My first stop in Honduras is Copan, famous for its Mayan ruins. The journey here would have been a lot quicker if the driver hadn´t made several stops to drop of suspicious looking packages to his friends. We´d be haring down the motorway, when he´d get a phonecall, slam on the breaks and stop at the side of the road. On the other side there would be a similar shuttle-bus, with similarly confused looking white people. The two drivers would meet in the middle of the busy road, exchange what probably wasn´t baking powder or sweets, nod, and be on their way. The journey was quite an entertaining and stressful one altogether- we dodged several suicidal dogs, cows and people, passed by two nasty crashes and sheer cliff drops. My favourite moment was at the petrol station. The driver filled up, engine still running, before rocking the van backwards and forwards in order to get more in. He even asked us to lean to and fro to help him squeeze that extra 1 and a half Quetzales. I could only guess that he was getting the most out of his company budget.
I arrived here at about 11am yesterday. The ruins were good, but I will definitly be all ruined out by the end of this trip. Ruined by ruins. The town itself is a little odd- stagnant, I think is the word. It´s very small and quite charming on the outside, but the locals are a little offhand and unfriendly, especially compared to everyone I met in Guatemala.
Nothing seems to happen here: when we, there was a man sitting in his mango cart amongst hundreds of ripe mangos. "Ah, that´s very picturesque," thought I, "I´ll take a photo of him". But when I wandered out for lunch he was still there. And when I returned from lunch, he was still there- in the exact same position. The same later on. This morning when I headed out at 8am to see the ruins, he was STILL there- I checked to make sure he wasn´t dead, shot over some mango-related dispute, but his eyes were open and he was chewing on a piece of mango skin. It´s now about six thirty in the evening and he is STILL THERE in his mango cart, sitting amongst ever ripening fruit. I guess he just can´t shift that many mangos in a tiny town where nobody moves. Like the tortilla woman- sitting on the same kerb, day and night, frowning at passers-by, no longer having the will to say "quiere tortillas?".
I am staying in a "hotel" called `Don Moses`. It´s pretty dark and dated, but the cheapest place in the town I could find, after discovering that my intended hostel had actually closed down a couple of years ago. Cheers, Lonely Planet. The "hotel" is essentially a very large house, complete with very large family of all ages. The family members struggle to make sentences, especially if it is me who tries to talk to them, and spend the day taking turns on the public computer to look at each others´ facebook profiles. The only activity in this place comes from the horrible, bratty children, who run around shrieking and throwing food at me when I dodge past. I cannot even pretend to smile at them. They´re probably just bored though, because their parents spend all day staring at screen. Come to think of it, I´ve spent far too much time here staring at the same screen... it must be catching. Time to leave.
I did try to leave today. I´ve exhausted the local activities. Yesterday after settling in, I thought about going straight to the ruins, but it is so stiflingly hot, I knew that going in the heat of the day was a bad idea. So I assessed the Lonely Planet guide again (fool that I am) and decided to investigate a Butterfly House just outside of town- in fact I was pretty excited by the idea. So I walked, armed with camera and water, to the point where cute cobbled town met open highway and cowboy country. I found the place easily, but was greeted by a slightly harrassed looking woman with a child on her hip.
"Hello, I´d like to see the butterflies please!" said I (in spanish- just saying...)
"Yes but there is a problem," she said, "There are no butterflies".
"Oh, that is quite a problem..."
From what I gathered, the butterfly enclosures, which were set up by some nutty but well meaning ex-pat scientist a few years ago, had been attacked by insects, killing the butterflies or rather their eggs (I assumed... although she did say the insects ate the butterflies- making me imagine some pretty beastly insects, in itself quite exciting). The woman said I could still walk around the area and see the museum for half the price if I wanted, and I agreed.
The area was nice, and was probably lovely about 5 or10 years ago when it was well cared for and included butterflies. I would have enjoyed the whole experience a lot more if the woman hadn´t insisted on following me around all the time. "Look," she said,picking up dead butterflies from the floor, "dead, dead, all dead. Pah." She was ruining the atmosphere somewhat. What thoroughly depressed me however, was the museum. It was a pokey room with walls of pinned, dead butterflies. I know that´s what people did for fun back in the day, but something about those rows upon rows of sad but beautiful wings made me want to run away screaming and hug the nearest alive stray dog I could find. I came away with the consolation that at least I´d donated about one pound fifty hopefully towards the improvement of the next depressed tourist´s visit.
This morning I got up at the crack of dawn to go to the ruins, which I thoroughly enjoyed. They weren´t as huge and awesome as Tikal of course, but better preserved with amazing detail. Armed with my guidebook, I learnt quite a lot about them and took great pleasure in sitting cross-legged in the middle of what was probs a sacrificial alter, to eat my banana. The site is also home to several wild (but relatively tame) bright red Macaws, which won it for me.
The plan was to leave Copan and head to San Pedro Sula this afternoon...I spoke to the moodiest bus ticket dispenser in all of Central America, who reacted towards me as if I´d demanded a ticket on space ship.
"The bus leaves at 2pm", she growled.
"But the page says 1.30?"
"2pm."
So at quarter to two, I dragged my stupid bag down the hill to see what looked like my bus leaving. But it couldn´t be, because every single bus I´d caught on this continent was about 30 minutes late. Oh but it was. A man in sitting on the kerb told me that the bus had gone because it was already full, but he could drive me to some other obscure town if I wanted?
I complained a lot to the transport folk and will hopefully be on my way straight to La Ceiba by 7am tomorrow. It was probably fate that kept me here in this silly town- San Pedro Sula is apparently quite dangerous and not worth staying in after all. Still, at least the people there are actively doing something- even if it is robbing and shooting people, rather than wasting their lives on facebook. This is my second blog in two days- just think how much of my whinging you´d have to endure if I stayed.
Friday 26 April 2013
Thursday 25 April 2013
A kind and considered reflection on the nature of the average traveller type.
Another 4am start this morning to catch the shuttle to Copan, Honduras. I was the last to bed and the first to rise in my dorm, which earnt me several hearty sighs and tuts... I tried my very best to be silent as I scrambled around in the dark at 3.30, but it is amazing how every rustle is amplified at that hour. It´s also funny how dorm attitudes vary- sometimes there´ll be someone who insists on going to bed at 8pm and giving everybody else an earful for waking them up or keeping the light on, but other times a dorm will happen to be a collection of similarly spineless people too polite to even turn the light off at 2am, simply because one person isn´t back yet (and yes, that actually happened in one hostel in Antigua).
Once on the shuttle, I was greeted by a familiar voice through the darkness. A couple of weeks ago in that refugee-camp known as the Jungle Party Hostel (which I returned to far too many times as a result of friends wanting to drink there, resulting in flashbacks of chicken broth and waves of nausea), I met an Aussie called Grant.
"Hey Cheeeeka, my name´s Graaaaayyunt!" he said, in his charming Queensland accent.
"Nice to meet you Grahhnt", I said in my sensible British one.
"Nah mate, it´s Graaaaaaayyyunnnt!" he said, everything extra amplified and sweaty like some kind of Foster´s advert mockery.
"No, I´m sorry I just can´t do that. I´m going to call you ´Grahnt´," and that was the end of that.
GraHnt was on the bus. He was whining on about something far too loudly for such an unearthly hour, until he took a sleeping tablet and began to snore like a horse. He fell asleep on an British girl´s shoulder who gave him and the rest of the bus an earful, which was amusing. Grahnt was thrown against the window and the bus slept.
Breakfast was a stop at a very sad looking road-side hotel. The dining room had disturbingly large (as in, mural-sized) black and white photos of 6 or 7 year old girls all over the walls. I had the worst chicken sandwhich in Guatemala and we set off for the Honduran border towards more heat and humidity.
Once on the shuttle, I was greeted by a familiar voice through the darkness. A couple of weeks ago in that refugee-camp known as the Jungle Party Hostel (which I returned to far too many times as a result of friends wanting to drink there, resulting in flashbacks of chicken broth and waves of nausea), I met an Aussie called Grant.
"Hey Cheeeeka, my name´s Graaaaayyunt!" he said, in his charming Queensland accent.
"Nice to meet you Grahhnt", I said in my sensible British one.
"Nah mate, it´s Graaaaaaayyyunnnt!" he said, everything extra amplified and sweaty like some kind of Foster´s advert mockery.
"No, I´m sorry I just can´t do that. I´m going to call you ´Grahnt´," and that was the end of that.
GraHnt was on the bus. He was whining on about something far too loudly for such an unearthly hour, until he took a sleeping tablet and began to snore like a horse. He fell asleep on an British girl´s shoulder who gave him and the rest of the bus an earful, which was amusing. Grahnt was thrown against the window and the bus slept.
Breakfast was a stop at a very sad looking road-side hotel. The dining room had disturbingly large (as in, mural-sized) black and white photos of 6 or 7 year old girls all over the walls. I had the worst chicken sandwhich in Guatemala and we set off for the Honduran border towards more heat and humidity.
*
San Pedro was quite fun, but not really what I´d expected it to be. Lake Antitlan is impressive, but the visibilty tends to get very poor in the afternoons. I did get up at 4am to climb up the "Indian Nose"- a part of one of the big hills, to see the sunrise, which was well worth it. A group of five of us and a guide, Juan, scrambled up in the dark from halfway up (hell no was I going to do the full 2 hour hike at 3am). We sat at the top, oohed and aahhed and took photos of the pink sky and awakening villages below and shared a pack of biscuits before agreeing to head back and find a fry-up. Juan looked confused, asking "Don´t you want to see the... sunrise?", which is when we realised that the sun hadn´t actually come up yet. Juan no doubt spent the afternoon laughing to his friends about the idiot Gringos. To get back down to the village, we jumped in the back of a pick up truck which was loaded up with the day´s supply of freshly baked bread, and clung on for dear life as we and the bread swung down the almost vertical hillside road.
There is a certain type of tourist that dwells in San Pedro la Laguna. He goes by the name of Giles, wears head to toe hemp, disregards the needs for shoes because he wants to "feel the earth", and spends the whole time off his face on drugs, inadvertantly insulting friends and saying ridiculously patronising things about the locals in his Eton school accent. This may sound a little harsh. But once you´ve been sat next to a charming but repungently smelly, hairy hippy girl at dinner and put off your food, you´ll think my rantings just. And yes I did meet a boy who was travelling around the world on his daddy´s credit card after failing to get into university. I wonder if daddy knows that Giles is spending his pocket money on MDMA and other concoctions of drugs with vague but edgy sounding initials: the hipsters of the drug brands- if more than ten people have heard of it, it´s just so not cool anymore.
Example conversation:
"Oh man this AMT is really making me see the indigeonous tribes´ conflicts in a whole new light. It´s just such a shame that they can´t get together and do some TCP and feel the peace."
"Yeah man, I mean poverty... flip... This combination of PIN and ATM is totally buzzing. The Mayans should really just merge all their languages, like make a new dictionary called... Mayan, I AM."
Put some bloody shoes on and have a wash and pay your tourist card fee and go home and get a job. In a mine or something.
So yes, I did enjoy San Pedro for a couple of days, but no mother I didn´t do any drugs. I was staying in a great hostel called Mr. Mullet´s, which was run by a crazy Dutch guy. He cut himself a mullet originally to annoy his girlfriend, but soon realised that to be serious at the front and chilled at the back was the best way to be. Now he runs his hostel with a dog called Whiskey, and offers a free night´s stay for anyone who will get a mullet. Some of my friends might not like my new look, but they should realise that we´re all just one big happy earth family and it´s wrong to judge people based on their cleanliness and ability to string a logical sentence together. In the words of somebody on FRIENDS once, I will wash when Tibet is free. Peace out.
Monday 22 April 2013
Amigos, Novios and Sholcos
I left Antigua yeterday after three and a half weeks: the longest time I've spent anywhere since Guadalajara. At first I didn't think there was enough here to keep me interested beyond a week, but the more time I spend in a place, the more I realise there is to see. Antigua is small, but its residential areas sprawl out further and greener than the average tourist realises. There are still countless cafe's I would like to have the time to sit in with my book, and beyond that several nearby pueblas I'd like to have visited on the chicken bus. But is pressing, and I knew that as soon as I was on a bus somewhere new I'd feel excited again. I set off for San Pedro, on Lake Atitlan, partly because I wanted to see just a little bit more of Guatemala before going on to Honduras and the lake is only three hours away, and partly because I had my friend's shoes who was staying there.
Two weeks of Spanish lessons were enough- of course I could do with more and am nowhere near what I'd call Good, but four hours a day of one-on-one is quite intense, as is the lack of sleep and constantly tuning in to Spanish, translating what people say to me and what I read. My teacher, Julia continued to be fantastic- talking to me about everything from the nutritional properties found in the three most commonly eaten beans in Guatemala, to her daughter's love life... Julia junior was in love with a boy in her class, but it turned out that this boy had got another girl in the class pregnant. Of course the pair have to marry- everybody being so Catholic and ashamed, but they are 17 and have no money. The boy's father is an important local judge who won't give them any, but the girl's father is a big name in the Central American drugs trafficking business. He is pressurising the boy to work for him, which would make them rich of course, but would limit his life span. And the judge can never know... really makes my 17 year old worries seem trivial!
That's another funny thing about Antigua: on the surface it is an idyllic haven from the dangerous outside world. Nothing could possibly be a-skew in such a tourist-friendly, delicate looking town. But spend enough time there and you will realise that all the shoe-shiners in the park with their charming, old-fashioned kit boxes, actually double up as drug dealers; their polish sitting amongst huge bundles of powder and green. I always wondered how the men selling wooden flutes could ever make enogh money from wandering round, playing incessantly annoying tunes in tourists' faces, but then one day I was offered drugs from one of them, too. Looking closer at the locals I passed by on my walk to the Spanish school garden, or from peering through the bus window, I began to notice the huge mount of glue-sniffers around. It's not tht Anigua has a particular problem, it's just Guatemala- the drugs are cheap and available, and the government really doesn't care. Of course the local police and security guards standing in the square know what's going on with the shoe-shiners, but they are happy to turn a blind eye for a small cut of the profits.
I made a really great group of friends in Antigua- in fact pretty much everybody I met was good fun. There was Canadian boy, who I only knew for a day before he had to return home to his job as a tree planter, we went for a beer on his last night, had great conversation and were given free shots of tequila from the barman. Then there was French Girl: annoyingly beautiful, and cool, she is working for the French Alliance in Guatemala City. She'd hitchiked across many a dodgy area, been arrested in Morrocco and Saudi Arabia, but as with many things, announced that she 'didn't give a shit because [she is] french'. Mr. Physics, a Brit who had taught Physics in Shanghai for five years and had the "skill" of telling a story with 10 or more segways. I met German boy on his birthday- our second day at the scool. He presented me with a beer at midday, which I politely declined, before being told that it was an order, not a polite offering. He became the devil on my shoulder from thereon, and I like to blame him for most of my hangovers. Eco Boy, as he shall be named, arrived in my house for the second week. Another Brit who had spent time teaching abroad, he was learning Spanish to prepare for living and working in the jungle in Costa Rica, as part of an eco/home development thing. He was the best housemate I could have asked for, along with the two longer/term student residents: Asha, a Polish girl battling with and conquering far too many languages whilst also working on her PHD; and Ricardo, a 60 something year old guy from the states, whose vigour for learning was admirable.
Frenchie, Physics man, the German and I saw far too much of each other over the last two weeks- encouraging each other's drinking habits from the night of tequila shots and dancing on tables, to our more sophisticated final evening wine and cheese in the boys' kitchen. I know we were close because we could all be quite rude to each other, and I enjoyed everybody's company hugely. This won't be the last we see of each other. If anything, this trip has made me realise how small the world is, and that if I want to meet up with somebody again, it doesn't matter if they live in London, Paris or on the other side of the world/ I know that it's easy enough to make it happen. I also know that I have a free sofa space waiting for me in a number of countries and cities/ although this does also mean that once I am living in London I may be bombarded with homeless travellers ready to take up the offer.
One of my favourite words learnt over the last two weeks: Sholca/ Sholco, A person with no teeth. Very useful to know in Guatemala.
One of my favourite moments (and another reason to leave Antigua): When trying to buy quite expensive contact lense solution, the pharmacist said he would give me a big discount, on the condition that I took his number. Of course I said yes, that I would call him the next day... I have been looking over my shoulder ever since.
Two weeks of Spanish lessons were enough- of course I could do with more and am nowhere near what I'd call Good, but four hours a day of one-on-one is quite intense, as is the lack of sleep and constantly tuning in to Spanish, translating what people say to me and what I read. My teacher, Julia continued to be fantastic- talking to me about everything from the nutritional properties found in the three most commonly eaten beans in Guatemala, to her daughter's love life... Julia junior was in love with a boy in her class, but it turned out that this boy had got another girl in the class pregnant. Of course the pair have to marry- everybody being so Catholic and ashamed, but they are 17 and have no money. The boy's father is an important local judge who won't give them any, but the girl's father is a big name in the Central American drugs trafficking business. He is pressurising the boy to work for him, which would make them rich of course, but would limit his life span. And the judge can never know... really makes my 17 year old worries seem trivial!
That's another funny thing about Antigua: on the surface it is an idyllic haven from the dangerous outside world. Nothing could possibly be a-skew in such a tourist-friendly, delicate looking town. But spend enough time there and you will realise that all the shoe-shiners in the park with their charming, old-fashioned kit boxes, actually double up as drug dealers; their polish sitting amongst huge bundles of powder and green. I always wondered how the men selling wooden flutes could ever make enogh money from wandering round, playing incessantly annoying tunes in tourists' faces, but then one day I was offered drugs from one of them, too. Looking closer at the locals I passed by on my walk to the Spanish school garden, or from peering through the bus window, I began to notice the huge mount of glue-sniffers around. It's not tht Anigua has a particular problem, it's just Guatemala- the drugs are cheap and available, and the government really doesn't care. Of course the local police and security guards standing in the square know what's going on with the shoe-shiners, but they are happy to turn a blind eye for a small cut of the profits.
I made a really great group of friends in Antigua- in fact pretty much everybody I met was good fun. There was Canadian boy, who I only knew for a day before he had to return home to his job as a tree planter, we went for a beer on his last night, had great conversation and were given free shots of tequila from the barman. Then there was French Girl: annoyingly beautiful, and cool, she is working for the French Alliance in Guatemala City. She'd hitchiked across many a dodgy area, been arrested in Morrocco and Saudi Arabia, but as with many things, announced that she 'didn't give a shit because [she is] french'. Mr. Physics, a Brit who had taught Physics in Shanghai for five years and had the "skill" of telling a story with 10 or more segways. I met German boy on his birthday- our second day at the scool. He presented me with a beer at midday, which I politely declined, before being told that it was an order, not a polite offering. He became the devil on my shoulder from thereon, and I like to blame him for most of my hangovers. Eco Boy, as he shall be named, arrived in my house for the second week. Another Brit who had spent time teaching abroad, he was learning Spanish to prepare for living and working in the jungle in Costa Rica, as part of an eco/home development thing. He was the best housemate I could have asked for, along with the two longer/term student residents: Asha, a Polish girl battling with and conquering far too many languages whilst also working on her PHD; and Ricardo, a 60 something year old guy from the states, whose vigour for learning was admirable.
Frenchie, Physics man, the German and I saw far too much of each other over the last two weeks- encouraging each other's drinking habits from the night of tequila shots and dancing on tables, to our more sophisticated final evening wine and cheese in the boys' kitchen. I know we were close because we could all be quite rude to each other, and I enjoyed everybody's company hugely. This won't be the last we see of each other. If anything, this trip has made me realise how small the world is, and that if I want to meet up with somebody again, it doesn't matter if they live in London, Paris or on the other side of the world/ I know that it's easy enough to make it happen. I also know that I have a free sofa space waiting for me in a number of countries and cities/ although this does also mean that once I am living in London I may be bombarded with homeless travellers ready to take up the offer.
One of my favourite words learnt over the last two weeks: Sholca/ Sholco, A person with no teeth. Very useful to know in Guatemala.
One of my favourite moments (and another reason to leave Antigua): When trying to buy quite expensive contact lense solution, the pharmacist said he would give me a big discount, on the condition that I took his number. Of course I said yes, that I would call him the next day... I have been looking over my shoulder ever since.
 |
| Me and Frenchie's new novios, whom we met on a day trip to San Antonio. One of which is not a sholco. |
 |
| A woman weaving in San Antonio's artesan market. The typical shawls like the one she is wearing take about 6 months to make by hand. |
Sunday 14 April 2013
Day trips, rescuing chicks, and my interview is a hit
It's a pretty pleasant day here in Antigua- After sleeping in until eight (luxury), I wandered across the road to the local Pasteleria to buy some strawberry pastries, and sat on the kerb in the morning sun eating my breakfast and drinking a real cup of English Breakfast tea (teabag brought from home).
I moved into a local family's house on Sunday as part of my Spanish school package. The family are great- super relaxed and welcoming. The house also functions as the local Laundrette and a kind of cafe for those who know it's there. This means I am provided with three fantastic (and huge) meals a day, but will sometimes be sitting at the family dinner table next to some local who is paying for the same meal. At least this definitly means the food is good. On Sunday before I arrived, I decided to investigate the street food and find something small and bland for lunch, seeing as I hadn't long been eating solid fod after the Dengue and had been quite sick again the day before. Sitting down to eat what I thought were mushroom tostadas, I felt puzzled as to why they were so chewy... and had such an odd smell. And then I realised they were snails. Gross.
My spanish lessons began on Monday. I have one-on-one grammar and conversation practice from 8am until 12 everyday with Julia, my teacher. Julia is fantastic: so patient and enthusiastic, even when she knew that I was hungover and hadn't done my homework. While many teachers and students in the school discuss the weather and where they went on holiday, Julia plunged straight in on Monday morning with "so describe to me all of your past boyfriends!". That's a weird enough task to do in english, let alone in Spanish. I have my suspicions that Julia actually understands english fairly well, but she claims ignorance and we have conversed completely in Spanish from the beginning, which is great but sometimes frustrating when I'm trying to explain something like an interview.
On Friday, I was beyond tired. Orignially I'd assumed that my week of Spanish would be a quiet one- that I'd have early nights and spend my afternons practising verbs. I assumed wrong. The school is a very sociable place- I've met some really fun people and have been out somewhere every night, but this combined with the early starts (my host family are up and active well before 6) resulted in me completely malfunctioning by Friday morning. I am no Margaret Thatcher: I cannot cope with four hours sleep a night. The previous day I'd had an interview for an MA course in London, which i'd stressed over and had been left completely drained. Julia said good-morning to me and I burst into tears.
"What's wrong?!" she cried, "A man? I'll bet it's a horrible man..."
I tried my best to explain with my barely-existent Spanish that there was no horrible man, I was just tired and pathetic. Julia sugested we put the grammar aside and go on a little field-trip.
And so it came to be that I found myself at a photography exhibition of naked prostitutes with my 4 ft 10, excitable language teacher. It succeeded in waking me up, and provided us with many an interesting conversation topic. No discussions about the weather for Raquel and Julia.
That afternoon, I got an email to say that I'd been accepted onto the MA course. Still exhausted, I may have had to stop myself from crying once again. Julia happened to be walking past my house, and squealed with joy when I ran out to tell her.
That night, a group of us from the school went out to a couple of bars. What started as a fairly sleepy, quiet evening ended with me dancing on the bar with free tequila. I still have a headache.
Asides from tequila and Spanish, I've done a few interesting things this week. On Tuesday, I went with a small group of friends in search of the nearby hot springs. We got on the chicken-bus (which in Antigua are ex-American yellow school-buses, completely pimped out with crazy patterns and colours) and got off in San Antonio, under the convincing instructions of the locals. After wandering around this little suburb village for a while, gathering the attention of most its residents, we found a swimming pool, of sorts. It was not hot, and it was definitly not fresh water from any kind of spring, but it did have slides.
I did as the locals did, and kept a t-shirt on in order to fit in a bit more and not be disrespectful, but once our group decided to test out the slides (hilarious constructions built with zero health and safety precautions in mind), we realised we had quite an audience. Gaggles of local women out at the pool for the day with their children were in fits of laughter at the sight of 6 white tourists crashing down the slides in pain. We were laughed at but applauded, and left the pool safe in the knowledge that we had at least provided some entertainment for everybody.
I will now attempt to attach some photos, although my android tablet gets very confused about these things...
This is what we had for dinner the other night: black beans, tomales and a weird turnip-like vegetable. Very tasty.
The cat keeps waking me up at 5am. She drinks my tea and tries to get into my drawers, but she's gorgeous.
On Friday we went on the chicken bus to the old city: what was once the capital before it was destroyed by a volcano eruption. Today it's a bit of a souless place with lots of concrete, but we did find a purple chick running loose in the road. I carried it around to save it from being run over... nobody seemed to want it or know where it came from, but eventually a woman with a young daughter took it home. It was probably made into a soup that night, but I felt that I could sleep easier knowing that I'd at least spared it from a tuc-tuc related death.
And lastly, the only bar in the old town: the "rock" bar. One man's shrine to obscure Latin American death metal, where the choice of drinks were a litre of beer, or a litre of beer.
I moved into a local family's house on Sunday as part of my Spanish school package. The family are great- super relaxed and welcoming. The house also functions as the local Laundrette and a kind of cafe for those who know it's there. This means I am provided with three fantastic (and huge) meals a day, but will sometimes be sitting at the family dinner table next to some local who is paying for the same meal. At least this definitly means the food is good. On Sunday before I arrived, I decided to investigate the street food and find something small and bland for lunch, seeing as I hadn't long been eating solid fod after the Dengue and had been quite sick again the day before. Sitting down to eat what I thought were mushroom tostadas, I felt puzzled as to why they were so chewy... and had such an odd smell. And then I realised they were snails. Gross.
My spanish lessons began on Monday. I have one-on-one grammar and conversation practice from 8am until 12 everyday with Julia, my teacher. Julia is fantastic: so patient and enthusiastic, even when she knew that I was hungover and hadn't done my homework. While many teachers and students in the school discuss the weather and where they went on holiday, Julia plunged straight in on Monday morning with "so describe to me all of your past boyfriends!". That's a weird enough task to do in english, let alone in Spanish. I have my suspicions that Julia actually understands english fairly well, but she claims ignorance and we have conversed completely in Spanish from the beginning, which is great but sometimes frustrating when I'm trying to explain something like an interview.
On Friday, I was beyond tired. Orignially I'd assumed that my week of Spanish would be a quiet one- that I'd have early nights and spend my afternons practising verbs. I assumed wrong. The school is a very sociable place- I've met some really fun people and have been out somewhere every night, but this combined with the early starts (my host family are up and active well before 6) resulted in me completely malfunctioning by Friday morning. I am no Margaret Thatcher: I cannot cope with four hours sleep a night. The previous day I'd had an interview for an MA course in London, which i'd stressed over and had been left completely drained. Julia said good-morning to me and I burst into tears.
"What's wrong?!" she cried, "A man? I'll bet it's a horrible man..."
I tried my best to explain with my barely-existent Spanish that there was no horrible man, I was just tired and pathetic. Julia sugested we put the grammar aside and go on a little field-trip.
And so it came to be that I found myself at a photography exhibition of naked prostitutes with my 4 ft 10, excitable language teacher. It succeeded in waking me up, and provided us with many an interesting conversation topic. No discussions about the weather for Raquel and Julia.
That afternoon, I got an email to say that I'd been accepted onto the MA course. Still exhausted, I may have had to stop myself from crying once again. Julia happened to be walking past my house, and squealed with joy when I ran out to tell her.
That night, a group of us from the school went out to a couple of bars. What started as a fairly sleepy, quiet evening ended with me dancing on the bar with free tequila. I still have a headache.
I did as the locals did, and kept a t-shirt on in order to fit in a bit more and not be disrespectful, but once our group decided to test out the slides (hilarious constructions built with zero health and safety precautions in mind), we realised we had quite an audience. Gaggles of local women out at the pool for the day with their children were in fits of laughter at the sight of 6 white tourists crashing down the slides in pain. We were laughed at but applauded, and left the pool safe in the knowledge that we had at least provided some entertainment for everybody.
I will now attempt to attach some photos, although my android tablet gets very confused about these things...
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| The view of Antigua from the cross on the hill... |
On Friday we went on the chicken bus to the old city: what was once the capital before it was destroyed by a volcano eruption. Today it's a bit of a souless place with lots of concrete, but we did find a purple chick running loose in the road. I carried it around to save it from being run over... nobody seemed to want it or know where it came from, but eventually a woman with a young daughter took it home. It was probably made into a soup that night, but I felt that I could sleep easier knowing that I'd at least spared it from a tuc-tuc related death.
And lastly, the only bar in the old town: the "rock" bar. One man's shrine to obscure Latin American death metal, where the choice of drinks were a litre of beer, or a litre of beer.
Friday 5 April 2013
The truth about Antigua
Antigua. I am so determined to love this stupid place, but it's been a challenge. It's a very pretty, colonial feeling town, home to uncountable coffee shops, Spanish schools and churches- the kind of place people visit and get too comfortable to leave. Before I flew out, Antigua was one th places I'd google-mapped the hell out of, and already had it in my mind that I would stay here a little while and possibly take some Spanish classes. I still fully intend to do that, but my prolonged stay has so far been a matter of necessity rather than anything else...
Here's a secret- I can write about it now that it's definitly over and I am totally fine: I've been quite ill. I mean horribly sick for a full week. When I wrote before about having a bit of a bug in Lanquin, that was a white lie- Lanquin was only the beginning... so I actually missed pretty much all of the Easter parades and general fun to be had, and spent my Easter Sunday feverish and hallucinating in the refuge camp. It was pretty miserable. The hostel was also awful, but I think I only realised the full scale of its awfulness once I had finally mustered up the energy to leave. Much like high school, working in Wetherspoons, and any prolonged visit to Asda. There were no bed bugs at least, but that's probably only because I didn't actually have a proper bed.
Either way,it's over now. I have moved to a lovely hostel on the other side of town, which has real beds, real hot showers and real breakfast. I'm also practically a celebrity here- news travels fast amongst backpackers and at least three people have greeted me with "Oh, you're that girl who had Dengue over in the Jungle Party hostel!" Pretty funny. Yes, it may have been Dengue fever, BUT I am fine. I have some meds, can hold down a meal again and even climbed a volcano today. One day I will go into details about what Dengue was like, for the sake of good, honest travel-blogging, but in the short-term it is best forgotten, for the sake of my sanity and my mother's nerves.
It's not just the irritation at missing out on the Easter celebrations which makes me struggle to enjoy Antigua: I get lost every time I step outside. This is partly because I don't know the place well yet, having spent the first week rotating between my bed,bathroom and a hammock, but it's partly due to the totally ridiculous layout. Like pretty much every town on the continent, Antigua's streets are designed in a grid system, so you'd think it would be easy to navigate between Calle 5 and Calle 6. H-Oh no. It seems that every other road has an alternative Spanish name. And not even the locals know which is which! It took me almost an hour to walk from hostel 1 to hostel 2, partly because the people who I asked for directions sent me in completely the wrong direction. But then again maybe they had heard the rumours of my illness and were trying to banish me from the town.
And another thing: protruding stone window boxes. Stupid bloody idea. They're of varying heights on all buildings in order to catch you out, and combined with the impossibly narrow pavements create a death trap for all drunk, hostel-bound tourists. Last night I went for dinner and a very stressful pub quiz with a bunch of male American stereotypes. It was fun and we did win, despite a bitter argument over Ireland's independence (which apparently I'm supposed to know all about, being English...) I wasn't drinking, and was keen to go to bed after, but was somehow convinced to go and dance in a bar completely sober until 2am. Walking home with a very drunk Alex the New Yorker (who, interestingly is half Jamaican, half Russian), I was just in the middle of warning him not to walk into any windows, when BAM. I saw stars and now have a spectacular black eye. Alex and I both started to explain to people that Alex hit me after I racially insulted him, but soon remembered that not many people in the land of Abroad get that kind of humour and either think I'm a crazy racist or Alex is a heartless woman beater. The night guard at the hostel definitly does not know what to think of me.
To make matters worse, I checked my email at 2am to discover that the volcano trek which I had attempted to change from this morning at 6am to tomorrow afternoon, had not been possible to change. So three and a half hours later, I woke up- head banging from my black eye, to climb a whopping great volcano. Volcan Pacaya is 2552 metres high and a pretty steep hike. I struggled a bit- especially as I am still a little weak from being ill, but the views were worth it. We got quite close to the main vent and sat for a while toasting marshmallows which the guide had brought along. We were the only group around, but most amusingly thre was still a tiny "shop" at the top called "The World Famous Lava Store". There was nothing actually in the hut to buy- just a man sitting with his dog. I suppose being situated at the top of an active volcano it wasn't really worth the risk having any stock.
So other than recovering, I really haven't been up to much. I have enrolled in a Spanish school fornext week and plan to spend the weekend enjoying food once again. I'm willing to give Antigua another chance to win me over, as long as it doesn't give me any more black eyes.
Here's a secret- I can write about it now that it's definitly over and I am totally fine: I've been quite ill. I mean horribly sick for a full week. When I wrote before about having a bit of a bug in Lanquin, that was a white lie- Lanquin was only the beginning... so I actually missed pretty much all of the Easter parades and general fun to be had, and spent my Easter Sunday feverish and hallucinating in the refuge camp. It was pretty miserable. The hostel was also awful, but I think I only realised the full scale of its awfulness once I had finally mustered up the energy to leave. Much like high school, working in Wetherspoons, and any prolonged visit to Asda. There were no bed bugs at least, but that's probably only because I didn't actually have a proper bed.
Either way,it's over now. I have moved to a lovely hostel on the other side of town, which has real beds, real hot showers and real breakfast. I'm also practically a celebrity here- news travels fast amongst backpackers and at least three people have greeted me with "Oh, you're that girl who had Dengue over in the Jungle Party hostel!" Pretty funny. Yes, it may have been Dengue fever, BUT I am fine. I have some meds, can hold down a meal again and even climbed a volcano today. One day I will go into details about what Dengue was like, for the sake of good, honest travel-blogging, but in the short-term it is best forgotten, for the sake of my sanity and my mother's nerves.
It's not just the irritation at missing out on the Easter celebrations which makes me struggle to enjoy Antigua: I get lost every time I step outside. This is partly because I don't know the place well yet, having spent the first week rotating between my bed,bathroom and a hammock, but it's partly due to the totally ridiculous layout. Like pretty much every town on the continent, Antigua's streets are designed in a grid system, so you'd think it would be easy to navigate between Calle 5 and Calle 6. H-Oh no. It seems that every other road has an alternative Spanish name. And not even the locals know which is which! It took me almost an hour to walk from hostel 1 to hostel 2, partly because the people who I asked for directions sent me in completely the wrong direction. But then again maybe they had heard the rumours of my illness and were trying to banish me from the town.
And another thing: protruding stone window boxes. Stupid bloody idea. They're of varying heights on all buildings in order to catch you out, and combined with the impossibly narrow pavements create a death trap for all drunk, hostel-bound tourists. Last night I went for dinner and a very stressful pub quiz with a bunch of male American stereotypes. It was fun and we did win, despite a bitter argument over Ireland's independence (which apparently I'm supposed to know all about, being English...) I wasn't drinking, and was keen to go to bed after, but was somehow convinced to go and dance in a bar completely sober until 2am. Walking home with a very drunk Alex the New Yorker (who, interestingly is half Jamaican, half Russian), I was just in the middle of warning him not to walk into any windows, when BAM. I saw stars and now have a spectacular black eye. Alex and I both started to explain to people that Alex hit me after I racially insulted him, but soon remembered that not many people in the land of Abroad get that kind of humour and either think I'm a crazy racist or Alex is a heartless woman beater. The night guard at the hostel definitly does not know what to think of me.
To make matters worse, I checked my email at 2am to discover that the volcano trek which I had attempted to change from this morning at 6am to tomorrow afternoon, had not been possible to change. So three and a half hours later, I woke up- head banging from my black eye, to climb a whopping great volcano. Volcan Pacaya is 2552 metres high and a pretty steep hike. I struggled a bit- especially as I am still a little weak from being ill, but the views were worth it. We got quite close to the main vent and sat for a while toasting marshmallows which the guide had brought along. We were the only group around, but most amusingly thre was still a tiny "shop" at the top called "The World Famous Lava Store". There was nothing actually in the hut to buy- just a man sitting with his dog. I suppose being situated at the top of an active volcano it wasn't really worth the risk having any stock.
So other than recovering, I really haven't been up to much. I have enrolled in a Spanish school fornext week and plan to spend the weekend enjoying food once again. I'm willing to give Antigua another chance to win me over, as long as it doesn't give me any more black eyes.
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| There I am, in a volcano vent. |
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