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An amoeba, some meds and motion sickness walk into a bar...

Is there a better way to return to the Southwest than walking into the invisible mist and distinct smell of creosote and be greeted by family? I don't think so.

Yesterday, we arrived in the El Paso airport at about 4 p.m. with moisture and the perfume of that wonderful desert plant in the air and Tony's mother, step-sister and brother waiting for us. But even before the creosote and hugs hit us, some of my senses had already landed in New Mexico; eavesdropping on the conversation between the two gentlemen seated behind me on my flight from Dallas-Ft. Worth to El Paso was like being trailed by my very own Sound Off! column. Talks of jobs in Mexico vs. the U.S., development in Cruces and Sonoma Ranch filled the shared air for the 30 minutes we sat on the runway in a Texas rainstorm and for the hour and 15 minutes in the air. While it's good to be home, our last days proved more of a journey than anticipated.

At about 11 p.m. our last night in Honduras, I was curled into a whining little ball in the center of my bed. Helloooo, amoebas. While I would definitely repeat my last month in exchange for a repeat of the amoebic experience of sprinting to the bathroom between crippling abdominal cramps that made me question my ability to withstand the pain of childbirth, this night was not fun. I had made it 26 of my 29 days in Central America with a clean bill of health, and now, the night before a five-hour bus ride back to Guatemala City to be followed by two flights back to the U.S., this.

That night, I took the remaining amoeba meds from Tony's bout with the creatures and managed about four hours of sleep. The next day, Tony ran to the pharmacy and got more meds. I took two pills with breakfast, two pills of motion sickness medicine and hopped in the van that we thought was headed for Guat. City. Why did we think this? Because we had asked three waitresses in our hotel (the registration and departure point for the vehicle) and one driver of the shuttles, "Does this bus go to Guatemala City?" and they all had said "yes." An hour-and-a-half into the ride, we ask our driver where in the city we would be dropped off, and he said, "Oh, no. We'll pass by it, but we're going straight back to Antigua." That would land Tony and I an hour-and-a-half past our destination and still pretty close to broke, money-wise. Thank the Lord, the Guatemalan-American family that had so charitably complimented our funds to get into Honduras so many days ago...was in our same van again. As a family of six, they made up 60 percent of the clientele in the van, and said they wouldn't mind if the driver took us straight to our selected hotel (a Hojo in Guatemala for $80 a night -- highway robbery). Tony and I made their 60 percent 80, and, frankly, we didn't ask the couple in the front of the van, but they didn't object, so happy sailing for Tony and I!

Yada yada yada, long story short, we got dropped at the hotel, I took one last dose of meds with my sub-par dinner that night, we packed, passed out and woke at 5 a.m. for our 5.30 a.m. free shuttle to the airport (why we volunteered for the Hojo swindle). We're home now and I've just come back from the doctor here to try and figure out how to kill off whatever amoebas, bacteria or stowaway slices of Central America I still have in my intestines. The remainder of the day will be full of errands, bill paying, check deposits and other little tasks aimed at reacclimating ourselves to life here. Last such efforts included a dinner of red enchiladas and a dessert of Scoopies (Caliches). Delicious, but alas, my amoebas didn't appreciate these distinctly New Mexican flavor explosions, and revolted.

Anyway, that's all for now, and I'll probably do one final "Best Of Guat Happened" entry and one final picture posting as soon as I'm able.

Until then, Central America is more beautiful than I imagined, more welcoming than I thought possible and not always as dangerous as people make it out to be. Go!!

Quien dice "no" a los ... Belgians?

Another day in Honduras down. Yesterday, we went to the "Enchanted Wings" butterfly and orchid garden. In New York, I would try to go to the orchid exhibit every year when it came to town, so to see that some species of the flowers were native to Honduras was especially exciting to me. Not everyone's scintillating cup of tea, I know, but I was pumped.

So swinging ourselves through the hodgepodge trapezes of directions given by friendly strangers along the way, we finally arrived at our destination. It was 100 lempiras to enter, which is about $5 a person. After ringing the cowbell before the locked gate about four times and deciding how long we would wait before taking off, a young woman bounded up what we soon saw to be quite a few stone stairs separating the entrance from the actual butterfly facility.

The "tour" started with a brief introduction of the life cycle and stages of a butterfly, from egg to pupa to cocoon to full-blown butterfly. For some reason, a guy was filming us with a sizable video camera as we learned about a day in the life of a caterpillar, so look for us on a Honduran instructional butterfly video coming soon, no doubt, to a theater near you. After this brief and interesting lesson, we were released into the screened-in butterfly habitat, which was accented by fountains, lush vegetation and...of course...butterflies. I got a few good photos, but couldn't quite capture the smell of hot, wet, old bananas on plates as "tempting" nectar for the butterflies with my lens. If you need it recreated, close your eyes and imagine three days' worth of sweat accumulated on the shoulder of a high school gym class student. The smell wasn't omnipresent, however, and the overall experience was beautiful and worth it. But there were cubbyholes in the exhibit -- before I pinpointed the actual source -- where I was convinced Tony was overworking some pretty sour and powerful sweat glands upwind.

After the butterflies, we asked the woman who had let us in about the orchids. She led us through the butterfly house to a back door, which led to a wooden bridge that traversed a creek. On the other side of the bridge was a kind of greenhouse, again beautiful and including its own robust plant life (...obviously) and dripping water source. While there were dozens of pots with growing orchids...about three of them could be considered "in bloom." Apparently December and March are better months for these plants, neither of which are remotely close to the end of July, in case you're not close to a calendar.

After leaving Enchanted Wings, which is owned by an American man and his Honduran wife, we headed to a cafe off the town square where Tony and I "shared" a Honduran cigarillo...aka I had about four puffs) over two rounds of Sprites, coffee flavored granitas (like slushies) and Gin Rummy. No big deal; I killed Tony twice. It's what I do.

After watching our waiter shamelessly hit on a Canadian Spanish student in intervals for about 20 minutes, we finally received our bill and paid it just in time to catch the opening drops of what turned out to be one heck of a downpour. By the time the skies opened up, however, Tony and I were tucked safely under the porch roof of our hotel with two of Honduras' national beers in hand. This, by the way, is the only way to spend rainstorms; feet wet, watching stray dogs getting shooed from one dry spot and another, sipping refreshnig drinks. This was at about 4 p.m. yesterday, and Tony and I got to bed at about 2 a.m. this morning. We stayed up all night chatting over more beers and what I think were called "Chupaquenos" (Sprite with local rum) with a couple going to Med. school in Wisconsin. After our hotel's bar closed down, we were invited by Dirk, one of the three Belgian owners of Cafe Via Via (our hotel) to sample his newly opened wine bar. Who says "no" to Belgians at 12.15 a.m.? Surely not Tony nor I.

The wine cafe was nice, but what was better was being huge nerds. Tony and I spent the majority of our time there shrugging off the soft lighting, hip music and decor (and in Tony's case a very direct lady of the night), instead asking Dirk and his Honduran girlfriend all the questions about Spanish (and French) grammar we had been wanting to ask our non-Anglophone teachers in Xela for the past month. And this was better than class; this was over glasses of Cabernet Sauvingon...and water.

So today is our last full day here, and while we originally planned to go on a three-hour horseback ride, we decided to hang up our wallets and our chaps and just enjoy a leisurely day here. We leave for Guat. City tomorrow at noon, so I may not be able to write until I return to American soil. See you all soon!!

Crossing borders and eras

Last night was a sad and final departure from nearly all things Xela as we bid adieu to our British friend from our Xela school, Kathleen. After a lovely wine tasting and (fruitless) tremor watch with Kathleen and her recently arrived and equally witty and British friend, Emma, at our favorite Antigua wine spot, (named Bacchus and randomly owned by a woman hailing from northern Virginia, like myself), Tony and I turned in early. We figured we would need all the sleep we could get before our 4 a.m. shuttle to Copan Ruinas, Honduras from where I write you now.

The shuttle ride was unexpectedly amazing, as Tony and I -- having found a Drammamine (sp?) equivalent in Antigua -- were passed out in our seats for 80 percent of our journey. We did wake, however, in time to get to the border and realize that we had grossly underestimated how much money we would have to pay to leave the Guat and enter Honduras. While, all said, the sum was nominal (about $5 per person), we didn't have it. Luckily, Tony and I are apparently charming when shrouded in helplessness, and between the micro-loans of a Guatemalan-American family and two Irish women, Tony and I were able to pay our dues and get into the country without shackles or unforgiven debts -- I traded money for hand sanitizer and banana bread with the Guatemalan-American family, and when we tried to pay for lunch for the Irish women in Copan Ruinas, they actually gave us more Guaetmalan money.

Once past the border, Tony and I set up in Cafe Via Via, the first listing under "budget accomodations" in our Lonely Planet guidebook. Rooms here are $14 a night for a double and have such amazing features as a ceiling fan and private bathroom. Perhaps the most welcome feature of our room, however, is that we have a mattress. Our $16-a-night accomodations in Antigua afforded us two boxsprings piled on top of one another. Every time I turned over in bed and made the mistake of laying on a limb atop this unyielding surface, the respective appendage would lose all circulation within 10 minutes and I would wake myself by shaking the blood back into it like I was creating a new dance for a new John Waters' film (see "Hairspray").

Back to Honduras. It's hot here. And humid. Very different from Guatemala, yet in ways already better as we feel a little more tropical and more comforted and surrounded by nature. The park plaza near us is bursting with vegetation, coconut trees sprout roadside and the song of cicadas can be heard in rounds throughout the town. It reminds me a lot of the climate in Benin, West Africa -- I'm oily, my hair is frizzing and I'm forever covered in an alternating ebb and flow of the air's natural condensation and sweat. Appatizing, I know.

Anyway, once settled into our room, we grabbed a bite and set off for the ruins. A $15-per-person entrance fee shot us back in time over 1500 years. Following the path and stupidly shrugging off the offers of experienced tour guides, Tony and I wove dumbstruck through stone pillars and temples, altars and accented sports fields, wowed by the skill and intricacy demonstrated by the ancient roots of a ever-alive culture. From what I've been told, Copan Ruinas' ruins are some of the best-preserved in Central America. While Guatemala's city of Tikal has much larger structures, the carvings depicting Mayan dieties, leaders and heiroglyphics are said to be much more intricate here. The other plus is that none of them have been cemented over for preservation's sake -- they are all presented in their original form, save one, which is labled as a replica (the original has been placed in a museum).

I have great pictures, but again, I may not be able to upload them until I get home next week. Sorry!

For tomorrow, Tony and I are toying with the idea of trekking to another ruins site or to a coffee farm. Either way, a horseback ride may be involved. We're having bolo ties traditionally woven for us as we speak. ...Kiding. See you soon, and I'll try and write tomorrow!

Carole King comes to Antigua

I'm not sure that the news made it over to the states, but since we've been here, we've experienced two tremors -- that is the earth slithering slightly and falling quite short of a full-blown earthquake. The first one was in Xela a few weeks ago, during dinner, and we thought our host family was playing a joke on the gringos around their table, telling us that the water in the jugs were moving because the earth was. Tony and I went to school in New York and were used to the passing subways and traffic shuddering buildings and therefore thought our family's supposed "tremor" was a truck going by outside. They persisted, however, and I was let down because I hadn't properly felt the plate-tectonic-tremble and wanted another I could stand up and surf or something. But my family said that it wasn't common and probably wouldn't happen again before I left. Silly family.

Yesterday, after an afternoon of slipping in and out of travel agencies' doorways, Tony and I settled into a tiny cafe run by an American dealing in wine and cigars. First, I was amused, if not bewildered by the owner. This woman was 20-something and living the dream (of many) in Antigua, Guate., surrounding herself in Spanish, chocolate, Cuban cigars and South American wines, yet while we were there, she was lighting up a factory-produced cigarrette, eating McDonald's and talking with a customer about Coors Light and Budweiser through an accent I would guess came from one of the Carolinas. Ma'am...focus.

Anyway, Tony and I had just ordered our second glass of wine. We had been pleasantly imprisoned within the high-ceilings, exposed wooden rafters and colonial stone interior of the establishment by a sudden downpour -- ho-hum, I know. We had just watched the woman from our hotel's front desk hustle past the door when Tony said, "do you feel that?"

That time, amigos caros, I did. It was just like every account of a tremor I've ever read or heard of. This time, however, I understood. The earth just kind of...swerved and shimmied sideways, like a cartoon Latin lover sidling across a dancefloor to his unsuspecting female prey. It was awesome. Then we saw our hotel front desk lady run past the doorway again, in the opposite direction, and it was over. I threw my hand up in the air in what I believe may have been the "rock on" symbol in which only two glasses of mid-afternoon wine could have resulted.

Besides that exciting, pseudo-sedentary adventure, yesterday was fairly slow-paced. We visited a small but stunning art gallery adorned with the sculptures and paintings of a few exceptional Cuban and Guatemalan artists and roamed a local market (in reverse order). The market was not for tourists, and we were therefore spared the masks, woven bags and painted pottery that otherwise saturate vendors' stalls and blankets here. In this market, we found gargantuan produce and well-seperated dried goods displayed in fashions more similar to West African markets I had seen before -- that is in baskets on the floor, large sacks on risers, etc. Food sold included some of the largest carrots I've ever seen, beets, bananas, pastas, dog food (??), papayas, mangos, tomatoes, beans, dried and fresh corn and more. The outdoors were the territory of produce and a handful of flower sellers, while the corazon of the market was left to stalls hung with clothing for men, women and children. While it took some doing to navigate around the bustling marketplace, it was a great experience as sometimes your nose would tell you before your eyes what was to come next -- synthetics or strawberries, pots and pans or pineapples, cooked food or cuttlery.

Tony and I met Kathleen for dinner at a place called the Sky Cafe. The food was a bit pricey, shying from any real pressure to provide typical Guatemalan food -- something we have found ridiculously hard to come by here -- and was rounded with the ambiance provided by a couple who "necked" next to us for over three-and-a-half hours. The mysteries of the night included a) why they bothered ordering the huge plate of nachos, and b) where their margaritas disappeared to, as we never saw them come up for air. We decided that the romantic advances of the man were designed to prevent the woman from running up their food bill. Genius and effective, if not nauseating.

Today, we've just finished breakfast (mainly eggs, beans, plantains and tortillas in one variation or another and black coffee), and plan to wander through some church ruins, finalize travel arrangements for Honduras, where we hope to go tomorrow, and have some more coffee before returning to the Southern comfort wine and cigar shop for some more tremor-watchin'.

This said, I'll write when I next can and be back in the states on Sunday!

"Kill La Luz"

So here I am, writing from Antigua, the old capital of Guate before it was changed to Guatemala City for, I think, earthquake reasons. And there you are, wondering where the photos are that I promised to upload for you guys before I left to come here. First, let me apologize. Second, let me say it wasn't (entirely) my fault.

The Internet cafe where I had an account didn't open until noon yesterday, when Tony and I were to meet with Kathleen across town at the Blue Angel. As it was all of our last day in Xela, we had decided to trapse the city in a farewell wander in the morning and then get a few of the national beers (Gallo, Cabro, Moza...you pick) and rent out one of the cafe's two TV rooms and watch a double feature of the "Kill Bill" movies. The anticipated plan was then to saunter over to the Internet cafe, get in touch with loved ones and in my case, upload photos. But then, the electricity went out, simultaneously delaying our entire operation and limiting our possible courses of action. After the power returned and the movie(s) resumed, we had to be home for our last dinner with our host family, which turned out to be quite an affair for Kathleen and Tony as the two of them decided to just about split a bottle of rum between them during "Kill Bill 2." (High points of their respective dinners included Kathleen leaving her host family's dinner table early to have a dance party in her room, alone, in the dark with her mp3 player befor packing and Tony flinging part of his tomale into his tea at our dinner table, spilling it while trying to swap glasses "without me noticing," and ultimately drinking his own tea, wincing at the pulpiness when he got down to the tomale dregs of it...and jokingly gaffawing at the possibility of a man being "mas gordo" than our host brother.)

So anyway, Now we're here in Antigua, which is about four hours southeast from Xela and about an hour-and-a-quarter outside of Guatemala City. The buildings here are colorful and surround massive colonial structures -- mostly churches from what we've seen in our total of about 45 minues here so far -- that rise out of the more petit architecture like cemented ghosts. The weather here is about 10 degrees warmer with more humidity, but still no malaria danger (because of the elevation), and overall more comfortable. We're staying in a little guesthouse of roughly eight rooms (all with private hot water bathrooms) for about $8 a person. We plan to stay here among the tourists, monuments, various international cuisines and traffic peppered with horsedrawn carriages for about three days before moving on to Copan Ruinas, Honduras for another two or three days. We'll work out our travel arrangements tomorrow, but just plan on enjoying this tiny and safe city for today.

Without much more to tell as I haven't seen much off the cobbled streets here of yet, all I can say is I'll try to work on finding an Internet cafe with a card reader for my camera/photos, and until then, I'll blog as frequently as I can!

Stay safe, wish us the same and I'll talk to you all soon!

Dairy hurts

Life in Xela, while about to draw to a close, is going very well. I've recently learned that a chain of bakeries here, Xelapan, make eclairs and we have one 30 seconds from our school. So...yeah, as said, life here is good. I've also recently taken to a regular regimen of Metamucil to make up for the fruits and properly cooked veggies we've been lacking, so...again, life has resumed its "regular" goodness. Delightful, I know. Lastly, I know none of you will believe me, but last Saturday, we passed by a hamburger cart that, no joke, was called, "Guateburger." That's Guat's up! That's Guat's happening! That's Guat it is right now! OK, enough. But I can't believe I've forgotten to write about that until now. It was like Xela was nodding its head in acknowledgment of my visit that fine morning when we passed it by.

Anywho, as far as activities, etc. go, today we went to the town of San Andrés Xecul to see this wonderfully multi-color church. The sides of the building are painted white, as the front of the church used to be. Now, however, the facade is bright yellow and adorned with otherwise beautifully painted saints (presumably?), plants and more. Up at the top, on either side of the cross, are two jaguars. Jaguars, according to Mayan beliefs, are said to be guardians of the day, fighting the night through the darkness to allow the safe return of day (if I understood the Spanish explanation correctly). Their spots are seen as battle scars, and the cats are perceived as an otherwise sacred animal. It is always so interesting to me to look at how the presence of Christianity is altered or adapted to a land's native or indigenous culture and religious or spiritual beliefs.

As we went into the dark church, a woman was sitting off to the side with a small loom set up, and was weaving with great swiftness and skill, barely looking up at the flock of tourists whisking their way into the church. Further inside, as we passed empty pews bordered by walls with small, long trays of burning votive candles and paper, we came upon a small service in progress. On the main alter, beneath the crucifix and encased effigy of Jesus...framed...by...neon lights, women and children in indigenous, woven clothing knelt, praying and singing with each other.

After leaving and snapping a few more pictures, we hiked unsurprisingly -- yet consistently astonishing -- steep streets to get to a second church, a smaller chapel. Next to this structure, respectively painted, were crosses in front of or over and around which flowers had been draped. Here, offerings such as bouquets, bottles of alcohol and animals (pigs, chickens, etc.) were left as offerings in prayers for the deceased or for other reasons. Where I've been in West Africa (in Benin), when animals were killed as an offering for a request or wish, those on the site of the sacrifice may sometimes prepare the meat and share it as a meal with those nearby. This is not the case in San Andreas, however, where I was told that the animals were simply killed and put into the lit fire before the crosses. When we were there, women were gathered around and stirring the fire, but I didn't want to get too close to check on the sacrifice progress so as not to disturb or offend them.

Lastly, we went to a "house" that was the "dwelling" of San Simón, a saint that (primarily)indigenous people in the town pray to. Similar offerings, also including money, fireworks, food, cigarettes, etc. adorned the representation of the saint, and the fire burning just outside the house. Strung from the rafters were candles of different colors, each with a different prayer/wish intent or meaning. I'll try to ask more about the specific colors and write about them later because right now I am pretty uninformed on the issue.

That's about all that's been going on here, aside from a hilarious moment for me (because I'm cold-hearted?) in a local Xelapan bakery. I was in there with Tony, and as he, as a lactose intolerant individual...at that point possibly still suffering from amoebas, was staring at creme and custard-filled delights, the song "Love Hurts" came on, in English. It was great. The only thing that would have made the moment better would have been a rotating pastry case and a shot of Tony weeping into his own reflection on the glass.

I'll leave you with that and the promise that I will upload more photos before we leave on Sunday for Antigua and a few days in the Honduran town of Copan for some Mayan ruins. Tonight, we're going out for pizza to bid farewell to a few friends. I'd say, "aren't you jealous?" but ah...the "Land of Enchantment" has plenty of pizza available.

Hasta la pasta, as Tony and I think the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles like to say.