.  And, of course, he is male, complete with a short beard!  The passport checker looked at his photo and asked him to take off his hat.  P complied.  The woman looked hard, nodded and then stamped him through.  As he stepped away, R, his wife, came in next.  She is also in her 80’s, is considerably shorter, has a shock of silver hair and is, of course, female.  Despite the cruelties of aging, she has been spared any facial hair.  She handed over her passport.  The official checked it, stamped it and sent her on her way.  So far so good.

When R& P got back together they realized that each had the others passport!

So much for US security!! (mind you, their shoes, clothes and carry-on were thoroughly searched, disassembled and commented on.  Seems octogenarians, as a profiled group, are pretty suspect, their borrowed airport wheelchairs getting the hardest scrutiny.)

Being here has settled into a nice, if not just-a-little-whacky, routine.  Sleep, write, eat, shop, tour a bit and then check computer for blog comments, happy-hour our way to dinnertime and then clean-up.  Chat, reminisce, fade early, go to bed, repeat daily.  Not really the recipe for adventure but a perfect alternative to Canada’s current winter conditions and a nice change from our normal off-the-grid routines.

Speaking of which………Guatemalans are very much on-the-grid.  Not so much in the same sense that we would mean it but they are ‘on’  nevertheless.  Even the remote and rustic village dweller-in-the-hills is woven into the ‘grid’ of their culture and lifestyle much more than is our common cul-de-saccer in the suburbs of Vancouver.  They are socially and infrastructurally tightly interwoven, you see.

Few of the poor have refrigerators, for instance.  That means daily forays to the local mercado.  Few can afford much ‘gas’ for their stoves and such and so that means frequent ‘fill-ups’ of small-ish tanks.  Even water-getting is often a daily chore accomplished at the village well.

In contrast, we often go as long as three weeks without any commercial or non-social contact.

And transportation is virtually bus-dependent.  It seems that every 5th vehicle on the road is a chicken bus filled with people coming and going.  And these are BIG chicken buses, not the little half-buses of yesteryear.  These puppies are forty or so feet long and loom large on roads.  Buses rule.

They form the real transportation grid and, in doing so, act as a veritable community-gathering-on-wheels since the people use them every day.   They are like rolling community centres in the morning and the evening ‘rush hours’.  Same Mayan hawkers, workers, employees and shoppers taking their labour, custom and goods back and forth together with their neighbours every day makes for familiarity and community.   These folks know each other and all their friends, family and relations.

And we may have forgotten the ‘glue’ that used to come from our religious affiliations since we have become more secular if not altogether irreligious in Canada.  It hasn’t been forgotten in Guatemala.  The church is another ‘thread’ in their strong social fabric.  The church is the centre of village life still.

These people are more communal, more linked, more interdependent with each other in so many more ways than we are.  (Not that I want that).  Their grid is different than ours but it still works – just in different but probably healthier ways.  It all serves to tie the people (Mayan, anyway) together and facilitate interdependence and it is very entrenched.

I dunno………….. as wussy as I am deep down, in my core, on the edges and on the surface, I still harbour a desire to be considerably more independent.  I have a Groucho Marx approach to groups and community as a rule. ‘Don’t really wanna join any group that would have me’.  Our island community group is the exception because, for the most part, everyone else feels as I do.  Some of our members refuse to show up for anything! Some are just names on the newsletter list.

THAT’s my kind of community!

The only way I can organize a work crew at home is to promise that any volunteer can show up and leave whenever they want, there will be no meetings, no paperwork, no supervision, no rules, no dues or even last names used.

Consequently, we work well together but, of course, no one knows anyone’s schedule, function or last name.  Think of it this way: if there are twenty hermits living alone in the same forest, does that make it a community of hermits?  I think so.

Of course, our ‘community’  projects take a bit longer as a result.

And, now, as I am older, that self-imposed separation-from-as-much-as-possibe seems to include BC Hydro, cable, TV, Canada census, regular newspaper delivery, lawn care, employment,  tax rolls (natch) and registries of any kind.  Hell, I won’t even sign petitions!

I don’t think I’d make a good Guatemalan villager, actually.

Sal’s parents, R & P, are 84 and 88 respectively and respectfully, and we should all be so lucky.  They are still going like trains and simply rise to every occasion presented.  More than that, they ‘rise’ a glass to every occasion as well!

Abuelo and Abuela

We will not suggest climbing a volcano but just about anything short of that is fair game just so long as there is a suitable libation at the end.

And there always is.

I can barely keep up.

Today we ‘bobble-headed’ into town again and stocked up on cash and supplies.  Afterwards, we toured the streets a bit mostly by car but now and then by shanks mare.  And we wrapped up this first ‘tour de Antigua’ with a quick visit to a nearby village/town just as the schools were letting out. We saw all the kids in their bright, clean and colourful school uniforms all with the usual e-music headsets, backpacks and Popsicles.  It was about 80 F/30C and the streets were crowded.

R & P were delighted to see ‘real life’ and, even tho this is not a classic tourist stop, it has a kind of gritty, scruffy, in-your-face appeal.  Chickens, dogs and groups of kids dodged diesel buses, cars and mopeds on narrow one-laned, cobbled roads and we squeezed amongst the whole colourful shebang with eyes and smiles darting in every direction.  You are allowed to drive just about ‘anyway and anywhere that works‘ just so long as you don’t hit anyone.  Tour de Chaos y Mayhem would be more like it.

It was good.

The old Land Rover (early 90’s) is a big, heavy, standard-shift diesel that seems to have been designed by Neanderthals and engineered by graduates of the Tinkertoy Institute of the Stone Age.  The car is a beast.  It rattles.  It clanks.  It spews clouds of planet-killing fumes and it does all this on a wheelbase not much longer than a skateboard.  It is like riding a one-humped mechanical camel.

I love it.

But what a pig!  The reasons for loving it, of course, start with the same thing Sal says to me on occasion, “Well, of course I love you, sweetie.  I am here aren’t I?”  Proximity, I guess, is 90% of the ‘love’ factor.  But it also has character (another trait me and the car share according to Sal).  Hmmm……….it is also reliable, ugly, stinky and, despite appearances, gets us where we want to go.  OMYGAWD!!  I just realized:

I AM THE CAR!!

Let us not dwell on that.  Suffice to say, I will not be posting anymore pics of the car. Or me.  I don’t trust you guys that much.

Anyway, back to Guatemala……………many people are still interested in real estate.  Well, more to the point: they are interested in real estate prices.  So, this is for you guys.  Nicely renovated full-city-block high-wall-homes (centre courtyard) near the centre of Antigua are offered for sale at around $US 2M.  But smaller, garden-terrace homes seem to be in the $US200-500K range.  And a nice lot in a ‘planned subdivision’, without amenities and with gringo-based ‘fees’ can be as low as $US20K.

Put more simply: one could buy a place down here for a reasonable sum if you ‘worked at it’ a bit.  And this is one of the most expensive places in Latin America.

Go to El Salvador, Honduras or Nicaragua, find your own little corner of paradise and I imagine it can be very, very doable.  Cheap, even.  I have no interest in such things anymore but looky-loo habits die hard and I can see ‘ opportunity’ here if one could look past the violence, the corruption and the curse of Mariachi music (which is enough to deter me all by itself.  I pay the Mariachi bands to leave!).

And, except for Mariachi, it is all too easy to ignore the rest because gringos enjoy a ‘hands-off’ policy for the most part – by government and bad-guys alike.  We are too good for the economy to mess with very much.  Of course, you have no rights, no legal protection and you are, for the most part, at the mercy of the prevailing mood, but the mood is currently good and, if your exposure (and profile) is low, one could live here very well.

Mind you, gringos can only live the ‘good life’ down here so long as they can be somewhat inured to the occasional in-your-face violations of man and beast that spring up now and then.  A bit too often for my liking.

It also helps to be a bit deaf.  If you aren’t, you soon will be.  If Canadians live life at 2 or 3 on the volume meter, Guatemalans and most Latin American cultures live it at 8.  Weekends: 10/15.  Major celebrations combined with fireworks, un-muffled cars, loudspeakers and Mariachi…..well, death is the only answer, really

(I am convinced that the principal reason the occasional volcano sweeps over a village and kills everyone where they sit is because they simply couldn’t hear the thing blow over the usual din!)

Oops……….over 840 words.  About 90 too many.  Sorry.  More tomorrow.

B & K left for the airport at 4:00 am.  Veek-tore took ’em.  They are headed to Beijing by way of Seattle.  Interesting route.  Methinks the ‘security’  folks will do a double-take on a GuatCity-to-Beijing itinerary.  Could be fun for them.  Strip searched and cavity probed.  Young people get all the fun!

I gave them my usual advice when encountering difficulties at airports; “Just yell Allahu Ahkbar and look crazed!  Waving your carry-on adds a little to the scene, too.  Within seconds, you’ll be surrounded by personnel willing to address any issue.  It’s like magic.  ‘ Course you have to look sane when they arrive and deny the ‘Allahu Ahkbar’ accusation by stating emphatically that that is the sound you make when sneezing.  But it works every time”.

Almost every time……………(do not try this if home is a middle eastern country.  For you guys, it DOESN’T work every time!)

R & P, Sal’s parents, arrived earlier in the day and we enjoyed a nice three generation get-together over dinner at ‘home‘ in Antigua.  Lots of fun.

B & K bought me small pinata and hung it in the garden for my birthday.  I took my considerable bulk outside and, well-fortified by a few of my own lethal margaritas, took up the classic ‘attack’ position with the thin, whip-like bamboo stick provided. It was an adrenaline rush.

B insisted on spinning me around and I was blindfolded and tippy in a very small garden strewn with uneven surfaces, a small moat for the goldfish and vegetation that included not just a little cactus.  Raucous fun provide for all as I endeavoured to smash my Super Mario effigy to pieces.

Three Gen Fun

Dignity cannot be preserved in such a situation.  It died with the tying on of the blindfold.

Mario was no slouch.  Put up a helluva fight.  Assisted by his dastardly cactus cohorts (somehow they managed to sneak behind me and tripped me up for a sec) he managed to draw some blood. Touch and go for a bit………….visions of Braveheart.

But, hell, I was much bigger and at least semi-sentient.  It was not really a fair fight despite K switching allegiances and helping him out by ‘keeping him at a distance’ by messing with the rope he was on.  In the end, superior firepower prevailed (he had none).  When fighting pinatas, size really does matter.  Poor ol’ Mario was definitely fighting well above his weight.

I can’t help but point out the obvious: the tradition of smashing effigys to pieces goes a long way to explaining the continuing violence in Latin American countries.  I think they should have a ban on pinatas.  At least a pinata registry.  Automatic/assault pinatas should be banned.  Pinatas don’t kill people.  People kill people.  But we use pinatas for training. Pinatas teach people to show no mercy.

It’s ugly.

Sometimes Goliath Wins

There’s a mind-picture for you: yell ‘Allahu Ahkbar‘ in an airport while waving a pinata of Che’ Guevera and adding the old US rally cry of “Give me liberty or give me death!” (Patrick Henry).  Suggestion# 2: immediately assume the prone position and put your hands behind your back.

Sorry about that last part of the post……it is just that old ‘adventure travel’ streak of mine I told you about in an earlier post………….I can’t help myself.  Gotta be me, ya know?

And it is much safer to try it out on the blog hypothetically rather than actually doing ‘street theatre’ to an unappreciative audience at LAX, don’t you think? 

I like to think of it as maturity.  Kinda.  

We’re starting to feel like locals.  ‘Bout time!

It’s mainly because we can now focus on what we are doing rather than rubbernecking and having to scope out handy banyos.  Tubes are currently good and holding.  Focus is good.  The  town ‘feels’  familiar.  Our Spanish is ‘picking up’ and we know where to shop.

This afternoon we rolled slowly into town on the cobblestone roads bobble-heading our way to the best French bakery.  Grabbed a banana loaf and a few baguettes and jiggled and bobbled a few more blocks west to the supermercado and the ‘real’ mercado.

Relief is a good parking spot and we found one.   Found a perfect spot, actually, and deftly paralleled into it despite huge traffic to the immense relief of the street cop who saluted with a broad smile and a respectful wave.

Does it get any better than that?

'Our' Land Rover

Sal went to her favourite Mayan ladies and bought so many vegetables that I was forced to carry the bag on my shoulder.  About twenty pounds.  $7.00.  I went to see if I could find Raoul my steak-cutter and did.  ” Hola, Gringo!”  Came away with three robust T-bones for $9.00.

Antigua Mercado

B&K come back from Lago Atitlan tonight.  We’ll feed ’em good.

Car was parked right by a tiny ice cream place.

Sal bought me a pinacolada cone

but, as I was waiting, I kept watching a little Mayan boy watching me.  He was about 5.  I suggested to Sal that she buy an extra one and, as we were leaving, she handed it to him (mom’s permission obtained, of course).  The grin was thanks enough.

Bobbled off slowly north looking cool.