one size fits all

Eight months is too long to have a blog and not post. As my mass comm. professor Ellen calls it, a puppy: exciting to get, and for the first few weeks cute and fun, but when it turns into a dog, all the maintenance and attention make you wish you never got it.


My puppy is dead.

But I got a new one...kind of...in the form of a blog for a class.

At least I'll be updating more frequently this semester, since my grade depends on it.

Cheers to puppies.


***

— Anyway, just in case you newbie readers are wondering, Bralapa means Bronson + Xalapa. Xalapa is the Mexican city in which I studied a year.

— Click on the ads above to help fund my scholarly pursuits. I suggest all you bloggers, especially those in my class, sign up for Google AdSense: let Google put ads on your site and you earn money when users click them. Hardly anything, but it's a nice bonus for doing homework.

Mexmex

In three weeks I leave Mexico, three very short weeks. Where have these nine months gone?! Since spring break ended five weeks ago, the days fly by and my time here gets less and less. One day has 24 hours but feels like 5 minutes. So, have I accomplished every thing I set out to? Have I reached my goals? Or have I simply wasted away these nine months in useless cultural observations, lazy wandering and indulging in Mexican food?

Of course not.

I can speak Spanish near fluently now. When I started I was a beginner, despite four years of study in university and high school. I thought, upon arriving 22 of aug., "no problem, I can get around easily and I know enough, it`s cake." WRONG! I had a hard time even ordering a meal in McDonald`s, where half the words were brand names - Coke, Big Mac, Visa - and before beginning my classes I was dismayed to find that I placed level 3 of 6 in this school`s intensive Spanish levels, which meant I was low-intermediate level, still ineligible to take university-level classes with Mexican students. But maybe it was better that way, as I tried harder and worked more to attain more Spanish. Many have told me I don`t have a gringo accent, on some words yes, but most of the time they can`t tell I`m American, but I`m lucky in that I`m moreno, my skin is darker and at the very least I look Central American, where the people`s skin color is lighter than that of Mexicans, usually, and for that reason I tend to fit in better.

Anyway...


Have a look at these popular Mexican brands...




-Pemex: Petroleum Mexicano, petrol monopoly, the only gasoline you can buy in Mexico
-Telmex: Teléfonos Mexicano, telecommunications monopoly. Mexicans pay some of the highest phone rates in the world. It costs about 40 cents per minute to call a cell phone under TelCel, and 35 cents to use a payphone per minute. But no wonder, the compnay is owned by the world`s second richest person, Carlos Slim.
-Jumex: Jugo Mexicano, asshole juice company that supported election of conservative president Felipe Calderon
-Comex: Colores Mexicanos, every brightly colored house probably was painted using this company`s paint
-Banamex: Banco de Mexico, National bank, beareaucratic, my friend`s debit card was eaten by their ATM.
-Cemento Mexicano: Cement.
-Mexpost: Mexican Post: it probably won`t arrive.
-Cinemex: Haven`t been there
Coming soon...Bromex, which will buy out Bralapa in a landmark merger.



And now, here are two essays I`ve written: the first a "slice of life" as I take a bus ride, the second is advice for those studying abroad, both published in my college newspaper....


***

Everyday Cultural Oddities

A Slice of Life Seen from a Mexican Bus

I write this as I wait for the bus. It will be egg-yolk yellow and falling apart. Looney Toons stickers and soccer garb will plaster the dashboard and a crucified Jesus or Virgin of Guadalupe mini-shrine will be rubber-cemented on the windshield, which will have spider-web cracks and the names of its stops – Centro, Berros, 066, Bugambilias – neatly painted on the outside corner.

This is Mexico and I love it. In these past eight months I have cut a chunk from my heart and planted it in the rich Mexican soil, the country whose flag depicts an eagle devouring a serpent while perched on a cactus.

I board and pay the driver – or chauffeur as they call him – three pesos and realize that on this ride I’ll be standing in the aisle, as every seat is occupied. The bus kicks in gear, spits out a cloud of black smoke and continues on, sending the glass clacking against the panes and the doors and seats bouncing as if they’ll come unhinged due to the worn shocks taking every imperfection in the road quite seriously.

An old woman boards and squeezes past me.

“Can I please pass sir? Thank you,” she says, and sits with a friend, who she kisses on the cheek and asks about his family. He tells her how nice it is to see her after so long.

I’ve met few Mexicans I’ve disliked. Most are polite, patient and friendly. You get lost and ask someone how to get to your destination. The Mexican will not only tell you how to get there, but go with you to make sure you’re on the right path, while asking you where you’re from and how many siblings you have, and once you leave he’ll shake your hand and tell you to take care.

The bus stops in the long line of traffic, half of which is old VW Beetles and red Nissan taxis. I look out the window and a lady cuts freshly killed chicken as customers make a line on the sidewalk, and next to her a grandma sits on a blanket and peels prickles off cactus which will be eaten in a comida corrida, fast food Mexican style. Across the street is a funeral parlor, which is next to a dentist`s office, which is beside a saloon, which neighbors a tortilla shop, which is adjacent to a convenience store run from the garage of an old man. A friend said all buildings should be painted white for aesthetic reasons, but I told him I liked Mexico’s chaotic beauty, its stylish disorder.

Finally the traffic thins and the bus chugs up one of Xalapa`s many steep hills, past a crowded cluster of apartment buildings and a high school kid playing Jarocho music on his guitar, his black hair gelled and his uniformed girlfriend watching him. I’m running 15 minutes late to class, but the professor still isn’t there, and no one complains. Meanwhile a girl has her “Sweet 15” party, a paraplegic sells lottery tickets in the downtown and a group of politicians meets to argue abortion, one of them corrupt, one pro-choice and one with a baby on the way. A teenager watches poor-quality Mexican soap operas, a farmer cuts sugar cane with a machete and a boy lies dead in a Mexico City subway station.

Two minutes ago we were in a slum and now we pass through a ritzy neighborhood, where a white, blue-eyed Mexican boards, who sits next to a dark-skinned indigenous woman who is in front of a golden-brown teenager who is beside a black toddler. Mexico’s language is not Spanish but a generous helping of indigenous and American English vocabulary, as evidenced by the various advertisements on the inner walls and outside of the bus. Now and then professors spit out English words and phrases while giving classes to students named Xochiquetzal and Tenochtitlan.

Finally we arrive to my stop, where I get off and thank the driver. I pass a farmer selling fresh mangos from the back of his truck, a homeless woman passed out, a palm tree, a kid vending fingernail clippers and two stray dogs going at it. Entering the school I meet a group of friends who invite me to eat pozole soup and go salsa dancing later tonight. I gladly accept.

Colonial architecture, white-sandy beaches, jaguars, snowy mountains, pyramids, Catholicism, free health care, rapid growth, countless holidays, clogged drainage, machismo, tequila, family, skyscrapers, a festive approach to death, petroleum and phone monopolies, a bread company called Bimbo, dubbed movies and lucha libre. Contrasts, variety, inequality, discrimination, poverty, tranquillity, contamination, overcrowding, congeniality, generosity, strong traditions, modernism, chaotic beauty and stylish disorder.

This is Mexico and I love it.

***

Advice for the wanderlust

A few hints from a Mexican study-abroad staffer

By now you have made the decision of how you will occupy yourself next year, and if it’s deciding to study abroad, you’re making a great choice.

But be careful, especially in the planning stage. As college students, every penny and ounce of research matter. You already know that foreign time will open your mind, boost communication skills and make you more cultured. I want, however, to give you advice no person or book told me, based on my two semesters in Xalapa, Mexico.

The options are mind-boggling and don’t let MSU-planned programs limit you. Since I have not enrolled in MSU´s programs, I cannot criticize their quality and worthiness, but enrolling directly in a language school, becoming fluent in Spanish, and saving thousands of dollars, it’s been worth it. Despite criticism and intimidation from some faculty in planning last year – that I would learn nothing, that the school would be of poor quality and that credits wouldn’t transfer – I’ve gained the experience anyone gets studying abroad, whether it’s an MSU-planned program or an independent study.

To go independently requires more paperwork, dedication and research. It’s intense but many people will help you – just ask. If you go solo you may receive opposition, intimidation as well as pressure to learn just as much, as I did, but thorough planning leaves room for few problems.

One benefit of directly enrolling is savings. I attend the University of Veracruz, one of Mexico’s best, and pay $1,075 per semester for 19 credits or four classes. I chose to live with Mexican students from the start instead of with a school-sponsored Mexican family (about $600 per month), and it’s cost me $5,500 for ten months ($140 per month for rent and utilities and $410 for everything else). In addition, I’m still enrolled at MSU and receive the grants, loans and scholarships I would normally get, while some of MSU`s study-abroad programs charge you the cost of the foreign school plus MSU tuition, even though you are not physically taking classes there. For example, MSU`s Guadalajara, Mexico program costs about $7,000 per semester, not including airfare. And while the average Mexican earns $10,600 per year, it is ironic to spend $7,000 in 15 weeks in a developing country.

Other advice:

It’s recommendable to know the country you’re studying and more importantly to know your own. Frequently I’m asked my opinion of the border wall, immigration, George Bush, the war and American television. It surprises me how much foreigners know about my country – sometimes more than I do – and how little I know about their country.

Avoid spending too much time with English speakers. It’s easier but you lose chances you’d spend with locals learning slang or adventuring solo. In one embarrassing instance, a graceless blond run up to a farmer, donkey behind him, asking if she photograph him. He declined but she offered him a few pesos, which was even more insulting. Americans often have a bad image in many countries, perhaps the worst in the world, and it worsens each day thanks to our polluted media and incompetent president. You will affect every person you meet and their opinion toward our country, so it is in our best interest to be thoughtful and competent.

Get a local lover. Having a romantic fling from your host country quickly submerges you in culture nuance as well as tests your confidence, especially when learning another language. And who knows, the path to dual citizenship might become less complicated.

Be sensitive. It’s uncomfortable to see foreigners mocking locals because they do something different. One time I was in a taxi and an American was dissing the driver behind his back for the way he drove. Although this was in English, many Mexicans understand and speak our language well.

Living like locals is a humbling experience and makes for interesting stories. Street food gave me intestinal parasites once and riding second class busses from Mexico to Guatemala City was a discount ticket to death, but I wouldn’t otherwise have mistaken chicken sandwiches for dog meat or see people who live on the side of mountainous highways selling life-size wicker reindeer.

Read the newspaper. By reading the news you not only learn the country better but pick up faster on unknown words. On Mexican media – seeing that almost every day a handful or so are murdered due to drug trafficking-related instances (23 on the day of the Virginia Tech massacre), often journalists, and the death threats pro-choice supporters receive (last week abortion was legalized in Mexico City), I have more confidence in our freedom of expression, no matter how unfair it seems.

Enjoy the honey-moon period. Upon arriving everything will be new and exciting. This stage has been the most fun for me, and similar instances reoccur, but it’s called “honeymoon” for a reason, and when that ends the culture shock begins.

Finally, be prepared for anything. Not just in your host country, but back home as well. In the past eight months two relatives died, one sibling got married, one went through puberty, one began to drive and one became an adult. One cousin got pregnant, one returned from Papua New Guinea, one went to Harvard and one moved out. People age, get sick and die. Some change and some stay the same. Your challenge upon arrival will be re-adapting to everything you missed. And going home in less than six weeks, that is what I fear the most.

Photo of the day...



One of Mexico City`s staple green VW taxis cruises in the southern part of the megalopolis April 12, with a clear, smogless view of the mountains in the background.

Trash in Mex

I write this with only six weeks to go in Mexico.

:(

...and then,


:)

!!

So, I should take full advantage of my time here, and share some blog experiences while they are still interesting. After all, when would you see a parade of Lucha Libre wrestlers, the Virgen of Guadalupe and the Tasmanian Devil at the same time?


...wtf?


Anyway, with that, I would like to choose a topic of the day and write a little of it. Today´s shall be...


Mexican Garbage.

One surprising aspect of Mexican Garbage, or more specifically, Xalapan Garbage, is that it´s free to dump it. Every night except Sunday a truck passes our house, grinding it´s gears to the max and pumping out large clouds of black exhaust as we live on a steep hill, and collects a mountain of garbage, some in bags and some not, that get piled near a multilevel hospital parking garage. What you can find in the garbage differs from American garbage, as it contains 1. more fruit peelings and 2. used toilet paper that is unable to be flushed. As a whole, Mexicans waste less than Americans, or rather, -every one- wastes less than Americans. You go into a house and the furniture is old and smelly, the tiling ridiculously outdated, the fridge propped up by bricks as the pegs have broken off, the living room TV 13 inches and 20 years old. But it functions and there´s no real need to replace it. Obviously this is a much poorer country than mine, but as a whole I think there is more respect for the material, the people are less materialistic and it is not as important to have new things to impress others. There is at least one exception, however: cell phones. Many Mexicans, even the poor ones, often have nice cell phones, and are always sending text messages. To make a call in this country is absurd. It costs at least 3 pesos - 30 cents - per minute, even from a cell phone, and pay phones are even more. I think one big reason is due to the telecommunication monopoly, which is owned by the world´s third richest man, Carlos Slim.

Anyway, garbage. You also find a lot of it on the street. I´m referring specifically to Xalapa. Some places are disgusting. In the mornings, at dawn, you see workers out on the streets, using big brooms, the bristles made of sticks or flexible tree bark, sweeping away the accumulated rubbish, making the city clean for the next few hours, but later the litter comes back with the hustle and bustle. But it is irritating that there are very few trashcans. With good reason the trash is tossed on the street - the bins are inconveniently located and they always seem to be full. When I went to Costa Rica there were trash cans every where, many of them with beautiful painted designs. But in Xalapa such is not the case.


Another thing that irks me is the lack of recycling. I know of one recycling place, which is far from the center, and the garbage truck doesn´t carry seperate bins for the reusables. One good thing, however, is that plastic bottles and beer containers are almost always returnable for cash or more beverages. You are obligated to recycle when you drink beer or Coke.

The four of us (Stacy, Carlo, Ahmed and I) who live in this house have a small garden , or rather a large cement trough filled with dirt, where we throw all the fruit peelings and seeds instead of in the trash. The bad thing is, it attracts lots of insects, so the mosquitos get into the house and remind us that garbage is never free.


--Pic of the day--






Two lovers - or rather, one lover and one surprised woman - share an intense, romantically confused moment overlooking Teotihuacan´s Pyramid of the Moon, north of Mexico City one cloudy afternoon.

Cluttered mind ramblings

I think I`ll post the third part later. It is probably the most interesting, but I need a lot of time to write it since it`s so massive. And a lot of time requires some dedication and patience, and I`m just feeling lazy right now, so instead I will post something I wrote three weeks ago, which is a different style of blogging. What I did was spoke into a voice recorder, grabbing my thoughts and then typing them out. It`s more candid, more honest and maybe even more interesting since writing can retard the thinking process, but it may be more difficult to read.

No apologies for bad grammar or misspellings.

....

Thursday 22 march 2007

6.00 p.m.

Well right now I´m feeling ecstatic because I just got a n email in my junk mail box actually and its from the editor of the austin post bulletin she told me that I had gotten the internship this summer writing news and this is good for several reasons. One because I need the intership to graduate. Two because there are few intership options availbe in Austin for mass comm. Majors. Three because itll improve my wrting. Four…uh..oh yeah, cuz i´ll be editor in chief next year at the msu reporter an award winning college newspaper. I´ll need more skills to help my writing improve. I guess this is similar to the third option. Yeah. But yeah. I´m frikkiin happy I got this internship. I applied for this internship last year as well but never got it. And I´ve been freelance writing for the Bust bulletin for two years now. Well just a few articles at a time: i´ve wrote se evn so far. And what else…uuhhh….lets see here…ohyeah i´m also happy right now because i´ve been drinking coffee all day and caffeine always puts me in a good mood. For some reason I don´t know why. It has different effects on other people. And….um…lets see. What was I gonna say. Yep some days I just wake up in a good mood. OIther days I don´t. And that just sets the tone for my hwole day I guess. And sometimes I wake up and it hink about my dad. And how he´s dead and how it would be like if he was still alive today. How we could´ve stopped him from dying. And just memories about him. And that happens almost every day in fact and I dunno why. I don´t have a lot of dreams about him but I usually don´t remember my dreams, just little fragments of them. And its likie when I wake up in the mrngn and I cant remember my dream. Its like in winter and you know those little puddles of water and …ok where was I …oh yeah…uhh….ok…anyway….when it´s the winter theres the little p’uddles of water and they start freezing from the cold and you get these thin little layers of ice and when I was a kid I always tried to pick up the layer of ice and throw it and it sounded like glass breaking and itw as pretty cool. And yeah,anyway. My dreams are like those, thin sheets of ice. As soon as you grab hold of them, try to get the sense of them, they break they shatter they fall apart they fall to pieces you don’t remember them anymore and that’s what its like when I dream. And I haven´t had many clear dreams of my father since he died. I´ve had a few but they were nightmjwares. And I don’t wanna talk about htem. I just don’t. And I think that’s interesting that he´s the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning. And I guess its just a part of the healing process you know. And the whole days not like that I think I would go crazy if that happened. But I just like see thigns that remind me of my dad like in my room for example when he died I brought back one of his work tshirts. It´s an X X X X L size, which is four ex, and I guess I could probably cut the material up and use it as a jumper. That’s how big he was. Anyways black tshirt. He used it to when he went to work. He was a welder um and its full of holes, some big some little. Little pecks. And anyway uh it has small holes from the sparks when he welded and I remember when he used to wear this shirt in particular you could see the little hairs on his fat belly poking out of the shirt, the holes, and plus the shirt wasn´t even big enough. I mean four xl is friggin huge but this man was like well he was fat. And yeah the bottom of this shirt it reached a little below his belly btton bt nt all the way so you could see his uh..what do you wanna say…stomach cleavage…haha I know theres a word for th at but I can´t think of it right now but yeah anyway it was very attractive. And so. Lets move on to a different subject now. Xalapa. Xalapa xalapa. Xalapa is a small city stretched to the limits of a large city. That’s how id describe it. Cuz you have like the downtown which is like it looks like a medium sized city of 50 000 people but then having it stretched out to the limits and its kind of a mess becuz you have u h it’s the capital of the state and so many people are migrating here and it wasan´t designed to be a big city and it was a small city and you can see how much development is happening even now I mean like just getting to school in one of my classes in the university I have to take a bus there and it takes about 45 minutes walking from my house to the school and its just way out there but by bus it takes porbablyu 25 to 35 minutes and i´d say a good 5 or 10 minutes of that is just waiting in traffic and its that slow. And you have tons of cars and you have narrow, winding, hilly streets, and now imagine that and…yeah just imagine that and its crazy. And a lot of people say it´s a small Mexico City and I wouldn’t doubt but its just rapidly expanding, crowded, uh, polluted, uh…itsa surrounded by mountains, smoggy, the weather is…the weather is it´s nice. It gets hot but not too hot and it gets cold but not…well it gets cold some days I wish iw as back in Minnesota just kidding. But…what else can I talk about here…mmm…i´m still going out with María Fernanda my Mexican girlfriend 19 years student of law, uh she´s from Xalapa she lives by me about ten minutes from my house walking um…attractive, slightly resembles Scarlett Johansson, curvier, shorter, much darker, has, uh, changes her hair color once in a while, it´s always black but she has like tints like blond. The first time I met her it was purple the tints and since then it hasn´t been as crazier. Just red or brown or light black, dark blonde, stuff like that. Uhm, what else here. Today. I can describe what happened today. I woke up at about 7 am

The really boring and awkward second part of the trilogy when nothing much happens

Wee wa wowza, it`s already been a month-plus since I last updated you of my goings-on, but that is a result of my pure lazyness. The truth is, I keep waiting for a time when I`m really in the mood to write, and I want to write a lot, and keep it interesting as well, and the moment when i feel that way seldom happens. Anyway, here is the Two Towers of my amazing trilogy, completely free of admission charges and bathroom breaks.

Factlets:

Guatemala (country and capital)
Pollo Camperos (like KFC) seen in Guatemala City: 562
Exchange rate of Quetzal-dollar: about 7.5Q in 1$
Near-death experiences in Guatemala: 2
Fat hookers: 7
Buses taken: 3
Cost of Bus: 15Q (Mesilla -border, to Huehuetenango), 70Q (Huehuetenango-Guate City), 200Q (Guate City - San Salvador, El Salvador)
Taxis: 1
Cost of Taxi: 50Q
Cost of hotel in G. City: 50Q
Burger Kings eaten in: 1
Words misunderstood: 1,056 out of 3,457
Biggest confusion: Old ladies selling food on the bus. ``Pollo campero, campero campero campero!`` which means ``Country chicken!`` I heard it as ``Pollo con perro, con perro con perro con perro!`` which means ``Chicken with dog!``
Intriguing name for a short story: The Dirtiest Bathroom in Guatemala
Diseases contracted from above title: 12
Location: Huehuetenango (go ahead, say it.)
Bus friends: 1 (a school teacher in a small town)
Ranking of Guatemala on the UN`s Human Index Scale: 118 (second lowest in North America)

.....

A quick look back at San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas:

-This material won´t be on the test, but here´s a look back at part 1, my time in Chiapas.

HINT: Slideshow starts automatically, but click the photo to see a title and caption. You can advance and review faster by using your arrow keys.

Enjoy.

Other charecteristics of Guatemala:
-Advertising. It seemed like every building, especially in the countryside, was painted blue with the ``Tigo`` logo, which is a huge phone company in Guate. Also popular was Pepsi, which pretty much owns the country. Odd, because Coke is Latin America`s fav.



***



-People on the side of the road. While going from Huehuetenango, every few minutes you`d see people camped out on the side of the road, some waving, some selling Christmas decorations (wicker reindeer seemed to be popular), some running up to the bus for money, some just hanging out, maybe even living there, sitting under plastic tarps or huts made of scrap metal and wood. Extreme poverty is evident there, and it really is uncomforting to see.





-People. Mayan culture is more prominent here, as evidenced by the skin color and dress. Especially on the bus from La Mesilla to Huehuetenango, I noticed how important their culture is. The people are more reserved although very polite. The bus became more and more packed, and there were times when I thought we`d drive off the edge of the mountain. The curves and climbs and falls were treachourous, and sometimes the bus went too fast for my comfort, but these two hours, scrunched amongst some 50 people, smelling and seeing and hearing them on an intimate level, was one of the highlights of my journey. If you ever want to know the people of an area, just take a long bus ride and you`ll not only know the landscape (something nearly impossible to attain on a plane), you`ll also live like the locals, and that is something you`ll never forget.
-Buses. Almost every bus I saw was decked out in flashy colors and designs, nearly all of them old American school buses. You have a driver and a `co-pilot`who helps with the baggage and gives people their tickets. When you have a lot of people who need to ride the bus and little room on the highway, you have a more rapid boarding-deboarding procedure. At each stop the copilot would jump out, throw the luggage on top of the bus, and collect the money. Meanwhile, the driver really never stopped, and when the last person climbed in the bus was already driving, the copilot behind and climbing in through the back door. At least once he was left behind, and you heard people yelling at the driver to stop.

10 Best.....

7. Weather.
This one is pretty obvious, but not just for the warm weather. Believe it or not, the temperatures I experienced were between 35 F (Volcan Poas in Costa Rica) to upwards of 100 F in Nicaragua. It was nice to experience that freezing temperature, but an hour was enough (as you will find out in Part 3).





6. Beaches.
Ocean sunsets. Warm water. Clean sand. Good sun. Topless girls. Ok, I didn´t run into any of those, unfortunately, but I went to quite a few beaches, the best being Tamarindo in Costa Rica. I also went to La Flor in San Juan, Nicaragua with my family, and we had a great time, but we spotted a mantaray so our time ended quickly. I guess remote possibility of getting stung is still prominent in our minds, especially mine, as I am an ocean ´´newbie.´´ But I got plenty of beaches, maybe enough for a year. I got plenty of tanning, good views, spectacular waves (one that nearly killed me, as I did a somersalt and my head dug into the sand, the wave pushing on me at an uncomfortable angle) and mouthfuls of salt water. Need more explaining when my Minnesota is experiencing blizzards?





5. Food.
Central America has an amazing variety of food, but nearly everyone eats Gallo Pinto, which is a simple rice-and-beans dish. I ate it almost every day, in all three countries I visited, along with tostones, which are fried banana medallions with a chunk of fresh fried cheese. Bananas, since they are cheap and profound, are prepared in many ways, such as fried into chips, fried into slices, topped with chili sauce and lime juice and salt. In Costa Rica casados are common, which means marriage, and consists of a meat (chicken or pork usually), rice, beans, bananas, salad and tostones. Very filling. Central American food, however, still doesn´t compare to Mexican, and it´s not as spicy.





10 Worst....

10. Borders.
Besides having to pay little fees that add up quickly, these crossings are a hassle. Not nearly as bad, I imagine, as the US -Mexico border, but you have to fill out paperwork and show your passport, even if you are just passing through. In total I passed no less than 10 borders, and that was time better spent eating gallo pinto on the beach.

9. Other tourists.
Call me hypocritical but I don´t really like seeing lots of gringos in one place outside my own country. I saw few ´´Ugly Americans´´ (not only the physical aspect) but whenever I saw the calm, tranquil ones, even then I was slightly annoyed. I´m not sure why. Maybe I take traveling and learning LatinAmerican culture more seriously. Maybe I wanted Central America all for my self. Or maybe I´m intolerant and hypocritical. But maybe it´s just that, seeing one idiot American tourist, just one, can give you a bad image for a while, and bring about a self loathe of your own culture. The most irritating image I can recall is not a gringo but an Australian running after a group of indigenous people trying to take their photo. I think being a tourist, outside of your own fishbowl, is liable for intolerance, insensitivity and most importantly ignorance, whether or not intentional. I think this happens with everybody, not just Gringos, and trying to fit into another country can be like trying to mix a room of dogs and cats. It just doesn`t work sometimes, and often times it`s difficult. I am guilty of this often, but I`ve become more hesitant to criticize something of which I`m not familiar.




8. Not getting to see more family.
I had a blast with my family. It was the first time I had met them and we found we got along very well and were obviously blood related. But I stayed with the same people three weeks, the same group of about 15, and only once did I visit other relatives, and that was only for a few minutes. I have quite abit more family in Nicaragua, and I wish I would´ve me them. But, I do feel very close to those Paniaguas I stayed with and when -- when and not if -- I come back, I will surely meet the rest.

*****

19 december 06

I woke up around 4 a.m., still exhausted but feeling slightly better after the sickness I had while in Chiapas. I took a taxi to the bus station and the lights were off. I was starting to worry because I wanted to get to Guatemala City before dark and it was a long journey. Luckily someone at the bus station told me to cross the street where there were colectivos (large vans functioning as mini buses) that went to Comitan, a city halfway between San Cristobal and the Guatemalan border. I could`ve taken a bus to Tapachula, where I would be guaranteed first class all the way to Guate City, but it would`ve been an extra five hours just to the border. So I climbed in the colectivo, paid the 25 pesos, and we waited about a half hour until it was full - I mean, crammed. I was pretty sleepy, but feeling refreshed, and we got to Comitan where I literally got out for about a minute to switch vans and threw my suitcase on top. This made me paranoid for the next hour to the border, but nothing happened to it. Remembering what happened last time, when I forgot to get the exit stamp upon leaving Mexico for my dad`s funeral, I checked my passport at the border station and the guy was a dick. I think that`s part of the job description, for people with a high level of authority, to be assholes. I bought two muffins and a liter of water, everyone staring at me as I lugged my giant suitcase through the cramped convenience store. I got on another colectivo that carried me across the border, and I noticed right before it there was a giant junkyard. Upon arriving to Guatemala I noticed it was much poorer and dirtier than Mexico. But that`s a common characteristic of border towns, I`ve noticed, so it didn`t surprise me much later. I got my passport stamped, which took only a minute and gave me up to 90 days in Guatemala. I used less than one percent of that. Changed some pesos for Quetzales, but very hesitant at first because I didn`t know if the trader was giving me a good exchange. So I only did 100 pesos, and a few minutes later found another trader, who gave me a slightly better rate, and exchanged 150 pesos. The whole border town -- La Mesilla -- seemed chaotic and full of pirated goods: movies, cds, clothing, suitcases, you name it. It seems anything can be pirated nowadays, even iPods. Don`t ask me how they do it, but it looks amazingly real.

I got on the bus to go to Huehuetenango (see above) and upon getting there took a brief break. As I was walking to use a bathroom, I looked at what a street vendor was cooking and it looked hideous, a rancid smelling meat in a questionable sauce. The bathroom was the dirtiest I had ever seen, and I can just let you imagine it yourself because even I get upset thinking about it, especially since it was so close to the aformentioned food vendor. Anyway. Got on the bus, a bit classier than the previous, but the seats must have been designed for people shorter than me, as the whole journey I felt cramped and pressure from the riders in front. Full of mountains and intimidating curves, we were lucky not to crash, especially since there was so much traffic and frequent stops and road construction. Guatemala, however, was beautiful. Where you don´t see small pueblos or buildings painted in ´´TiGo´´ (cell company) or Pepsi decor, which happens to be almost every building, including houses, the countryside is amazing. When I thought of Guatemala before I went I thought thick tropical rainforests. And the country has those, but it felt more Oregon to me. I´ve never been there but have seen the pictures. Since the bus wasn´t direct it made stops every few minutes along small towns, even some on the highway. My seatmates changed so often that I decided not to make an effort to talk to them because I knew we´d become too attached and we wouldn´t want to leave each other. Just kidding. But I did meet one guy, a schoolteacher from a small town. He was very nice and I don´t remember what he was doing, but he was with his wife and kid. Very nice people. Almost every Guatemalan I met was pleasant.

I got to Guatemala City about seven hours after leaving Huehuetenango after some congested traffic near the capital. It was already dark and a bit cold, and I had no idea where to get off. Ideally I wanted to be as close to the TicaBus station as possible, so I made a guesstimate and got off when a handful of riders deboarded. Big mistake. When the bus started pulling away, and my suitcase was still in the undercargo, I ran back on the bus, nearly missing it. Had I lost the bus...well....I´m just glad I can run. The bus continued onward, and fewer and fewer people remained. I checked my Lonely Planet guide and it looked as if the bus I was on, according to the book, was headed toward Zona 1, the market place and old downtown. Finally it came to a halt and the driver told me it was the last stop. I got off (at an empty Texaco station, a few taxis hanging around and few people) and told him I needed my luggage. He opened the first bin. Wasn´t there. Second. Nope. Third. Still not. I start getting nervous, and I begin thinking of all the times the bus stopped in those seven hours, how many people got off and opened the luggage compartments. A big, red London Fog suitcase stands out, especially a nice one like mine. He opened the fourth - and last - compartment. Thank god, it´s there. ´´Espera, espera,´´ he tells me. ´´Tuviste maleta. Entonces, me debes 20 quetzales.´´ I paid him the 20 quetzales and realized how little I had remaining. At Guatemala´s border I had exchanged pesos for about 165 quetzales, or about $25. Since then I had bought food (delicious tamales, coke, Doritos, two sandwiches, cookies, sweet bread) both on the bus and off as well as paid for bus tickets. ´´Not matter,´´ I thought, intending to find an ATM and getting a hotel. My Lonely Planet book has a map and a description of recommended hotels in the area, so I decided to find one that looked semi decent. Pulling my gigantic suitcase, the wheels chugging along on the rough Guatemalan city sidewalks and the heavy backpack slung on one shoulder, the Travel guide in one hand, I looked like the perfect, confused, robbable tourist. I followed the map, stopping to check every so often. By this time it was dark, but after only a few minutes I arrived to the main street in the Zona. It was packed with people, restaurants, shops, and pirated everything. Clothes, CDs, DVDs, toys, electronics -- every thing imaginable. It was surprising to see this many people at about 7 pm. on a Tuesday night. But I continued onward, looking for an ATM, slipping through the crowds, trying not to know anyone over with my suitcase. I asked several people for the nearest one. All told me different directions. But I get walking, until I got to a curve. There were less people, and it seemed logical to turn left, as the main road followed that way. I started getting a bit nervous, but a few blocks down saw some other living beings. Some more curves and turns, stoplights and stop signs and I got the main market. Even more packed than before, but I began seeing hotels, and thought, ´´forget Lonely Planet´s hotels, I´m sick of walking.´´ The first one I saw was gated, so I rang the doorbell. A young kid came to the gate, looking reluctant, and I asked him if there was vacancy and the cost. ´´70 quetzales´´ he told me. I had 40. So I continued to the next hotel, only a block away, and started seeing the hookers. Ugly and fat, and with hardly any clothes on, they leaned on buildings and watched the buses, the people passing by. And then I realized these hotels were for the hookers, as evident by the ´´GARAGE´´ signs (in and out), the gates, the weary-looking attendents. I hurried along, and after about 4 hotels realized I would HAVE to find an ATM before finding even the cheapest. 40 quetzales wouldn´t cut it. I got to a T intersection, and turned left. This part of the Zona was quiet, and strange. But after the T I saw another major road of the city, and a few tall buildings. Then, my godsend. A Burger King! My stomach was digesting itself, and my Visa card was already burning my leg. I ran in, a kid in a candy store on his birthday, and asked if they accepted plastic. Thank god they did. I ordered a rodeo burger and a fries and Pepsi (funny since BK almost always carries Coke) and realized how different the Guatemalan accent was from the Mexican. The guy cut his words, and mixed the sounds, and had a more intonated accent. I´m lucky to be studying in Mexico, as it is said to have one of the easiest accents to understand. But unfortuante in the sense that I´m ´´spoiled´´ by the lack of difficulty. I chowed down the food, delicious, while reading Guatemala´s national paper. It had nice designing, but seemed shallow in news coverage. Upon leaving I asked the clerk where the nearest ATM was. ´´Very close, just up the block´´ he told me. His tone deepened a little more and he became serious. ´´But be careful. A lot of crime happens here. If it´s too quiet, run.´´ I checked my Lonely Planet guide once more to know what he was talking about. Sure enough, it was there:

´´The area around 18a Calle in Zona 1 has many bus stations and even more lowlifes and hustlers. Nearly half of Zona 1´s robberies happen here, the worst black spots being the intersections with the 4a, 6a and 9a Avs. This part of town (also a redlight district) is notoriously dangerous at night;if you are arriving by bus at night or must go someplace on 18a Calle at night, take a taxi...All buses are the turf of adroit pickpockets. Some armed robberies happen on buses too, although mainly in outlying zones.....later in the section....Keep the street noise in mind as you look for a room.´´

I left the Burger King, letting the security guard open the door. I looked down the street and it was lit, but not well. Cars passed, but few. I walked hesitantly and as confidently as I could. I got to the first intersection and looked around. The buildings were closed and I saw a man up ahead. I crossed the street, and could see a few lit establishments a few blocks away. That´s when I started to run. My heart was beating faster than it ever had. Once my suitcase bumped off its wheels and I picked it up while readjusting my backpack. The Burger King guy had told me it was two blocks, but the nearest lit place was at least four. So I kept walking, faster, but not running. I saw a few people lingering around but there was hardly any noise. My head became like that of an owl´s, turning in every direction to make sure I didn´t have any followers. I couldn´t recall a time in my life when I was more scared. Not only was I alone and in a foreign city, I had a heavy load and had no place to stay. But finally, some five minutes after leaving BK, I found the ATM in a large electronics store. It wouldn´t read my card. So I crossed the street, to a gas station, and some shady looking kids my age were hanging outside of the store. They opened the door for me, but I said nothing. I withdrew about 75 dollars worth, bought a bottle of water and some chocolate, and upon leaving they opened the door again. They asked me something, but I didn´t understand. Repeated, still not. So I started speed walking again and they cursed at me. I didn´t care though, as I finally had money and had found a hotel right next to the electronics store. I got there, and there was only one vacancy, though no bathroom. Fewer things are more relieving than taking off a backpack and ceasing to haul a 30 lb. suitcase for an hour around Guatemala City, but i was still paranoid and weary, as the clerk told me to wait in the lobby while he cleaned my room. A few minutes later he brought me a towel, a bar of soap, shampoo (which resembled little packets of lubricant) and, oddly, a Tshirt with the hotel´s information imprinted. I showered in the second foreign country of my life and watched some Mr. Bean episodes. So relieving to see some simple, near-mute comedy after a long day of stressful traveling.


20 december 06

I woke up early, around 7 am, and walked to the gas station to buy a phone card. Then I found a few payphones -- in Latin America they´re everywhere -- but none of them worked. Maybe I didn´t work. But I kept trying to call the bus station to find out when the bus to El Salvador left. So, deciding to go by the schedule given in the travel guide, I began walking back to the hotel to pack up. But, miraculously, on the way back, I saw a bus station -- albeit not the one I was planning for -- and inquired when the next one left. At 2 p.m., but the station for E.S. was across town. With a revived energy I walked back and looked for a farmacy to buy some anti diarrhea pills (it was still persisent, after nearly a week when it began in Veracruz, Mexico). Then I looked for somewhere to eat. I found a small restaurant by my hotel, where I ordered a ´´complete´´ breakfast for 6 quetzales -- not even a dollar! But you get what you pay for. And I paid for watered-down coffee, cold tortillas, lumpy, flavorless eggs and odd tasting beans. Plus, I saw a guy come in, a freshly killed chicken in hand, give it to the cook, and then saw her give him some change, then continue making food. That´s when I left, losing my apetite. By then it was about 930 and back at the hotel I watched some CNN. The Bush was giving a speech, on something of which I forgot, and I cringed throughout the whole time, uncomforted by his mangling of the English language and lack of logic.

At noon I flagged down a taxi and paid 50 quetzales, uncomfortably, the most I´ve paid south of Texas. But no matter. The taxista was nice, and i realized that there was no other option to get to the station (King Quality) other than taxi. I bought the 5-hour ride, 200 quetzal bus ticket to El Salvador, which left at 2 p.m. The area of the bus station was the nicest I had seen yet in Guatemala, even nicer than a lot of areas in the US. I walked, looking for a place to check my email, and found a minimall. I sat down, and just as I was logging on to my account the power went out. A few minutes later it was back on, but at the same point in checking my mails it went out again. By this time another gringo was getting angry, so he started cursing and left. I waited about 15 minutes and decided my patience was up too. I walked onward, out of the mall, but saw a ´´Pollo Campero´´ (the Guatemalan equivalent of KFC, only better) and ordered a chicken nuggets, fries and Pepsi (still no Coke). Even in this ritzy, affluent part of the capital, the people still were dark skinned, still indigenously influenced, giving light that Guatemala was less westernized (that I would later find out) than Costa Rica or Mexico. At the time of leaving my stomach was starting to twist and turn, and I started getting hot, even though the temperature was comfortable. I began walking back to the mall, in hopes that the internet would re open, and passing the houses I saw that most of them, all upper class, were behind high walls topped with large rolls of barbed wire. Luckily, the internet was opened and I checked my email, letting my uncle know I´d be in Nicaragua in two days. After using the net I walked to a supermarket and made the wise investment of baby wipes. Laugh all you want, but when you´re in LatinAmerica and flushing toilet paper is socially rejected, baby wipes make all the difference of comfort. They were put to good use several minutes later, at arrival to the bus station, and 15 to 2 I finally boarded. The people were all better off than those I had ridden with the day before, on the second class buses. But this time I was riding first class, the patience drained from me from the day before.

The trip from Guatemala City to San Salvador was far less exciting. It was cold from the AC and I had some bad gas, and crappy American movies were played. I did have some Guatemalan newspapers and a delicious cherry/chocolate candy bar, and that kept me busy about 2 minutes, but for the other 4 hours and 58 minutes I sat bored and anxious.

We arrived to El Salvador´s capital at dark and I instantly realized how much better off it was than Guate. A bit more developed and more European, hotter and more crowded than the previous country, I felt a bit of relief as it felt a little more familiar. The bus dropped me off in the downtown, though far less dangerous than in Guate, and I found a hotel quickly an painlessly, though I had to find an ATM again since El Salvador uses American dollars. ´´Leave your suitcase here, buddy,´´ the clerk said to me when I realized I had to find the ATM, ´´Have confidence, it´s ok, I´ll watch them.´´ I left it hesitantly, and walking to the ATM I passed under I tree. I had this strange feeling that kids were sitting up there and throwing things, like nuts or rocks, so I hurried on, withdrew some money and got a licuado, or shake, of pineapple. Going back I avoided the tree, but went through a small dark alleway, San Salvador´s version of Zona 1, but only a fraction of the size. Back at the hotel the manager showed me the room, which was much better than Guate´s, and included a bathroom, TV and cable. Oh, a fan, which helped quite a bit. I set four alarms - my iPod, the TV, my cell and my watch. And, not surprisingly, I woke up on time, at about 3 am, got to the bus station, bought the ticket to Nicaragua, and, made it on the doubledecker, first class bus. The ride, like the one before, was even more boring, and it lasted 12 hours, but the movies weren´t quite as shitty. I got to Nicaragua around 5 p.m. and met a family I had never known before. (to be continued....obviously)