Caught the 9:00 am swampboat express after mistakenly rehydrating with two large glasses of jugo de naranha at the hotel.  We waited 20 minutes and cruised for forty.

Ferry to El Avellana

I was keen to get to the end.  When we got there, I headed for a private corner of garbage and swamp, just behind the rusted hulk of an old pick-up.  I took – maybe – three minutes.

I knew the bus was loading – it started it’s daily run with the arrival of the swampboat – but there were people to load, chickens to position and packages to stow.  And, as a rule, nothing moves fast in Latin America except bullets.

Our bus was the exception.  We had stumbled upon a driver aspiring to formula one.  As I crossed the parking lot, the attendants (all buses have at least one and sometimes two ‘attendants’ to assist the driver with the business of flinging things and people on and off the bus).  I was helped aboard through the back door and, before I could reach my seat, we were off!

Holy Madre de Dios!  This guy floored it and held down his airhorn for at least the first fifteen/twenty seconds.  The villagers scattered, dogs hid, chickens scrambled and we accelerated through the little town to about 100 km an hour before braking harshly for the last speed bump.

But then he was clear and he took the old Bluebird up to about 120 km and hour and didn’t let up for curves, dips or even traffic.  We just screamed past small pickups (two laden with huge Brahman bulls standing in the bed), large transport trucks, other buses, small cars and all the motorbikes that even came close to getting in our way.  It was exhilarating to say the least, frightening some of the time and bloody terrifying more than a few times.  Even the everyday, normally stoic, route-familiar passengers had large eyes and occasionally involuntarily expressed gasps of fear.  This guy was setting a record!

Frankly, I needed a shot of adrenaline and yelled out ‘Yee ha!‘ on one occasion when it seemed that we were momentarily airborne.  This, inexplicably relaxed the passengers and they laughed out loud.  We all did the rest of the thrill ride with grins.

We got to ‘Chicki’  in about two hours.  That was the end of his run and he dropped us at a corner that indicated absolutely nothing.  Just as we scrambled to the curb some guy out of nowhere grabbed half our luggage and, with a smile, encouraged us to follow him down the hill into what appeared to be a scruffy part of Chicki.

Embarking on a Chicken Bus Ride

Of course, we followed like the easy victims we appeared to be but were relieved to see that, after a block or two and a corner we emerged at a small bus depot.  And we were loaded on the bus to the border.  A quick banyo break and we were off.

I opted away from any more liquids.  Two hours would be my bladder’s max.  And this guy turned out to be pretty slow.  Even adjusting for the experience of the first guy, the second guy was molasses.  Nice guy, tho.  He stopped for everyone and gave them a ride for a few hundred yards.  No charge.  If there was one guy waving him down and another 100 feet away, he’d make two stops.  It was excruciating.

Nice guy, tho.

We eventually arrived at the border and that was when this guy’s true driving genius showed up.  There must have been 70 or more long distance trucks lined up for the customs and inspection process.  They took up all of the southbound lane.  So, naturally, our guy took the northbound lane.  The one with traffic coming at us.  The one with big, long distance trucks from the other side coming right at us.

We ducked, we weaved, we squeezed and we squished our way down a broken pavement narrow track complete with pedestrians, bikes, cows and traffic – all flowing in different directions- but with the ‘heavy dudes’  coming right at us. He zigged and zagged for about a mile.  He made it and dropped us at the border.

Crossing No Person's Land Between Guatemala and El Salvador

We got through the border formalities easily.  Nobody there spoke English and we just claimed not to speak any Spanish (97% true).  They did write our names down on a piece of paper.

There was a little ‘town’ site at the border complete with gas stations and tiendas and street mongers. We looked a bit out of place being the only tourists to have ever visited El Salvador but everyone was welcoming and friendly.  Piece o’cake.  The gang of unshaven thugs standing by the first restaurant notwithstanding.

We decided to take it (not being mugged) as a good sign and stopped in for a bite.  We had a chicken dinner for two dollars.  Then, after finding the nearest banyo, we headed for the bust stop, found our bus and began the second to last leg of our journey into San Salvador.

More of the same ‘nice guy’ schedule continued until we reached a bus terminus half way between the border and San Salvador, the capital city.  Then another banyo break and into an air conditioned Greyhound style complete with a Latin Christian-themed movie playing on overhead TVs.  All bus fares were about a dollar and fifty cents.  The air-conditioned, movie buses maybe an extra quarter.

I don’t think it cost us ten bucks total to travel all day by bus.

But it really sapped our energy.  El Salvador is hot.  It’s about 35/100 in the day and 30/90 at night.  By the time we checked in to Clementina’s Guest house in San Salvador, we were soaked through with sweat.  So, we took the only route open – cold showers.  The first one took a bit of will power.  By the time I went to bed (after dinner and walking around) I had taken six or seven ‘quickies’.  And that was to become the least number of showers I have taken during a day in San Salvador.

Eight so far today.  And counting……………..

After we got settled in at El Delfin, Eduardo-the-guide snagged us and we were charmed.  Or dazed.  Same thing.

Anyway, he got us and we were ‘booked in’ the next morning for a sunrise swamp tour on a 14 foot punta/dory made of rough-hewn hardwood planks.

Eduardo knocked us up at 5:30 am.  I was walking through the ‘chickens-at-the-beach’ village at the time when the damn chickens were just waking up! I am going to have to exercise more control over Sally’s impulses.  This was crazy.

Actually, it was kinda neat.  There was just enough light to see the small town come alive.  The first of the shopkeepers were sweeping away the night-blown palm leaves and the evening prior’s trash of beer bottles and plastic.  Most of the wretched, skinny dogs were still curled up asleep on the sidewalks and the air was cool with a hint of mango mixed with swamp water.

Yes, it does get better than this but this wasn’t so bad.

We trudged down the dirt track into the jungle just to appear a few minutes later at the embarcadero – the ‘marina’ made up of boats strewn on the shore.  They were interesting.

Eduardo in his Swamp Boat

The average ‘Chevy’ of punts is about 14 to 18 feet long with the longer ones powered by 9.9 hp motors and the shorter ones pushed by long poles.  Eduardo used a pole.

The swamp is only at a depth of four or so feet right now but, in the rainy season, that will double.  The water was pea-green and calm.

Ferries and Launcha

The other most common boat at the marina is the 30 foot punt-bus that does the daily 40 minute run back and forth from one end of the swamp (Monterrico) to the other (La Avellana) where travelers can connect with a chicken bus that gets them back into the interior.

Car Ferry

But the most interesting boat-barge was the 30 foot by 10 foot shallow, plank-built barge they used to ferry cars and trucks.  This was amazing.  Powered by a 25 hp motor, the barge was controlled by the helmsman sitting at the rear corner.  Most of the passengers sat at the front to catch the breeze.  The truck, car or ‘huge-pile-of-something’ sat in the middle obscuring the captain’s view.  The guy couldn’t see anything except one side and he had to lean out to do that.  Such restrictions did not limit his confidence whatsoever.  The boat literally charged through the swamp at about 5 knots and any traffic encountered had to make way on it’s own.

Monterrico Nature Reserve at Dawn

We left before the day got busy and floated silently out into the still-dark swamp to see mangroves, egrets and fishermen on other small punts hard at work netting small fish.  In the morning mist, we could just make out the silhouettes of the three big volcanoes near Antigua about 50 miles away.

Guatemalan Fisherman

Seems the swamp is home to a lot of life but we didn’t see much.  We did see a small school or two of four-eyed fish!?  These guys leave two eyes above water and two under and, in this way, double their chance of finding something to eat.  And, when they swim, they seem to half fly out of the water.  They were pretty neat.

There was nothing really special about the trip overall but the swamp, the mist, the light and the volcanoes gave one an inkling of being in prehistoric times.  The Plasticine era or maybe the Crustacean.  (Yes, I know that I just made those names up but you know what I mean).

Sunrise (possibly David's first)

We got back around 7:00 am and the town was alive and the heat picking up.  A quick breakfast, followed by a longer nap and we were back in business…………….sitting in the pool.  Cooling off.

“I really wanna see the turtles, sweetie.  Let’s go see the turtles!”

“Sure”, I lied, sounding eager, “do you know where to go?”

“Oh yes.  I checked.  Just 200 meters down the beach past our hotel or maybe past Johny’s place.  Whatever.  We’ll find it.  They say, ‘you can’t miss it!”

I should have known.  Sally’s only flaw: navigation in any form.  My only excuse: the heat was getting to me.

Off we went.

“Let’s walk along the beach, sweetie.  It’s so much nicer.” 

I didn’t take my shoes. It was only 200 yards.  The black sand is like pumice and hot as hell so the way to walk on the beach is either with flip flops or down by the water’s edge so as to keep your feet cool.  ‘Course that means a quick hot-step to the cooler part of the sand which is over about 150 feet of burning black sand but it’s doable and so I did it.  And we began trudging south.

Trudging is the right word for me.  I tend to sink into the sand deeper than does Sal who seems to hardly make an impression as she floats lightly along the surface.

And I trudged.

“Gee, I was sure it would be along here somewhere.  Let’s just go a little further, sweetie.  I’m sure we’ll see it soon.”

And I trudged.

After almost a mile along the beach the pumice-like nature of the sand was making itself known to the soles of my feet.  I am pretty sure I had ‘sanded off’ the better part of the bottom of my foot.

“Ya know, this trudging-thing in the sand is kinda getting’ to me, Sal.  My feet are kinda feeling raw.  I think I’d better head back if I’m to have a chance of making it.  Sorry”

“Oh, sweetie.  Poor sweetie.  Here, put on my sandals.  You’ll be fine.”

Sal’s sandals on me look like Cinderella’s slippers on the largest of the ugly step-sisters.  They didn’t work.

“Well, let’s just get up the beach a bit and go to that nice place over there.  They have a pool and a nice little palapa-like building.  Maybe we can get something to drink?” 

“Sounds good.  But there is still the 100 or so feet of burning black sand to cross.  My feet feel as tender as the inside of my eyelids.  That’s gonna hurt!”

And so I trudged some more. I kept thinking that maybe it was love that was only skin deep. I was definitely going to find out!

Finally I decided to make a break for the palapa!  It was like walking on hot griddles!  I got halfway and wanted to flip on my back like a turtle but one of the women at the nearby pool was so greatly amused at my discomfort, I did not want to give her any more laughs at my expense.  Gawd I hated that woman!  Gawd that short distance hurt!  Gawd!

We had a beer and I tried to walk back.  This time on the beach road about another 100 yards back from the beach.  Couldn’t do it.  Called a cab.  Coulda kissed the fat Mayan guy on the lips when he dropped me back at my hotel and my shoes.

Sally would not promise to keep this story secret so I am blurting it out now.  Easier this way.

But, of course, during all this walking-on-hot-burning-glass-shards, we learned where the turtle refuge was.  Life can be cruel at times.  So we walked back there. This time I wore shoes.

And it was stupid in that tourist trap kinda way.  Lots of turtles but only two sea turtles.  The rest were the kind you buy at pet stores in any city.  The caimens and iguanas were cool but so cool that they were frozen in immobility.  They don’t move much at the best of times and this was a hot humid day in the swamp.  They were settled!

And they were all pretty small.

All of which is OK, really.  At least the ‘refuge’  was working to preserve endangered species and so, despite its modest presentation, the trip was deemed a success.

No cab was required.

But that was enough of Monterrico.  After dinner we decided to catch the swamp-punt-bus to the chicken-bus-stop and head up into El Salvador.

The adventure part of this vacation (not that there was ever supposed to be one) was underway.

Day one of three.  We’ve been chicken-busing and swamp-boating and have ended up in San Salvador.  Exhausted.  The following post was arrival day at the beach in Guatemala. The one we had been to 34 years ago! Day two was A Day At The Beach and day three was a Day On The Buses.  But I haven’t written two and three yet.  I will tomorrow.

Monterrico Sunset

We are in Monterrico, a little beach town on Guatemala’s Pacific coast.  It is just like every other seedy, dusty, hot-as-blazes little garbage-strewn dump along the coast from Tijuana to, well, here.  First impressions aren’t good.

But they never are.  It’s 30+C in the shade and there is very little of that. The promise of an onshore breeze has yet to be realized.  I feel like a plump little chicken on a rotisserie.  And yes!  I look like one, too.

The Author at Work

We pass on the Argentinians’ choice of hotel.  It’s inland and we are coming for the beach.  Another couple of gringos on the same bus opted for the first beach-side hotel the driver stopped at but the grinning, single old-codger, the seasoned-by-extensive-travel-looking tourist stayed on, so we did too.  We three got out at El Delfin.  Had to.  End of the line.

Old, seasoned (and Spanish speaking) tourist took one look around Delfin’s scant offerings and headed off to look for something else.  Not a good sign.  But we looked at lucky room #13 and decided that it was not likely to get any better than that and the room had the added advantage of not requiring any hiking in the blistering noon-day sun.

At US$10 per night each, we’d see if it was a bargain.

El Delfin

Our room is part of the south wing of el Delfin consisting of two other such rooms all under the same palm-leaf-and-bamboo palapa-style roof.  Each room is about 200 square feet. The charming concrete-block room walls go up about 7 feet and then the big ‘thatched cover’ sits on the perimeter walls. The roof is a veritable housing project for small wild, darting-in-the-night-type creatures.

But we have a mosquito net.

Mosquito/Things that go bump in the night Net

All rooms share air-space with one another not unlike washroom cubicles.  There is a loose collection of bamboo stalks keeping guests from clambering over for unwanted visits but one can hear any invitations being made.  Worse, one could hear the results of any invitations accepted.  Privacy is not being seen.  Everyone can be heard.

Sally leans over to me.  Her lips are barely moving.  I lean in closer. “I feel as if I should whisper.” She says.

“Why?”

“So no one can hear!” 

“I can’t hear and I am sitting next you!  Anyway, the guys next door speak some eastern European language and everyone else is speaking Spanish.  I think we are safe to swap even top secret information.  Got any?  I’m all out, myself.” 

Delfin’s is not so bad and, to be fair, it is very much like the places we stayed at during our ‘VW van’ travels in the 70’s.  It really is déjà vu for us.  We actually know what we got ourselves into.

Mind you, I did forget for a bit………

Fresh Pescado

But the beers with lime are cold and cheap.  The small pool is cooling.  The ocean crashes on the black sand beach in a relaxing rhythm.  And lunch was a huge whole fish with a good salad and even better fries.  Sal and I could only eat half of what we were served.  But we are obviously settling in.

Shawn and John (from the bus ride in) came over to report that their choice of hotels is not working out.  They’ll move over the next day.  Seems their hotel is under jack-hammer renovations and they checked in during lunch break.  The heavy equipment going all day and into the night, the Latin music cranked up to be heard over the machines and the pounding of the surf combines to make the place somewhat unlivable.  We call ’em wimps and give thanks for the quiet of el Delfin, roof denizens notwithstanding.

More tomorrow

I read last week that Harper stated clearly that the government of Canada would not tinker with the Canada Pension Plan. Seems there is no need. It is well-funded and in good shape.

“Hey, Sal!!  Just reading here that Harper promises not to mess with pensions.  Ya know what that means, don’tcha?”

“Yeah!  Damn it!  Just as we get old enough to collect one, the bastard is gonna mess with them!” 

“You heard me, right?  I read that he said he would not change them!” 

“I heard you.  But one thing you can count on is that whatever the politicians say, the opposite is true.  You know?  Like, whatever the name of the legislation is, the opposite is true.  Clean Water Act means pollution.  Salmon Enhancement Act means extermination. Freedom of Information Act means welded-shut secrecy.   If he says he isn’t gonna change them, that means he will.” 

“I agree.  I wonder how they are going to screw us this time?  They’ve already cut subsidies to the poor.  They cut taxes on the rich.  And they are violating our rights and freedoms, giving away our natural resources and killing our fish to boot.  What more could they possibly do?”

” I dunno.  My guess is that they will roll back the pensions somehow.”

And I just read today…………….

……………(after the earlier ‘purge post’) that Harper just announced in Davos, Switzerland, at the gathering of the super elite that Canada is doing very well indeed but, in the interests of protecting our standing as the best country in the world, they are going to cut back on retirement benefits. 

“But those existing pensioners won’t be affected”, he said.

And I won’t be 65 til next year.  They may be evil but, ya gotta admit, they are good at it.

I hate losing readers.  I really do.

They are so rare and beautiful. (Especially the rarely sighted responder-reader more commonly referred to as the commentator.  They are a delight to see.)

I hate losing readers so much that I purposefully ‘restrain’ myself and keep the blog to ‘fun’ and ‘light’ topics most of the time.  My editor kinda insists on that, anyway, really.  And I don’t wanna lose my editor.  I am sleeping with her.

The best way to lose a readership is to write politically.  Philosophy is a close second.  Man, oh man.  The readers come into the club in dribs and drabs but they leave in clumps and groups when I wax political or philosophical.  Popularity is an ephemeral thing and unpopularity is spelled p-o-l-i-t-i-c-s).

Still, a man’s gotta do…..ya know…………..so here it comes: my most recent cri de coeur………………

……well, since I can’t indulge this feeling often, there is a short list of ‘cris’.

For those of you already ticked off, please come back tomorrow after I have vented my politcal spleen.  Sorry.

But I will keep it to a minimum.

First off we have a huge injustice being perpetrated by industry and government over the Don Staniford case (see: http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/2012/02/01/don-staniford-fish-farms_n_1192219.html).  The guy (British) is being sued and deported for essentially exercising ‘free speech’ in Canada and polite ecological activism.  Very wrong.

Good news: many are rallying to his defense and the leaders in this rally are fishing lodges who agree with what he is saying.

Secondly, we have DFO (government Department of Fisheries and Oceans) increasing the allowable catch of herring in the Gulf of Georgia by a factor of 20 times!  This is insane for a myriad of reasons and will devastate the already hugely depleted fish stocks of the gulf.  There is no conceivable justification for this.  It is just plain evil.

Herring fishermen should refuse to take ’em.  Let’s hope.

Thirdly – Robyn Allen, a dyed-in-the-wool capitalist, ex CEO of ICBC and a staunchly conservative economist and accountant delivered an  unprompted analysis of the Enbridge pipeline to the National Energy board in which she states unequivocally that the Enbridge pipleline is bad for Canada in every respect and especially economically.  This lady stood up, stepped up and spoke up.  I doubt that she is welcome anymore at the local country club but she is welcome at my house.

Sadly, I have learned over the years that morals, ethics and goodness are trumped by one’s concern over one’s wallet.  The HST was defeated ostensibly because people didn’t like their government lying to them but really it was because the HST was understood as being more costly in the pocketbook. Thus, Robyn Allen’s argument against Enbridge may, in fact, be the most persuasive in this debate.

The NDP (BC’s flaccid opposition party) are leading in the polls.  They have managed to ‘get ahead’ by simply keeping their mouths shut and their heads down.  They haven’t stood up for much of anything in the last few years and are winning the war of popularity just by keeping a low profile.

Inspiring, don’tcha think?

This anything-to-get-elected strategy, at a time when there are so many issues to take a position on, tells me something: political parties are more afraid than courageous, more strategic than moral, more shrewd than honest.  And they are becoming more irrelevant as a result.

People are relying less on their elected reps than ever before (the reps are hiding, anyway) and they are using the ‘net’ to be their own form of an amorphous political voice. Read the Tyee.  The Common Sense Canadian. See the Occupy Movement.

Maybe in 20 years the politicians will be relegated to just the pomp and ceremony of government rather than real power……..sorta like the picked-for-their-looks governors general who simply host parties.

Let’s hope so.

“So?  Happy now, Dave?  Got it off your chest, did ya?  Can we go back to Ravens and dogs and guacamole?” 

Yeah.  Guess so………..sorry………………….

………….oooooooooooooooooops!  Just learned something new…..see postscript – the added-late blog post just after this one.

Wrote a long piece yesterday on ex-pats and the dislocated communities they create.  I opined that there was a higher deviance factor in ex-pat communities and that most of them were ‘ex’ for a reason. I thought I was on a roll.

Sal said it was boring, stupid and probably politically incorrect so it went into the ‘drafts’ folder.  Seems absence (no post) is preferable to showing up boring or stupid.  Or controversial.  Gotta stay funny but not rude, interesting but not provocative, personal but not intimate and I have to minimize the creative use of hyperbole.  This blog is a tightrope.

I have a tough editor.

I think I also have West Nile Virus (which is easier to live with sometimes than a tough editor).  It is here in Guatemala and I have been exhibiting WNV symptoms for awhile.  No big deal.  A few extra aches and pains.  Sometimes hard to differentiate from the old, usual ones, actually.  But it slows ya down a bit and my natural pace is pretty glacial as it is.  Symptoms are much like the flu but with weird cramps in your back, arms and legs.

But, it passes, they say, and I think I am near the completion stage.  Nothing to worry about although Sal’s idea of treatment is long hikes.  I have a tough partner who thinks dwelling on disease is the mark of a sissy.  “Suck it up, man!  And march!”

We are leaving Guatemala for El Salvador Monday morning.  A shuttle bus to Monterico and then a swampboat connection to a chicken bus that takes us across the border into a national park famous for – you guessed it – hikes.

Hikers on the Tourist Trail

What the hell is it with this new-fad-like appeal of hiking?  I remember perfectly well the joy and happiness associated with the discovery of the motorized wheel and it was good enough for me then and it is good enough for me now.

Did you know that there are companies dedicated to ‘taking you hiking’.  What the hell is that about?  I don’t need anyone to walk ahead of me saying ‘its this way‘.  I can see the trail.  The volcano is looming in front of me.  The incline is obvious.  What the hell?!

And while I am at it…….what the extra-hell is the appeal of a mangrove swamp, anyway?  I remember reading books on people lost in mangrove swamps and it was no picnic for them, I can assure you.  But today?  Today the adventure-traveler feels obliged to trek about in the swamps for at least a few hours.  Looking at bugs.  Pulling off leeches.  I don’t get it.

But I will.

Of course we are scheduled in to a swamp somewhere near the border (Master Drill Sgt. Sal) with the obligatory hike amongst the snakes and mosquitoes. Yippee.

I guess what I am saying is this………my wife is now some kind of intrepid hiking-masochist-cum-Amazon and I am now some kind of blobby-white doofus.  How did this happen?  And are more margaritas going to improve or exacerbate the situation?

Well, I can be intrepid, too.  I’ll just have to find out and report back to you.

It is louder than distant thunder but not as loud as thunder directly overhead.  It is like a deep, deep underground explosion.  It is BIG.  And it happens just about every day, sometimes twice.

“Anna (housekeeper), what is that deep rumble we hear all the time?  You know.…” and then I make a deep rumble sound……..and look at her as if she can suddenly understand English with mime and deep David-doing-rumblings accompaniment.  Which she can……..

She looks at me like I have just noticed that the sky is blue……..”el vulcan!”

“So the deep rumbling is a volcano?”

“Si, todos dias” (every day).  And then she makes a gesture like a volcano blowing it’s top.

El Volcan Agua as seen from 'our' house

But that is just it.  It doesn’t.  One of the the three local volcanoes makes this incredible, deep rumbling sound for a few seconds – maybe two or three times – and that seems to be it.  Every day.   But that’s all, folks. No big explosion, no additional smoke or steam, no earth tremors……….. certainly no eruptions……….just these incredibly deep rumbles.

Where does that energy come from?  ‘Well, the centre of the earth, I guess. Duh!‘

But more important – where does it go?  If there is no tremor, no eruption and not even any extra smoke, where is that energy going?  Are there great slabs of magma just jiggling about down there?  And, if so, where does the room for all that jiggling come from?  We got big hollows down there?  Where’s the ‘sloshing’ room?  And why doesn’t all that jiggling add up to something?

I suppose there is some kind of scientific baffle gab about thermal this or that and plate tectonics and gas releasing or something…….but, I am sorry, whatever the explanation is, it is not good enough.  There is some kind of immense power thing going on down there and why it doesn’t show up even more frequently than it does is a complete mystery to me.

And talk about alternative energy!  OMYGAWD!  These volcanoes are a way greater source of energy than any dozen nuclear reactors.  In fact, at one of the local volcanoes the global alternative energy company Ormat put in a steam driven generator for generating electrical power. It’s hooked to the Guatemalan grid and it is producing like mad.

Guide Carlito with Thermal Electric Generating Plant (right side mid-ground) on the slopes of El Volcan Pacaya

I dunno………I’m just stupid, I guess.  It must be cheaper and more efficient to dredge tar sands and pipe that sludge to China than to simply drill a little deeper and tap into the heat of the planet.  Geothermal.  Even though there is no pollution or environmental damage……..I guess I am just some kind of loony doofus who doesn’t get it.

I’ll bet Exxon could explain it to me.

I suppose I could start anywhere on the subject of logic and the lack of it, couldn’t I?   I mean; we don’t even have to go to Central America to find illogical examples when our own little frozen banana republic of BC has such a sorry history of stupid on which to dwell, right?

But I am sorry.  I am on vacation here and I gottta talk dumb from my new warmer climate perspective. No matter where I am, I still gotta be me.

I could easily start with the situating of your town at the base of three active volcanoes?  Or maybe better put: continually rebuilding said town after the aforementioned volcanoes regularly destroy it.  But that is too easy.  I mean, really……….?

No, I think I will start with rocks and how they use them down here.  I am talking about cobbles.  You know? Using sharp, irregular rocks for roadways instead of say, concrete or asphalt?  Or even paving stones?

Antigua is a World Heritage site and it should be.  The history, the setting, the architecture……………it is all bloody marvelous.  Bit too much of an emphasis on the word, bloody, actually, but still marvelous.  Really.  But part of the heritage designation must have included requiring the cobblestone streets to remain authentic and, as charming as they are to look at, they are crazy-making.

First day you think: charming.  Second day: not so charming but still characterful.  Third day: these things have to go!  After that, you just wonder ‘why?’  Why not just drive on a bed of nails while being beaten with a two-by-four.  Same thing.

The truly crazy thing is this: the natural speed-restricting nature of rough-hewn cobblestones laid at various angles and depths along an uneven roadway are occasionally augmented by speed bumps.  Think about that.

Restoration One Rock at a Time

They are ‘charmingly’ labelled ‘tumulos’ here (‘topes’ in Mexico), but a rose by any other name…….still has thorns!

Point: it is impossible to drive more than ten miles an hour without dismantling your vehicle by cobble-induced vibrations and then they add speed bumps!

‘Course they have random police road-checks all over the place, too, so it would be hard to get up much of a head of steam even if the roads were smooth and there was no traffic.

There are a lot of ways to die in Guatemala but speed will never be a contributing factor, at least not anywhere near downtown Antigua.

Of course, there is no logical reason for most road-checks or speed bumps in Latin America but in and around Antigua the arbitrary, willy-nilly sprinkling of speed bumps wherever some loon had some extra bricks and concrete at his disposal is completely maddening.

On the exit off the highway to some little village just north of town there are two that we encountered the other day.  You race along the stretch of highway at 50 mph or so and take the ChichideJesusmadremiamariachitango exit only to discover two speed bumps within the exit lane each capable of sending you and your passengers into a shallow orbit.

There is a front end mechanic just down the road a few yards.  Surprise.

Now don’t get me wrong.  I love a nice climate.  I really like the Mayan people (outside of political rallies) and I am fascinated by the history and the geography of the area.  Hell, I even like the food!  But, c’mon!  Stupid is stupid and speed bumps in Antigua are dumber than the rocks they use to make ’em.

Personally, I’d make another application to see if I couldn’t get Antigua re-designated a world heritage site without the cobbles!

The abuelos depart today!  They are off to Guatemala City to a hotel for the half-night before they depart in the early morning.  They have to catch a 7:00 am flight and with all the madness associated with airports, they are leaving on the hotel shuttle just before 5:00 am.

This seems to be the norm for flights from Central America to Nortamericano, they all arrive or leave at dawn.

Abuelos are fun.  Of course, at a combined age of 172 they are not a constant laugh-riot but I, for one, get a smidge too much pleasure from teasing Sal’s mom.  Sal’s normal deportment is that of a right-proper  lady.  But R’s normal demeanor is that of royalty.  The queen, of course, does the best queen.  Helen Mirren does the second best head-of-the-house-of-Windsor but Sal’s mom could definitely be a contender for the crown.  She’s #3.  She has a very regal bearing.  And I like to ‘play off’  that now and then.

“So, R, feel like burger and a beer at the neighbourhood tavern?  I hear they are showing the ultimate fighting competition on TV.  I can get you entered in the local amateur over-80 class. You’d do good against the old Mayan ladies.  Interested?”

“What!  Dear me!  What are you saying, you silly boy?  I have no idea what all that meant.  Are you being rude?”  And she looks at me crossly maybe shaking an accusatory finger at me. If there was a footman to be had, he’d be fetched and I would be removed from the court.

We’ve been close like that for 40 years.  At least the ‘cross’ look and the accusatory finger part.  Call me crazy.  I think it is fun.

Our son B&K are in Shanghai.  Our daughter E&B are in Hong Kong.  Sal and I will soon be in El Salvador.  The abuelos will be winging it home in a few hours.  And, somehow, this all feels right and normal to me.  Nothing like a little separation to be fully appreciative of the people you are close to.

Which reminds me: both Sally and I have been missing our remote community members a bit lately.  The Discovery Doofuses.  What a motley crew of marginally or full-blown crazies we have become attached to, eh?  We traded an urban bunch o’ coconuts for a disparate group of rural whackos and kooks and miss ’em all as a result.

Honestly, there is no accounting for taste.

Even tho we are only half way through the winter sojourn, it is already feeling a bit like it will be nice to get home.  I’m a bit homesick, I guess.  Which is odd for me.  I rarely ever wanted to go back home once I was on the road but I feel differently now.  I like home now.  We’ll just let the freezing temperatures pass first.

Just a brief side note – we have been here almost a month and the weather has not changed a bit.  Warm and shirt-sleeves in the afternoon.  Ten degrees (F) cooler in the evening.   Biggest variance?  A cloud or two.  Maybe a gentle breeze now and then. No bugs either!  And the countryside is fertile like the Garden of Eden.  If one could be contented with an idylic same ‘ol, same ‘ol, then this is clearly the climate.

Me?  I’d go mad.

Went to the Casa Santo Domingo last night for dinner.  Stunning.  Beyond gorgeous.  The food was mediocre but, really, value was there in spades after the service, ambiance and the setting was factored in.  OMYGAWD!  It was absolutely beautiful.

Entrance to Casa Santo Domingo

CSD was originally a convent, built back in the 1600’s.  The walls are as thick as European castles, at least three feet and, in some places four feet.  Made of stone, of course.  I guess those nuns needed keeping in or the locals needed keeping out.  Whatever – the convent was clearly built to be a silent fortress.  Different levels, spaces, inner courtyards, gardens, rooms, galleries, hallways, fountains and inviting places everywhere.

Of course, now CSD is a restaurant, hotel and bar but the spaces are so historic and generous, so magnificently flowered, landscaped and decorated and so nicely lit with ancient art and sculpture that it is an exceptional hotel, even if compared on a world scale.

An interesting point on the service………the abuelos are a bit more sensitive to the cold and, tho the climate is mild, it gets a smidge chillier in the evening.  Maybe it was 66.5 F last night.  And there was a gentle breeze bringing with it a windchill factor.  It felt like 65.5F.

Sal asked the waitress for the warmest part of the room.  The woman looked a bit taken aback and slowly wandered us down the massive mostly open room wondering ‘how the hell am I to find the warmest part of a colonial ruin?’

I could see her mentally shrug as she seated us roughly in the middle of a room that was at least 75 feet long, 40 feet wide and 25 feet high with  five large arched openings to the outdoors.  In keeping with the ‘ruins’  decor only half the roof was intact.  We all felt for ‘drafts’ and sat the abuelos where we thought would be best for them.  And we carried on.

Brazier

A few minutes later an attendant showed up with what looked like an antique metal wheel on it’s side with a metal bucket welded in the place of the hub.  The bucket was about 16 inches deep and maybe a foot in diameter.  There, in the middle of it, glowing brightly, was a couple of burning coconut husks giving off a remarkable amount of heat.  No smoke.  Somehow, within minutes of our arrival, a little rustic, in-keeping-with-the-ambience ‘private’ heater was employed.

That’s pretty good.

The thing about some fancy restaurants is that they are pretentious.  CSD was not.  It was the ‘real thing’.  But, of course, the food was ridiculous. So it was pretentious in that sense.

This was one of those places where they use three dishes to present a single strawberry with a drizzle of berry sauce on it like it was the Hope diamond.  I have suffered such parsimony-wrapped-in-fancy before and am not amused.  I have a significant girth to maintain and there is no substitute for volume.  These dorks didn’t seem to get it.

The worst we have ever encountered was at La Lumiere in Vancouver.  Sal’s main course there was a single scallop sitting atop a stack of four or five layered dishes.  It was stupid.  And good ol’ Sal just burst out laughing! That was the best commentary and one shared by everyone around us.

After dropping a week’s income for the ‘experience’, we stopped at the White Spot on the way home for a burger.

CSD was not quite that bad.  But, pulleez, don’t serve me a radish on two plates surrounded by rose petals and a curl of something and expect sustenance to be achieved.  Can’t be done.  On every scale they were a ten out of ten.  But not on calories.

Fortunately I have a considerable reserve in store.  I could go a long, long time without suffering from lack of calories.  Decades maybe.  Why?  Because one never knows when one might have to face such a dire situation.

Be prepared, I say.  You never know.  You might end up in a convent some day with nothing more than radishes in berry sauce!  It has happened to us.