Oscar and the sky
More salivating over clouds and buildings tomorrow.
29 February 2008
28 February 2008
Igrejinha
That means Little Church apparently. Before the major onslaught of photos of Oscar Niemeyer's work begins on this blog tomorrow, here's a tiny taste; this place was built in 1958 with the tiles designed by Athos Bulcão.
A spot of rain
Brasilia is, well, kinda mind-blowing. It's so amazingly beautiful. The buildings, the planning, the way this it actually seems to work pretty well. More of that, though, tomorrow. Right now: some photos of the effects of the torrential rain here yesterday. The red earth in Brasilia leads to these marvellous Martian rivers colliding with the clear water rivers on the road, the colours swirling together under the tyres of cars.
25 February 2008
Saint Paul
Not written much about São Paulo so far. It's a good place. Several people that I've met half-apologetically tell me it's an ugly city, and to a certain extent it's true; but, on the whole, the massive amount of tall buildings that seem to dominate the city are interesting for me. It's not a New York-style organised mass of skyscrapers; more a mess of skyscrapers, but I like it. Again, as I've said before, it's small details that are the most interesting. It's the rain shower coming over the city, turning the distinct skyscapers to a watercolour grey skyline that looks - through squinting eyes - like an old British castle. It's the dart-player style shirts of the costermongers, each with embroidered words and images on the back and chest. It's the smile and one-word question, "Jägermeister?" from a barman who'd watched me get drunk on the stuff the previous night, wondering if I wanted to repeat the experience. It's the beautiful, beautiful, really beautiful women. It's meeting an Englishman and chatting about Peter Cook half a world away. It's not getting mugged. It's eating the most delicious cheesy bread roll things called pao de queijo (any British or German cheese/bread combination will never be enough in future). It's over-flowing drains streaming down streets during a storm, making them look potentially quite kayakable. It's giggling like a foolish child at naked statues in museums. It's a fifty-something-year-old guy in front of me in the queue in a coffee shop saying something to me; and me telling him that I don't speak Portuguese, and him replying that I should go in front of him, because he's... meditating. It's the lack of billboards (not only are the posters gone, but the billboards themselves have gone now). It's the good cinemas with a refeshing lack of guff before the film itself starts. It's finally understanding why people like sushi so much after years of shrugging ambivalence. It's laughing a lot. It's hearing "Cars" by Gary Numan in a bar and enjoying it more than I've ever done before. It's eating tiny baked potatoes filled with gorgonzola. It's thinking seriously - for the first time in my life - about maybe getting a tattoo and not knowing why this subconscious thought has grown out of nothing inside my brain into a proper consideration. It's not taking many photos 'cause the person that stole my cell phone out of my backpack at Panama City airport was an idiot and stole my camera battery charger not the cell phone charger, and I've not found a shop that sells a replacement. It's shoving my clothes back into my backpack and, in an hour or so, going to the airport to fly to Brasilia to see what a city on the moon might look like.
22 February 2008
21 February 2008
Enjoy yourself
Well, so far, São Paulo seems lovely. The Jardins area where I've spend most of my time so far, is all very nice. Kind of like a slightly swankier version of Berlin's Prenzlauer Berg area. Nice cafes, restaurants, clothes and book shops. It's all been a swirl of stuff so far. Eating, drinking, and driving around; seeing large amounts of prostitutes (of both sexes); stepping ankle deep into a gutter full of water; going to the cinema (No Country For Old Men - pretty damn good); looking out of tall buildings at the massive amounts of city; walking around watching the pretty girls; enjoying the rain storm clearing up, and the clouds disappearing just in time for the lunar eclipse; and trying not to feel too scared about the nagging knowledge in the back of my head that this city can be dangerous.
My natural cautiousness and Juliana's warnings ("don't wear that t-shirt, don't wear your watch, do you have any other tennis shoes [ie. cheaper-looking, and not Nike]?") have conspired to make me not go anywhere remotely dangerous so far. I've been driven through possibly dangerous areas, but not set foot in them yet. But I'm not gonna let it get the better of me. I will go into the city centre, I will empty my pockets of anything that I don't want to lose, and, goddammit, I will enjoy myself.
My natural cautiousness and Juliana's warnings ("don't wear that t-shirt, don't wear your watch, do you have any other tennis shoes [ie. cheaper-looking, and not Nike]?") have conspired to make me not go anywhere remotely dangerous so far. I've been driven through possibly dangerous areas, but not set foot in them yet. But I'm not gonna let it get the better of me. I will go into the city centre, I will empty my pockets of anything that I don't want to lose, and, goddammit, I will enjoy myself.
20 February 2008
Bananas, boys and girls, bananas
The natural follow-up to the Fun Boy Three post: a Bananarama post. They really were great at times, huh? And my answer to the obvious question: Keren at the time, but looking at them again this morning, Siobhan really is very beautiful.
Really Saying Something 1982
Cruel Summer 1983
Robert De Niro's Waiting 1984
Love In The First Degree 1987
I Want You Back 1988
Really Saying Something 1982
Cruel Summer 1983
Robert De Niro's Waiting 1984
Love In The First Degree 1987
I Want You Back 1988
Fun, boys and girls, fun
For no other reason than that I now have access to fast wifi; here's some embedded YouTube clips of Fun Boy Three, one of my favourite groups from back when I was on the cusp of becoming a teenager. Plus, it gives you (and me) a little break from the "I did this, then I did this, then I did this, then something else happened, then I flew to somewhere else exotic" shite.
The Lunatics (Have Taken Over The Asylum) 1981
It Ain't What You Do (It's the Way That You Do It) 1982
The Telephone Always Rings 1982
Tunnel of Love 1983
Our Lips Are Sealed 1983
and here's the Go-Go's' version of Our Lips Are Sealed 1982
The Lunatics (Have Taken Over The Asylum) 1981
It Ain't What You Do (It's the Way That You Do It) 1982
The Telephone Always Rings 1982
Tunnel of Love 1983
Our Lips Are Sealed 1983
and here's the Go-Go's' version of Our Lips Are Sealed 1982
19 February 2008
Getting here
So, if ever you find yourself in Panama City en route to Brazil, and you realise that you've not had a yellow fever shot, and you might need to postpone your flight to São Paulo, here's my advice: don't worry about it and just fly to Brazil. They don't check. The immigration was cursory at best, and calling the customs disinterested would be offensive to people who are disinterested. I had my form filled in and ready for inspection, but the customs lady didn't feel the need to stop chatting to her colleague and, without even looking at me, held out her hand for the form and waved me along with the same form without even looking at it as she flapped it in the direction of the exit.
It seemed to be a long flight. It was only six-ish hours, but I was already knackered from my Sunday evening of travelling, and spending twelve hours in Panama City airport. Sitting on the plane in my window seat with no air-conditioning for an hour wasn't the perfect way to begin the flight either. For some reason, I forgot to change my preferences on Expedia before booking this flight. I do like a window seat on short flights, but for longer flights, they're just a pain. I was sat there with no leg room, and without the chance to stretch a little into the aisle.
One of the stewardesses seemed to take a dislike to me straight away. You'd say she was quite attractive, looking like a cross between Kylie Minogue and Kim Gordon. When she was bringing the Brazilian immigration and customs forms around at the start of the flight, I asked if there was an alternate customs form that wasn't just in Portuguese. She got chippy straight away and told me that "it's nothing to do with us, it's Brazil's form, they decide which language it is in." After that, everything she ever did - food, drinks - she seemed to be sneering at me. Thankfully the Brazilian guy sat next to me helped me out with the form.
I flew over the Amazon and Equator. Not that I knew it, though. There was just a bunch of clouds out of the window. I guess I might've seen a tributary of the Amazon, though. I did see Martian Child, though. Nice aeroplane film. I like John Cusack, and there was a tear in my eye at the end. Must've been a bit of dust or something, lads, honest.
A little air travel-based aside: am I alone in thinking people's hands look a bit freaky when they do this (below) on a plane? And doesn't it feel a little bit like they're invading your precious personal space?
Cities tend to look the same when you arrive at night. Airports have the same stuff going on; the taxis might be different colours, but they smell the same; and the roads are all multi-lane highways that fly along past road signs for places you don't recognise and unfamiliar store names on the side of big buildings. São Paulo is no different. Except when I got close to my friend Juliana's place in the Jardins district, and then suddenly I began to notice that all the buildings had huge metal fences and guards. Security seems to be a big thing here.
As does crazy pronunciation of letters. My whole understanding of the Latin alphabet has been turned upside down. Hearing Brazilians talk is like listening to someone from Romania trying to speak Spanish: there's the odd word you understand, but the rest of it is just a noise. When Juliana explained how to pronounce Brazil's currency, the real, my mind felt slapped silly. I was, of course, not expecting it to sound like the English word "real"; more "ray-al" like the Madrid football team. When she told me it is pronounced something close to "hey ice" I kinda realised that I won't be able to muddle along knowing a bit of Spanish.
Still, I can say caipirinha and obrigado, so what more do I need?
It seemed to be a long flight. It was only six-ish hours, but I was already knackered from my Sunday evening of travelling, and spending twelve hours in Panama City airport. Sitting on the plane in my window seat with no air-conditioning for an hour wasn't the perfect way to begin the flight either. For some reason, I forgot to change my preferences on Expedia before booking this flight. I do like a window seat on short flights, but for longer flights, they're just a pain. I was sat there with no leg room, and without the chance to stretch a little into the aisle.
One of the stewardesses seemed to take a dislike to me straight away. You'd say she was quite attractive, looking like a cross between Kylie Minogue and Kim Gordon. When she was bringing the Brazilian immigration and customs forms around at the start of the flight, I asked if there was an alternate customs form that wasn't just in Portuguese. She got chippy straight away and told me that "it's nothing to do with us, it's Brazil's form, they decide which language it is in." After that, everything she ever did - food, drinks - she seemed to be sneering at me. Thankfully the Brazilian guy sat next to me helped me out with the form.
I flew over the Amazon and Equator. Not that I knew it, though. There was just a bunch of clouds out of the window. I guess I might've seen a tributary of the Amazon, though. I did see Martian Child, though. Nice aeroplane film. I like John Cusack, and there was a tear in my eye at the end. Must've been a bit of dust or something, lads, honest.
A little air travel-based aside: am I alone in thinking people's hands look a bit freaky when they do this (below) on a plane? And doesn't it feel a little bit like they're invading your precious personal space?
Cities tend to look the same when you arrive at night. Airports have the same stuff going on; the taxis might be different colours, but they smell the same; and the roads are all multi-lane highways that fly along past road signs for places you don't recognise and unfamiliar store names on the side of big buildings. São Paulo is no different. Except when I got close to my friend Juliana's place in the Jardins district, and then suddenly I began to notice that all the buildings had huge metal fences and guards. Security seems to be a big thing here.
As does crazy pronunciation of letters. My whole understanding of the Latin alphabet has been turned upside down. Hearing Brazilians talk is like listening to someone from Romania trying to speak Spanish: there's the odd word you understand, but the rest of it is just a noise. When Juliana explained how to pronounce Brazil's currency, the real, my mind felt slapped silly. I was, of course, not expecting it to sound like the English word "real"; more "ray-al" like the Madrid football team. When she told me it is pronounced something close to "hey ice" I kinda realised that I won't be able to muddle along knowing a bit of Spanish.
Still, I can say caipirinha and obrigado, so what more do I need?
18 February 2008
Sleeping in an airport
I don't recommend this. I left Punta Gorda at 1.35pm (CST - same time zone as Chicago) yesterday, I got to Panama City at 11.30pm (EST - same as New York). I will get to São Paulo at 8.30pm (err, East Edge of Brazil Time? Whatever it is called, it's two hours ahead of here; three hours behind GMT). I decided against going into the city to get a hotel room for the night. By the time I'd got through immigration and customs, via a shouty argument with a Taca Airlines employee regarding my bloody backpack's buckles all being open and a bunch of pills and my cell phone missing (the pills were found, the phone not). She asked me to calm down, it wasn't her fault, they take no liability for lost/stolen electrical items, etc. My point, made with a smattering of swear words, was that all these stupid security regulations mean that, at some point, it was bound to happen that I would remember to take my Swiss Army knife out of my carry-on bag, I'd remember to not pack too much scary dangerous liquid, but I would forget to do something else. This time, sadly, it was taking my nice LG Chocolate phone out of my backpack. Whichever cunt has it now - and I assume you're a baggage handler - I hope you like the photo of Billy on the screen, you fucking thieving twat. It did all remind me of the episode of "15 Stories High" (a superb Brit comedy if you've not seen it) where the main character is told there's no need for swearing at a check-in desk, and his reply was along the lines of "this is the exact perfect time for the need for swearing." I concur. Still, I apologised to the lady for my foul language, and acknowledged that it wasn't her fault, and went about my business. Which, depressingly, was trying to find somewhere in Tacomen airport to bed down for the night.
It wasn't as horrible as I'd imagined it might be. The airport was very quiet, not many staff or passengers around, and I found an upstairsy bit which had no signs indicating that there were lots of seats or toilets up there, so there were very few people coming or going. Backpack and rucksack on the floor. Rucksack used as pillow (mmm, the comfortable headrest of laptop cables and duty free cigs!), backpack as surrogate girlfriend - something to hug on to.
Brendan had told me he'd slept a night at Charles de Gaulle airport, and that he didn't recommend it. I met him and his girlfriend who I think was called Melanie at San Salvador airport. I was just about to ask in a bar there if there was anywhere to smoke, when I heard him asking a question including the word "fumar" and being instructed to go somewhere else. I skipped along behind him and asked if he'd asked what I thought he'd asked. He had asked what I thought he'd asked. They were Canadians, doing a year long stint of travelling, but taking a two week break to go home for a friend's wedding. They'd just come from Belize, too, so we chatted about how we enjoyed it; Brendan admired my t-shirt (bought in Mexico City, it has the Star Wars logo in Spanish on it - Estar Guars); and I shared my freshly bought Marlboro Lights with them: all of us agreeing that the local Belize cigarettes were horrible. I left them a pack from my duty free haul, and Brendan bought me a beer to go with our lovely fags. A fine trade. We also traded URLs, 'cause we're hipster travellers. Here's theirs.
First attempt, I managed about 40 minutes of sleep. I listened to "Music For Airports" which was very nice. Far nicer than when I listened to it in Schönefeld airport. Got up, had a brief exchange with a guy sat nearby. It was one of those "huh, this sucks, eh?" exchanges. A bit of freshening up, then back to my floor-tile crib. A bit better this time: just over an hour. A bit of tossing, turning, and clock-watching later and I fell asleep again for about 90 minutes. It would've been longer had those pesky kids not been craving Snickers bars from the vending machine. The mechanical whirr of the coily thing, then thud! Three times. It woke me, but their chewy jabbering kept me awake. The parents of the little bastards seemed to not give a shit that someone was trying to sleep a few feet away, and despite their being a whole bank of empty seats forty-odd feet away, decided to sit where they could annoy the gringo. Thanks, fuckers.
A cat wash, brushed teeth, a change of shirt, a few last smokes, a bit of a pain where the toe bit of my flip flops has been rubbing against my toes, and a boarding pass later, and I'm heading through security. This is my second time through this piece-of-shit airport, and the second time my lighter has been taken off me. Berlin, Heathrow, Mexico City, Miami, Belize City, San Salvador: all of them have no problem with a Bic lighter, but this place seems to think it is special. The security guy seemed to speak perfectly fine English when he was asking me to remove my lighter, but when I asked exactly what it was that made my lighter so much more dangerous in Panama City than in Miami, he converted himself to an "I no speak Ingles"-guy. (If you want, you can imagine an extra paragraph of ranting about the absurdities of not supplying an area for smokers in departure lounges here.)
Still, there's free Wi-Fi, which is more than a lot of airports give you, so I half take back calling this place a piece-of-shit, although there seems to be one cafe and three Lacoste stores which seems the wrong way around to me. Maybe I'm hallucinating. Anyway, I'm grumpy, so I will ask you one question: what exactly did Melinda Gates do to get her name at the top of the letterheads of the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation? I wonder if she actually does stuff, or is she Linda McCartney in Wings? Does blowing a really rich guy get you places? Oh, err, yes, it probably does.
Anyway, time to go and sit next to gate 22a and get on my flight. As i type, there's a left-handed brother on the seat opposite me. But he's one of those lefties that writes like he's got a lobster claw instead of a hand, so I will give him a withering look for letting the side down.
Apologies for any typos, spelling mistakes or grammatical errors, ich bin sehr müde and a little bit cranky.
It wasn't as horrible as I'd imagined it might be. The airport was very quiet, not many staff or passengers around, and I found an upstairsy bit which had no signs indicating that there were lots of seats or toilets up there, so there were very few people coming or going. Backpack and rucksack on the floor. Rucksack used as pillow (mmm, the comfortable headrest of laptop cables and duty free cigs!), backpack as surrogate girlfriend - something to hug on to.
Brendan had told me he'd slept a night at Charles de Gaulle airport, and that he didn't recommend it. I met him and his girlfriend who I think was called Melanie at San Salvador airport. I was just about to ask in a bar there if there was anywhere to smoke, when I heard him asking a question including the word "fumar" and being instructed to go somewhere else. I skipped along behind him and asked if he'd asked what I thought he'd asked. He had asked what I thought he'd asked. They were Canadians, doing a year long stint of travelling, but taking a two week break to go home for a friend's wedding. They'd just come from Belize, too, so we chatted about how we enjoyed it; Brendan admired my t-shirt (bought in Mexico City, it has the Star Wars logo in Spanish on it - Estar Guars); and I shared my freshly bought Marlboro Lights with them: all of us agreeing that the local Belize cigarettes were horrible. I left them a pack from my duty free haul, and Brendan bought me a beer to go with our lovely fags. A fine trade. We also traded URLs, 'cause we're hipster travellers. Here's theirs.
First attempt, I managed about 40 minutes of sleep. I listened to "Music For Airports" which was very nice. Far nicer than when I listened to it in Schönefeld airport. Got up, had a brief exchange with a guy sat nearby. It was one of those "huh, this sucks, eh?" exchanges. A bit of freshening up, then back to my floor-tile crib. A bit better this time: just over an hour. A bit of tossing, turning, and clock-watching later and I fell asleep again for about 90 minutes. It would've been longer had those pesky kids not been craving Snickers bars from the vending machine. The mechanical whirr of the coily thing, then thud! Three times. It woke me, but their chewy jabbering kept me awake. The parents of the little bastards seemed to not give a shit that someone was trying to sleep a few feet away, and despite their being a whole bank of empty seats forty-odd feet away, decided to sit where they could annoy the gringo. Thanks, fuckers.
A cat wash, brushed teeth, a change of shirt, a few last smokes, a bit of a pain where the toe bit of my flip flops has been rubbing against my toes, and a boarding pass later, and I'm heading through security. This is my second time through this piece-of-shit airport, and the second time my lighter has been taken off me. Berlin, Heathrow, Mexico City, Miami, Belize City, San Salvador: all of them have no problem with a Bic lighter, but this place seems to think it is special. The security guy seemed to speak perfectly fine English when he was asking me to remove my lighter, but when I asked exactly what it was that made my lighter so much more dangerous in Panama City than in Miami, he converted himself to an "I no speak Ingles"-guy. (If you want, you can imagine an extra paragraph of ranting about the absurdities of not supplying an area for smokers in departure lounges here.)
Still, there's free Wi-Fi, which is more than a lot of airports give you, so I half take back calling this place a piece-of-shit, although there seems to be one cafe and three Lacoste stores which seems the wrong way around to me. Maybe I'm hallucinating. Anyway, I'm grumpy, so I will ask you one question: what exactly did Melinda Gates do to get her name at the top of the letterheads of the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation? I wonder if she actually does stuff, or is she Linda McCartney in Wings? Does blowing a really rich guy get you places? Oh, err, yes, it probably does.
Anyway, time to go and sit next to gate 22a and get on my flight. As i type, there's a left-handed brother on the seat opposite me. But he's one of those lefties that writes like he's got a lobster claw instead of a hand, so I will give him a withering look for letting the side down.
Apologies for any typos, spelling mistakes or grammatical errors, ich bin sehr müde and a little bit cranky.
17 February 2008
Off to São Paulo
My last evening here was a good one: getting a little bit tipsy, playing Scrabble with two lovely American lasses, Marta and Nina. I didn't win any games, though. I internally shuddered - like a true British English pedant - when Marta played the word "flavor" but things evened out when I managed to convince them that quim was a playable word.
The long journey begins now. I'm leaving from Punta Gorda airstrip in about an hour. And tomorrow evening, around 9pm local time, I'll be in São Paulo; in the southern hemisphere for the first time in my life.
Sometimes it's nice when the perfect song for the perfect moment pops up on shuffle on the iPod. I dunno why, but this one seemed to fit splendidly, as I packed the last of my clothes into my backpack, and locked the door of my room at Hickatee.
Hopefully, I'll have a boring tale of a perfect journey to Brazil. But, being the modern world, anything that does go wrong automatically comes attached with the thought-bubble, "at least it's something to blog about."
The long journey begins now. I'm leaving from Punta Gorda airstrip in about an hour. And tomorrow evening, around 9pm local time, I'll be in São Paulo; in the southern hemisphere for the first time in my life.
Sometimes it's nice when the perfect song for the perfect moment pops up on shuffle on the iPod. I dunno why, but this one seemed to fit splendidly, as I packed the last of my clothes into my backpack, and locked the door of my room at Hickatee.
Hopefully, I'll have a boring tale of a perfect journey to Brazil. But, being the modern world, anything that does go wrong automatically comes attached with the thought-bubble, "at least it's something to blog about."
16 February 2008
La la la la
Saw some more howler monkeys yesterday. Fairly close this time, almost directly beneath them. The alpha male was doing his gruff howling. Up close, you can hear all the little noises that get lost in the echoes of the jungle from a bigger distance. He sounded hoarse, like he'd been shouting and smoking all night; like he was your nicotine-soaked, yellow-moustached uncle wheezily shouting his way through a phone call from a creaky old ship radio somewhere in the Pacific, but - at your end - played very loudly though a Tannoy; like he quite needed a spoonful of honey or a couple of Lockets. Or something.
Aside from that, my Friday was another regular day. The sea was rough, and there was a nice breeze; I visited a gift shop called Fajina, which, I was disappointed to find out isn't pronounced "vagina"; and I helped Ian lug a mahogany desk from town back to the cottages, and was pleasantly rewarded with some of Kate's yummy egg sandwiches.
I saw what I think was an icebow, too. I'm not particularly up on what's going on in the sky; I can just about find Orion and the Plough, but that's about it. But, what I saw looked a bit like what is described in the Wikipedia entry for icebows: a halo around the moon. It looked pretty nice. Although, rather pathetically, I'd have swapped seeing it for seeing just one episode of Seinfeld. Oh, how I miss my Seinfeld DVDs.
And that was pretty much it. Actually, nothing worth blogging about. I'm getting quite excited about going to São Paulo now, though. I leave Belize tomorrow afternoon, fly the same old route via San Salvador and San Jose to Panama City, then on Monday morning, I'll be flying over the Equator for the first time, and hoping for an upgrade, 'cause the thought of a seven-hour flight in economy is always quite a grim prospect, no?
I still don't know what I'll do with my time in Panama, though. I've got twelve hours between landing and taking off again. Take away two hours for check-in time, and more-or-less an hour to get through immigration and customs, and I'm down to nine hours of thumbs-twiddling. Do I splash out the US$25 each way for a cab to take me the half hour journey into town to stay in a hotel for what, in the end, will be about five or six hours sleep; or do I rough it in the airport where I will, undoubtedly, wish I'd spent the money on a hotel bed? There, really, is my answer.
In some ways, this - flying to Brazil - is the point where the trip begins. I only expected to be in Mexico City before heading to Brazil. My time in Belize and Panama were unplanned diversions, really, only visited because when I looked at flights from Mexico to Brazil, the cheapest one included changing flights in Panama City, which tempted me into spending some time elsewhere between Mexico and Brazil. And I've not had a guide book for any of my trip so far. I only bought one for South America, so I've had very little knowledge about the places I've been in. I did, of course, refer to what I'd written in Atlas, Schmatlas (still in all good book shops); and found that all I'd written about Belize was a paragraph of sarcasm about tourists trampling all over Mayan ruins, and that Panama is, apparently, an entirely man-made nation filling the gap between the Americas.
Sorry, this entry is really dull, huh?
Oh, I did get bitten by a doctor fly. That's a tiny bit interesting. Right on the elbow. It swelled up a bit yesterday and was quite irritating for a while, but it seems okay-ish now. Little stupidly-named bastard. Still, who's got an iPod, eh? Me or the doctor fly? That's right, wing-boy, I can listen to any of Bruce Springsteen's albums whenever I want!
And I've fallen in love: with talcum powder. It's such a nice way, in this heat, to extend that post-shower period of feeling clean and un-clammy. They should make edible talcum powder. Strawberry flavour. Or maybe even coconut. So you can shake it all over and gulp down clouds of it, like when Sonic the Hedgehog gulps down the air bubbles when he's underwater. And if I had a girlfriend, well we could... I think I'd better stop blogging now.
But before I do, here's some photos of John and Papi the kinkajou. This morning was the first time I've seen him since he attacked me. Cute little bugger, you'll likely agree, but this is as close as I ever want to get to one again.
Aside from that, my Friday was another regular day. The sea was rough, and there was a nice breeze; I visited a gift shop called Fajina, which, I was disappointed to find out isn't pronounced "vagina"; and I helped Ian lug a mahogany desk from town back to the cottages, and was pleasantly rewarded with some of Kate's yummy egg sandwiches.
I saw what I think was an icebow, too. I'm not particularly up on what's going on in the sky; I can just about find Orion and the Plough, but that's about it. But, what I saw looked a bit like what is described in the Wikipedia entry for icebows: a halo around the moon. It looked pretty nice. Although, rather pathetically, I'd have swapped seeing it for seeing just one episode of Seinfeld. Oh, how I miss my Seinfeld DVDs.
And that was pretty much it. Actually, nothing worth blogging about. I'm getting quite excited about going to São Paulo now, though. I leave Belize tomorrow afternoon, fly the same old route via San Salvador and San Jose to Panama City, then on Monday morning, I'll be flying over the Equator for the first time, and hoping for an upgrade, 'cause the thought of a seven-hour flight in economy is always quite a grim prospect, no?
I still don't know what I'll do with my time in Panama, though. I've got twelve hours between landing and taking off again. Take away two hours for check-in time, and more-or-less an hour to get through immigration and customs, and I'm down to nine hours of thumbs-twiddling. Do I splash out the US$25 each way for a cab to take me the half hour journey into town to stay in a hotel for what, in the end, will be about five or six hours sleep; or do I rough it in the airport where I will, undoubtedly, wish I'd spent the money on a hotel bed? There, really, is my answer.
In some ways, this - flying to Brazil - is the point where the trip begins. I only expected to be in Mexico City before heading to Brazil. My time in Belize and Panama were unplanned diversions, really, only visited because when I looked at flights from Mexico to Brazil, the cheapest one included changing flights in Panama City, which tempted me into spending some time elsewhere between Mexico and Brazil. And I've not had a guide book for any of my trip so far. I only bought one for South America, so I've had very little knowledge about the places I've been in. I did, of course, refer to what I'd written in Atlas, Schmatlas (still in all good book shops); and found that all I'd written about Belize was a paragraph of sarcasm about tourists trampling all over Mayan ruins, and that Panama is, apparently, an entirely man-made nation filling the gap between the Americas.
Sorry, this entry is really dull, huh?
Oh, I did get bitten by a doctor fly. That's a tiny bit interesting. Right on the elbow. It swelled up a bit yesterday and was quite irritating for a while, but it seems okay-ish now. Little stupidly-named bastard. Still, who's got an iPod, eh? Me or the doctor fly? That's right, wing-boy, I can listen to any of Bruce Springsteen's albums whenever I want!
And I've fallen in love: with talcum powder. It's such a nice way, in this heat, to extend that post-shower period of feeling clean and un-clammy. They should make edible talcum powder. Strawberry flavour. Or maybe even coconut. So you can shake it all over and gulp down clouds of it, like when Sonic the Hedgehog gulps down the air bubbles when he's underwater. And if I had a girlfriend, well we could... I think I'd better stop blogging now.
But before I do, here's some photos of John and Papi the kinkajou. This morning was the first time I've seen him since he attacked me. Cute little bugger, you'll likely agree, but this is as close as I ever want to get to one again.
15 February 2008
La la la
A bit of a nothing day yesterday. Ian and Kate have been generous and allowed me to use their Internet connection even though I've not been staying at their place for the last few nights, so most of yesterday was taken up with catching up on the BBC and Guardian. In the evening, Bill, Robin and I went out for Chinese food. They are leaving Belize this morning, so it was nice to spend one final evening with them, and very gracious of them to allow me to join them. Let's not forget it was Valentine's Day on their tropical holiday; the last thing I'd want to do is have some beardy Brit tagging along.
After the food, we had one last drink, and I bid them farewell. One thing that has been amazing so far, is that I've met three lovely couples from northern California and Oregon, all of whom have offered genuine invitations to visit them on the possible west coast USA leg of my journey. That part of my trip is tentative. It all depends on money and my will to keep on travelling. But I do have this little fantasy of seeing all the Major League Baseball stadiums, and nipping up the west coast to see the Padres, Dodgers, Angels, Giants, Athletics, and Mariners' stadiums is very tempting. Especially now that I've got three places to spend a night on a journey from San Francisco to Seattle.
Ian and I were discussing how much more genuine American invitations seem. Kraig and Barbara, Walt and Jenny, Bill and Robin: their offers all seemed sincere. When we Brits do it, I dunno, it just seems like our inherent hang-ups with seeming polite make the offers seem very insincere. Any of you Brits agree or disagree with this? I do wonder if it was just something that Ian and I happen to both think, but might possibly be untrue.
To finish, a little note about that new addition to the right hand column on this page, just under the map: I decided that the flow of these blog entries would probably be better if I didn't feel that I had to remind you who each person was every time I mentioned a name. So if you're wondering who the heck I'm referring to, just click over there and you'll find an alphabeticised list of name with a short description.
After the food, we had one last drink, and I bid them farewell. One thing that has been amazing so far, is that I've met three lovely couples from northern California and Oregon, all of whom have offered genuine invitations to visit them on the possible west coast USA leg of my journey. That part of my trip is tentative. It all depends on money and my will to keep on travelling. But I do have this little fantasy of seeing all the Major League Baseball stadiums, and nipping up the west coast to see the Padres, Dodgers, Angels, Giants, Athletics, and Mariners' stadiums is very tempting. Especially now that I've got three places to spend a night on a journey from San Francisco to Seattle.
Ian and I were discussing how much more genuine American invitations seem. Kraig and Barbara, Walt and Jenny, Bill and Robin: their offers all seemed sincere. When we Brits do it, I dunno, it just seems like our inherent hang-ups with seeming polite make the offers seem very insincere. Any of you Brits agree or disagree with this? I do wonder if it was just something that Ian and I happen to both think, but might possibly be untrue.
To finish, a little note about that new addition to the right hand column on this page, just under the map: I decided that the flow of these blog entries would probably be better if I didn't feel that I had to remind you who each person was every time I mentioned a name. So if you're wondering who the heck I'm referring to, just click over there and you'll find an alphabeticised list of name with a short description.
14 February 2008
The further adventures of...
After my first experience of snorkeling a couple of weeks ago, I wanted to get back out and do it again as soon as possible. So yesterday I went on another trip to Snake Cayes with Bill and Robin.
I skipped the bit where the guide showed us around the Port Honduras Marine Reserve, and just sat on the jetty watching a stingray instead. When we'd motored out to the cayes, and the boat had slowed down, my snorkel, mask, and flippers were on, and I was away. There was no panic, no second thought, I was just in there and snorkeling straight away. I hardly came up about the surface of the water the whole time. A couple of days of rain had made the water a touch cloudier than last time, but I still had fun.
I swam about halfway around the island. I followed a couple of angel fish around for a while, as they swam around the coral. All the time, I had my head down, looking directly below me. Then I looked ahead of me. Then to the left, and the right. I'd drifted into the middle of a smack of moon jellyfish (yes, that - apparently - is the collective noun). At that moment, their beauty was the last thing on my mind. I was in a stingy minefield, and I knew not how I would escape unharmed. I had to move careful. There was no room to get up the power to dive beneath them to safety. I bobbed in the water and gingerly took off one flipper then the other. I put my hands into them and used them as gloves and paddles; sweeping aside the jellyfish. One came at me from the right; I turned my head and, using my snorkel like a bull's horn, bashed him aside.
I was out of the frying pan, but just feet away from the fire. Jellyfish behind me, but a greater danger in front of me: a Portuguese Man o' War. The momentum of swimming away from the jellyfish was throwing me right towards his long stingy tentacle thingies. I was done for. There was no way out. Well, there wouldn't have been had the last couple of paragraphs been true.
What really happened was I looked up, saw the smack of jellyfish a few feet in front of me, slammed on the brakes, spun around and swam away, gulping for air. When I looked back behind me, I noticed that they weren't jellyfish, rather a bunch of small, transparent pieces of plastic floating in the water. It was, though, a good thing that I turned around when I did, 'cause Robin, who was in the boat, said I was swimming right in the direction of a man o' war, and it was only about 20 feet away. Fascinating creatures they may be, but I have no desire to be that close to one again.
I like to think, though, that the jellyfish and man o' war part of this blog entry would be a good story in the adventures of "Kinkajou" Robinson: idiosyncratic tropical explorer, on yet another daring mission to tame the savages, battling through the flora and fauna of British Honduras for Queen and Country. All in day's work, Your Majesty; and yes, I'd love a cup of tea.
We stopped on West Snake Caye for a bite to eat, and I watched a crab struggle with the waves lapping onto the beach, as he desperately held onto a fish with one claw, and tried to eat chunks of it with the other.
We then went and did some fishing of our own. This activity can be adding to going to a bullfight, seeing the Pacific Ocean, kayaking, snorkeling, cave-swimming, as another first for me. I've never particularly had any interest in fishing. We dropped anchor, and I was handed a rod with a tiny fish and a weight on the end. I was instructed to let the line out until it went slack, then turn the reel thingy a little, so that the bait was just a couple of inches off the seabed. And it wasn't too long before I felt a tug on the line. Oooh, exciting! I reeled it in. It felt heavy. I kept on reeling, I felt the fish pulling, but eventually a snapper, only slightly bigger than my hand came flapping on the line out of the water. Our tour guide Armando unhooked it and threw it into a cooler to flap around for a few moments before it died. I felt guilty. But I did it again. All in all, I caught three snapper that were worth keeping; threw a couple back into the sea, caught an ugly catfish, and a couple of others that I forget the names of. Not once did I try getting the fish off the hook, though. That looked like a grim task. It was hard enough for me to push the hook through the eyes of the bait fish.
Armando took us to see a little island that was for sale (US$40,000 for about a quarter of an acre), and then we returned to shore. Despite having some Mexican sun lotion with the number 80 on the front, I still got a bit burned. Must be factor 80 cooking oil, not sun cream.
In the evening, Bill, Robin and I went to a place called Emery's for dinner. Never again will I complain about the service in cafes and restaurants in Berlin. Emery's was just unbelievable. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion. It all began well enough - table, chairs, menus - but very rapidly tailed off. The waitress who brought us the menus when we initially sat down didn't return for twenty five minutes. She serviced other tables, but she didn't return to us. I could have laughed in her face when she finally came over and asked if we were ready to order. I think she was high on horse tranquilisers.
"I'll have a cheese burger and fries, please."
"Chicken burger?"
"No, beef burger. With cheese."
"Chicken?"
"No, cheese. On a beef burger. And a Lighthouse beer, please."
"You want a drink?"
"Yes, a Lighthouse beer."
"A Lighthouse?"
"Yes."
A further twenty minutes had passed before we got bored of spitting feathers and went up to the bar and got the drinks direct from the bar man. The food finally turned up, although I had to wait five minutes for her to bring me a knife and fork. Bland would be the charitable way to describe it. We finished up, decided against waiting for her to bring the bill, went up to the bar, paid, and for the first time in aeons, I left no tip.
Another fun-packed day was at an end. I read about two pages of Moby-Dick, then drifted off to sleep, imagining "Kinkajou" Robinson fighting a big whale. (Which, of course, isn't true. It was just a more poetic ending that saying, "I brushed my teeth, itched my insect bites, and sweated and snored through 'til morning.)
I skipped the bit where the guide showed us around the Port Honduras Marine Reserve, and just sat on the jetty watching a stingray instead. When we'd motored out to the cayes, and the boat had slowed down, my snorkel, mask, and flippers were on, and I was away. There was no panic, no second thought, I was just in there and snorkeling straight away. I hardly came up about the surface of the water the whole time. A couple of days of rain had made the water a touch cloudier than last time, but I still had fun.
I swam about halfway around the island. I followed a couple of angel fish around for a while, as they swam around the coral. All the time, I had my head down, looking directly below me. Then I looked ahead of me. Then to the left, and the right. I'd drifted into the middle of a smack of moon jellyfish (yes, that - apparently - is the collective noun). At that moment, their beauty was the last thing on my mind. I was in a stingy minefield, and I knew not how I would escape unharmed. I had to move careful. There was no room to get up the power to dive beneath them to safety. I bobbed in the water and gingerly took off one flipper then the other. I put my hands into them and used them as gloves and paddles; sweeping aside the jellyfish. One came at me from the right; I turned my head and, using my snorkel like a bull's horn, bashed him aside.
I was out of the frying pan, but just feet away from the fire. Jellyfish behind me, but a greater danger in front of me: a Portuguese Man o' War. The momentum of swimming away from the jellyfish was throwing me right towards his long stingy tentacle thingies. I was done for. There was no way out. Well, there wouldn't have been had the last couple of paragraphs been true.
What really happened was I looked up, saw the smack of jellyfish a few feet in front of me, slammed on the brakes, spun around and swam away, gulping for air. When I looked back behind me, I noticed that they weren't jellyfish, rather a bunch of small, transparent pieces of plastic floating in the water. It was, though, a good thing that I turned around when I did, 'cause Robin, who was in the boat, said I was swimming right in the direction of a man o' war, and it was only about 20 feet away. Fascinating creatures they may be, but I have no desire to be that close to one again.
I like to think, though, that the jellyfish and man o' war part of this blog entry would be a good story in the adventures of "Kinkajou" Robinson: idiosyncratic tropical explorer, on yet another daring mission to tame the savages, battling through the flora and fauna of British Honduras for Queen and Country. All in day's work, Your Majesty; and yes, I'd love a cup of tea.
We stopped on West Snake Caye for a bite to eat, and I watched a crab struggle with the waves lapping onto the beach, as he desperately held onto a fish with one claw, and tried to eat chunks of it with the other.
We then went and did some fishing of our own. This activity can be adding to going to a bullfight, seeing the Pacific Ocean, kayaking, snorkeling, cave-swimming, as another first for me. I've never particularly had any interest in fishing. We dropped anchor, and I was handed a rod with a tiny fish and a weight on the end. I was instructed to let the line out until it went slack, then turn the reel thingy a little, so that the bait was just a couple of inches off the seabed. And it wasn't too long before I felt a tug on the line. Oooh, exciting! I reeled it in. It felt heavy. I kept on reeling, I felt the fish pulling, but eventually a snapper, only slightly bigger than my hand came flapping on the line out of the water. Our tour guide Armando unhooked it and threw it into a cooler to flap around for a few moments before it died. I felt guilty. But I did it again. All in all, I caught three snapper that were worth keeping; threw a couple back into the sea, caught an ugly catfish, and a couple of others that I forget the names of. Not once did I try getting the fish off the hook, though. That looked like a grim task. It was hard enough for me to push the hook through the eyes of the bait fish.
Armando took us to see a little island that was for sale (US$40,000 for about a quarter of an acre), and then we returned to shore. Despite having some Mexican sun lotion with the number 80 on the front, I still got a bit burned. Must be factor 80 cooking oil, not sun cream.
In the evening, Bill, Robin and I went to a place called Emery's for dinner. Never again will I complain about the service in cafes and restaurants in Berlin. Emery's was just unbelievable. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion. It all began well enough - table, chairs, menus - but very rapidly tailed off. The waitress who brought us the menus when we initially sat down didn't return for twenty five minutes. She serviced other tables, but she didn't return to us. I could have laughed in her face when she finally came over and asked if we were ready to order. I think she was high on horse tranquilisers.
"I'll have a cheese burger and fries, please."
"Chicken burger?"
"No, beef burger. With cheese."
"Chicken?"
"No, cheese. On a beef burger. And a Lighthouse beer, please."
"You want a drink?"
"Yes, a Lighthouse beer."
"A Lighthouse?"
"Yes."
A further twenty minutes had passed before we got bored of spitting feathers and went up to the bar and got the drinks direct from the bar man. The food finally turned up, although I had to wait five minutes for her to bring me a knife and fork. Bland would be the charitable way to describe it. We finished up, decided against waiting for her to bring the bill, went up to the bar, paid, and for the first time in aeons, I left no tip.
Another fun-packed day was at an end. I read about two pages of Moby-Dick, then drifted off to sleep, imagining "Kinkajou" Robinson fighting a big whale. (Which, of course, isn't true. It was just a more poetic ending that saying, "I brushed my teeth, itched my insect bites, and sweated and snored through 'til morning.)
13 February 2008
Monday and Tuesday
Monday was a lazy Punta Gorda day. The sum total of my activities was visiting the post office, going to a cafe, and hanging around. The restaurant part of where I'm staying is called Mangrove Inn; the guest house part is Casa Bonita. As distinct places, though, they are separated only be a screen door. And the family's living area (apart from their bedrooms and bathroom on the second floor) is also part of the guest house. It feels like I'm staying in the spare room of someone's home. I like it.
The place - on the northern outskirts of Punta Gorda, in a village called Cattle Landing - is run by John and Iconie (pronounced "eye Sony"). John is a Canadian expat, who has lived in Belize for 17 years. He visited, went home, then came back, met Iconie - a Belizean - who was pregnant with her third daughter at the time, and they built a life together, raising the girls, and running a guest house and restaurant. One of their four dogs is called Saddam.
I've briefly seen the two elder daughters - late teens or early twenties, at a guess - but the youngest one, Cina (pronounced "keen-a"), helps out in the restaurant in the evening, so I've seen her a couple of times. Sixteen years old, always smiling, clever eyes, and the sort of girl that, one would imagine, has all the boys after her.
There's one other guest at Casa Bonita, a Canadian woman in her early sixties called Pat. She escapes the Canadian winters, it seems, by coming to Punta Gorda. She has that settled-in manner that makes you think that she probably doesn't do much more than sit on the deck, chatting away, smoking her cigarettes and having the odd coffee, juice, or beer. We spent a great deal of time talking about all sorts: Canadian, British, German, and American politics, the joys of the BBC and CBC, Belize, Belizians, music, and how one of her sons would bite her nipples when she was breast-feeding them.
Before dinner, I had a stroll along the sea front. Along the front here, every couple of hundred metres, there's a little thatched palm-leaf shelter. Locals seem to pass the time there. Earlier in the day, as I cycled by, I said hello to a guy sat under the one nearest to Casa Bonita. He shouted hello and asked where I was from. I did a quick circle and stopped and introduced myself. He told me he was Johnny, and he introduced me to the girl he was talking to. He then said, "she's a beautiful Spanish girl, huh?" (she wasn't Spanish Spanish; she, I assume, had Spanish ancestors ages ago). She smiled an embarrassed smile. And it was a pretty smile.
Back to my evening stroll. I saw Johnny there again, and he invited me to sit down with him. Johnny is 49 years old, has a few grey hairs in his dreadlocks, and plenty of tattoos. He told me a lot of things. That he used to be a sinner, a bad man. He spent five years in prison in the US. Now he makes money here and there, and sits by the sea to pray and meditate. He then talked me through all his tattoos: a scorpion to remind himself to beware that people could sting; a spider in its web, because he likes to pull people towards him; the Taurus star-sign; and a thin black rectangle on his wrist which was "a secret." The only tattoo he didn't refer to was the one on his neck: I Love Doreen. I didn't ask.
We chatted for ten minutes or so. A guy on a bicycle pulled up and Johnny told me he'd be back in a couple of minutes. They both rode off behind some trees and Johnny came back, like he'd said, in a couple of minutes. I don't think I need to explain what was going on there, do I? When he returned, he asked me if I'd ever eaten iguana. I told him I hadn't, and he said I should come around to his place the next night 'cause he'd caught two and it was delicious. (I didn't enquire about the taste, 'cause you can almost guarantee that people will always say the same thing when you ask that question about virtually any meat: "a bit like chicken.") In that flustery, English manner, I left my options open on whether I'd take him up on his offer, chatted for a little while longer, and returned to Casa Bonita for chicken pot pie, a few beers, and an early night.
I woke up gradually. Waking to the sound of dogs barking, drifting back to sleep; waking to the sound of a group of men on a morning run; drifting back to sleep; then waking again, and just listening to the waves on the shore. The day was already interesting, and it was only 6.30am. I went on to the deck, had a coffee and a smoke, as the other people in the house passed by, doing their morning things. Pat seemed a tad irked to not be the first person on the deck. Only a tad, but I guess if you're a semi-permanent guest, a newcomer disturbing your morning ritual can be weird. Cina dashed past in her school uniform. Another daughter's face appeared at the screen door and said goodbye. And Iconie asked me if I wanted breakfast. Yes, please.
Ten minutes later, a mountain on a plate was put in front of me; way more than the coffee and cigarette, and perhaps a couple of slices of toast that I'm used to. Fry jacks, scrambled eggs with lumps of spicy sausage, and beans. Fry jacks are a Belizian breakfast thing: kinda like a fried tortilla that's puffy and crispy on the outside. I imagine it's not particularly healthy. I got through as much as I could, though, 'cause I had a jungle morning ahead of me. As I ate breakfast, the sky over the sea, out on the horizon over Honduras, was dark. The water, though, was still a beautiful Caribbean turquoise. Slowly that changed and the sky and water eventually became two shades of grey as the storm got closer. It was a great way to eat breakfast, watching a thunder storm coming towards me. It got closer and closer, pelted the roof for ten minutes, and cleared up, leaving a gorgeous day behind for us.
The morning was to be spent rescuing orchids. Not a tourist activity, just something interesting for Bill and I to do, which would also help Ian out. But Ian, being a big girl's blouse, doesn't particularly enjoying being in a boat on the sea, and that would be the way we'd be getting to where we were going. So Bill and I joined up with Ian's resident orchid experts Mr Shal and Mr Rafael, and we got in George's boat (he of the kayaking and bird-watching adventure a fortnight ago), and we sped off north along the coast. Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up on a teeny-weeny beach, and it was our task to walk along the tracks that marked out the edge of other people's land to look for dead trees that might have orchids. Mr Shal and Mr Rafael went off in one direction; George took Bill and I in another direction. He showed us the small concrete posts that mark the straight lines we'd follow, and he went off to look along another line.
Leaving Bill and I alone to find orchids. Errr, I can't see any. And the ground was quite muddy, with puddles everywhere. Neither of us had shoes that wouldn't get soaked should we step in a puddle. Bill chopped away at the jungle path with a machete. I smoked a fag.
And then I saw one. And then another. There was a big, dead branch that was suspended between another tree and some vines. I got the machete and chopped away at the rotten wood, and the roots and leaves of an orchid came off easily. Bill had a go at the other one with similar success. We'd broken our cherries. After that we were a bit more confident. The bugs and sweat that covered me were no longer an issue: we'd found some orchids, and wanted to find more. Which we did. Probably about ten in total. A decent haul for two total beginners.
After feeling good about ourselves and standing on the beach like real men for a while (one leg on a clump of grass a bit higher than the beach, hands on hips, occasionally removing our caps to wipe sweat from our brows), the others returned with their orchids, and we all piled into the boat and George decided we could go and catch some snapper.
Around the coast for a few minutes, then we cut inland, up a creek lined with mangroves, darting around corners at what felt like great speed. George had quite obviously motored around here before. It felt like some half-remembered - probably fully-imagined - scene from Miami Vice. After weaving along for maybe quarter of a mile, we slowed down to a crawl, and George's hands shot out to crab mangrove crabs from the branches. When he had about four or five, we stopped and put them on hooks and we were fishin'. Of course, when I say "we" I mean "George." Similarly, when I saw "we" didn't catch anything, I also mean "George" didn't catch anything.
Back on dry land, I had a shower, and sat down on the bed to write what you've just read. I only had a chance to write a couple of paragraphs, though, before I heard Bill's voice outside. Was I there and did I want to come along for another ride to Big Falls? Yeh, alright then.
When we were having a beer by the Rio Grande a couple of days ago, Bill and Robin had talked to the bar owner, and she'd told them of a friend who might also be interested in selling a piece of land, this time with a stretch of the river itself as one of the boundaries. They'd arranged to meet with her friend, and that's what we were doing.
Hey there, reader. How you doing? Thanks for reading this far. You enjoying it so far? You're past the half-way point. Fancy a YouTube break? There's one coming up shortly. Maybe you might wanna nip and put the kettle on ready for that. Anyway, back to the words...
Candelaria was a tiny Mayan woman. (Not sure of the spelling, but that's what it sounded like; candelabra with -ria instead of -bra at the end.) She had a chirpy little voice and a shy smile. As we crossed the bridge over the Rio Grande, she told us that's where he husband was found dead two years ago. Nobody knows what happened, and one of their sons found him. And that's where he was buried, or as she put it, "that's where I planted him."
We picked up her second eldest son Enrique on the way, and we trundled off down one of the better dirt tracks that I've been on. The dirt track turned into a grassy track, and when he reached the brow of a small hill, we parked up and got out and went into the jungle. Candelaria was way beyond what you'd expect from someone showing a potential buyer a piece of land. She narrated the journey like a tour guide. This tree is called that, that tree we use to make this, and she talked a lot about all the work her husband did on the land. And it was so sad when she told us about her daughter: "it's her third birthday this week. But she died."
After a good twenty minutes of trekking, we came to the river. Their land goes from that bend up there, all the way past that bend down there. About 100 metres of river front, I'd say. We all took a break by the water, and then returned to the car. Driving back along the track, Candelaria pointed out a piece of land she owned by the roadside. A friend of hers is living there, but she wanted us to see the house. It was a very simple concrete rectangle with a tin roof and wood shutters. (That was your YouTube link.)
The woman in the house smiled at us, the three white people suddenly stood in her home, as she washed the infant in her lap. The puppy howled at us. The chickens ignored us. And Enrique offered to show us their orange orchard. When we got there, he insisted we try one. Bill got his manly knife out, peeled one, and sliced it in half. And, I dunno if it was the situation, sweaty and hot from a walk in the jungle, or the proud look on Enrique's face when he offered us an orange: but it was the best orange I've ever tasted. My moustache and beard were covered in pulp and juice, as Bill and I gorged on three of them. Back at the house, Enrique offered us a drink. Not a Nescafe or PG Tips, oh no. He went to a tree, twisted off a couple of coconuts and chopped the end off for us so we could drink the water. These people were the best estate agents in the world.
As we left, the woman who was living in the house asked, via Enrique, if we wanted to buy some cherry tomatoes. We did. (And we ate them in a salad later that evening. They were great.) The final stop of the afternoon was Candelaria's own home. A wooden building, thatched roof. She showed Bill and Robin the official papers for the land, and proudly took framed pictures off the wall to show us. He husband, her children. She showed us her eldest son's high school certificate. She and Enrique looked so proud of Domingo for finishing high school, and it kinda made me realise how, in Europe etc., we all take finishing high school for granted. Candelaria had the same pride that British mothers would have getting a degree from Oxford.
Our time with Candelaria and Enrique was over. Robin and Candelaria exchanged phone numbers. Who knows if they will eventually buy the land. It would take a heck of a lot of work to clear even a small portion of the 40 acres to build a house there. But there was a twinkle in their eyes that suggested they were up for such a mammoth project. It'd be too much for me, I think, but then I'm a pussy with soft fingers. Bill's a cattle rancher, though, so you never know.
The place - on the northern outskirts of Punta Gorda, in a village called Cattle Landing - is run by John and Iconie (pronounced "eye Sony"). John is a Canadian expat, who has lived in Belize for 17 years. He visited, went home, then came back, met Iconie - a Belizean - who was pregnant with her third daughter at the time, and they built a life together, raising the girls, and running a guest house and restaurant. One of their four dogs is called Saddam.
I've briefly seen the two elder daughters - late teens or early twenties, at a guess - but the youngest one, Cina (pronounced "keen-a"), helps out in the restaurant in the evening, so I've seen her a couple of times. Sixteen years old, always smiling, clever eyes, and the sort of girl that, one would imagine, has all the boys after her.
There's one other guest at Casa Bonita, a Canadian woman in her early sixties called Pat. She escapes the Canadian winters, it seems, by coming to Punta Gorda. She has that settled-in manner that makes you think that she probably doesn't do much more than sit on the deck, chatting away, smoking her cigarettes and having the odd coffee, juice, or beer. We spent a great deal of time talking about all sorts: Canadian, British, German, and American politics, the joys of the BBC and CBC, Belize, Belizians, music, and how one of her sons would bite her nipples when she was breast-feeding them.
Before dinner, I had a stroll along the sea front. Along the front here, every couple of hundred metres, there's a little thatched palm-leaf shelter. Locals seem to pass the time there. Earlier in the day, as I cycled by, I said hello to a guy sat under the one nearest to Casa Bonita. He shouted hello and asked where I was from. I did a quick circle and stopped and introduced myself. He told me he was Johnny, and he introduced me to the girl he was talking to. He then said, "she's a beautiful Spanish girl, huh?" (she wasn't Spanish Spanish; she, I assume, had Spanish ancestors ages ago). She smiled an embarrassed smile. And it was a pretty smile.
Back to my evening stroll. I saw Johnny there again, and he invited me to sit down with him. Johnny is 49 years old, has a few grey hairs in his dreadlocks, and plenty of tattoos. He told me a lot of things. That he used to be a sinner, a bad man. He spent five years in prison in the US. Now he makes money here and there, and sits by the sea to pray and meditate. He then talked me through all his tattoos: a scorpion to remind himself to beware that people could sting; a spider in its web, because he likes to pull people towards him; the Taurus star-sign; and a thin black rectangle on his wrist which was "a secret." The only tattoo he didn't refer to was the one on his neck: I Love Doreen. I didn't ask.
We chatted for ten minutes or so. A guy on a bicycle pulled up and Johnny told me he'd be back in a couple of minutes. They both rode off behind some trees and Johnny came back, like he'd said, in a couple of minutes. I don't think I need to explain what was going on there, do I? When he returned, he asked me if I'd ever eaten iguana. I told him I hadn't, and he said I should come around to his place the next night 'cause he'd caught two and it was delicious. (I didn't enquire about the taste, 'cause you can almost guarantee that people will always say the same thing when you ask that question about virtually any meat: "a bit like chicken.") In that flustery, English manner, I left my options open on whether I'd take him up on his offer, chatted for a little while longer, and returned to Casa Bonita for chicken pot pie, a few beers, and an early night.
I woke up gradually. Waking to the sound of dogs barking, drifting back to sleep; waking to the sound of a group of men on a morning run; drifting back to sleep; then waking again, and just listening to the waves on the shore. The day was already interesting, and it was only 6.30am. I went on to the deck, had a coffee and a smoke, as the other people in the house passed by, doing their morning things. Pat seemed a tad irked to not be the first person on the deck. Only a tad, but I guess if you're a semi-permanent guest, a newcomer disturbing your morning ritual can be weird. Cina dashed past in her school uniform. Another daughter's face appeared at the screen door and said goodbye. And Iconie asked me if I wanted breakfast. Yes, please.
Ten minutes later, a mountain on a plate was put in front of me; way more than the coffee and cigarette, and perhaps a couple of slices of toast that I'm used to. Fry jacks, scrambled eggs with lumps of spicy sausage, and beans. Fry jacks are a Belizian breakfast thing: kinda like a fried tortilla that's puffy and crispy on the outside. I imagine it's not particularly healthy. I got through as much as I could, though, 'cause I had a jungle morning ahead of me. As I ate breakfast, the sky over the sea, out on the horizon over Honduras, was dark. The water, though, was still a beautiful Caribbean turquoise. Slowly that changed and the sky and water eventually became two shades of grey as the storm got closer. It was a great way to eat breakfast, watching a thunder storm coming towards me. It got closer and closer, pelted the roof for ten minutes, and cleared up, leaving a gorgeous day behind for us.
The morning was to be spent rescuing orchids. Not a tourist activity, just something interesting for Bill and I to do, which would also help Ian out. But Ian, being a big girl's blouse, doesn't particularly enjoying being in a boat on the sea, and that would be the way we'd be getting to where we were going. So Bill and I joined up with Ian's resident orchid experts Mr Shal and Mr Rafael, and we got in George's boat (he of the kayaking and bird-watching adventure a fortnight ago), and we sped off north along the coast. Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up on a teeny-weeny beach, and it was our task to walk along the tracks that marked out the edge of other people's land to look for dead trees that might have orchids. Mr Shal and Mr Rafael went off in one direction; George took Bill and I in another direction. He showed us the small concrete posts that mark the straight lines we'd follow, and he went off to look along another line.
Leaving Bill and I alone to find orchids. Errr, I can't see any. And the ground was quite muddy, with puddles everywhere. Neither of us had shoes that wouldn't get soaked should we step in a puddle. Bill chopped away at the jungle path with a machete. I smoked a fag.
And then I saw one. And then another. There was a big, dead branch that was suspended between another tree and some vines. I got the machete and chopped away at the rotten wood, and the roots and leaves of an orchid came off easily. Bill had a go at the other one with similar success. We'd broken our cherries. After that we were a bit more confident. The bugs and sweat that covered me were no longer an issue: we'd found some orchids, and wanted to find more. Which we did. Probably about ten in total. A decent haul for two total beginners.
After feeling good about ourselves and standing on the beach like real men for a while (one leg on a clump of grass a bit higher than the beach, hands on hips, occasionally removing our caps to wipe sweat from our brows), the others returned with their orchids, and we all piled into the boat and George decided we could go and catch some snapper.
Around the coast for a few minutes, then we cut inland, up a creek lined with mangroves, darting around corners at what felt like great speed. George had quite obviously motored around here before. It felt like some half-remembered - probably fully-imagined - scene from Miami Vice. After weaving along for maybe quarter of a mile, we slowed down to a crawl, and George's hands shot out to crab mangrove crabs from the branches. When he had about four or five, we stopped and put them on hooks and we were fishin'. Of course, when I say "we" I mean "George." Similarly, when I saw "we" didn't catch anything, I also mean "George" didn't catch anything.
Back on dry land, I had a shower, and sat down on the bed to write what you've just read. I only had a chance to write a couple of paragraphs, though, before I heard Bill's voice outside. Was I there and did I want to come along for another ride to Big Falls? Yeh, alright then.
When we were having a beer by the Rio Grande a couple of days ago, Bill and Robin had talked to the bar owner, and she'd told them of a friend who might also be interested in selling a piece of land, this time with a stretch of the river itself as one of the boundaries. They'd arranged to meet with her friend, and that's what we were doing.
Hey there, reader. How you doing? Thanks for reading this far. You enjoying it so far? You're past the half-way point. Fancy a YouTube break? There's one coming up shortly. Maybe you might wanna nip and put the kettle on ready for that. Anyway, back to the words...
Candelaria was a tiny Mayan woman. (Not sure of the spelling, but that's what it sounded like; candelabra with -ria instead of -bra at the end.) She had a chirpy little voice and a shy smile. As we crossed the bridge over the Rio Grande, she told us that's where he husband was found dead two years ago. Nobody knows what happened, and one of their sons found him. And that's where he was buried, or as she put it, "that's where I planted him."
We picked up her second eldest son Enrique on the way, and we trundled off down one of the better dirt tracks that I've been on. The dirt track turned into a grassy track, and when he reached the brow of a small hill, we parked up and got out and went into the jungle. Candelaria was way beyond what you'd expect from someone showing a potential buyer a piece of land. She narrated the journey like a tour guide. This tree is called that, that tree we use to make this, and she talked a lot about all the work her husband did on the land. And it was so sad when she told us about her daughter: "it's her third birthday this week. But she died."
After a good twenty minutes of trekking, we came to the river. Their land goes from that bend up there, all the way past that bend down there. About 100 metres of river front, I'd say. We all took a break by the water, and then returned to the car. Driving back along the track, Candelaria pointed out a piece of land she owned by the roadside. A friend of hers is living there, but she wanted us to see the house. It was a very simple concrete rectangle with a tin roof and wood shutters. (That was your YouTube link.)
The woman in the house smiled at us, the three white people suddenly stood in her home, as she washed the infant in her lap. The puppy howled at us. The chickens ignored us. And Enrique offered to show us their orange orchard. When we got there, he insisted we try one. Bill got his manly knife out, peeled one, and sliced it in half. And, I dunno if it was the situation, sweaty and hot from a walk in the jungle, or the proud look on Enrique's face when he offered us an orange: but it was the best orange I've ever tasted. My moustache and beard were covered in pulp and juice, as Bill and I gorged on three of them. Back at the house, Enrique offered us a drink. Not a Nescafe or PG Tips, oh no. He went to a tree, twisted off a couple of coconuts and chopped the end off for us so we could drink the water. These people were the best estate agents in the world.
As we left, the woman who was living in the house asked, via Enrique, if we wanted to buy some cherry tomatoes. We did. (And we ate them in a salad later that evening. They were great.) The final stop of the afternoon was Candelaria's own home. A wooden building, thatched roof. She showed Bill and Robin the official papers for the land, and proudly took framed pictures off the wall to show us. He husband, her children. She showed us her eldest son's high school certificate. She and Enrique looked so proud of Domingo for finishing high school, and it kinda made me realise how, in Europe etc., we all take finishing high school for granted. Candelaria had the same pride that British mothers would have getting a degree from Oxford.
Our time with Candelaria and Enrique was over. Robin and Candelaria exchanged phone numbers. Who knows if they will eventually buy the land. It would take a heck of a lot of work to clear even a small portion of the 40 acres to build a house there. But there was a twinkle in their eyes that suggested they were up for such a mammoth project. It'd be too much for me, I think, but then I'm a pussy with soft fingers. Bill's a cattle rancher, though, so you never know.
11 February 2008
Kinkajou
Aaaah, it's nice to be back at Hickatee. (I know I've linked to them a couple of times before, but I really do recommend them heartily. Especially if you live in the US, cos it's such a short flight from Miami or Houston; and Punta Gorda - and what I've seen of the whole Toledo district - really is a lovely place to come.)
There's another American couple staying here at the moment. Again, from Northern California. Bill and Robin. They're a fun couple to be around. Mid-fifties. They are looking to buy somewhere around here, and, within an hour of my arrival, had invited me along for the ride to go and see a piece of land in a village called Big Falls.
We all piled into the pick-up and set off. Bill's a cattle farmer, owns a ranch. I've never heard the word "acres" so much in one day. He has a very nice lilt to his voice; puts me in mind of Bob Ross. I like how they use each other's names all the time when they talk to each other: "Would you look at that, Robin?" "Isn't that something, Bill?" And when Bill wants to say something is broken or finished he uses the phrase "ready to take a shit." For example, he lost his glasses in the jungle and said, "It doesn't matter, they were ready to take a shit anyway."
We took a few coconuts from a tree 'cause nobody lives there so they'd have just gone to waste, and we drove into the main part of Big Falls. I say "main part" but really it just seems to be a few houses on either side of the highway near the Rio Grande crossing. We stopped next to the river and had a couple of beers at the bar (a simple place: concrete floor, wood railings, thatched palm roof) and chatted with four cute-as-can-be Mayan girls who came along when they saw the gringos and asked if we wanted to buy any arts & crafts. They stood around, just smiling at us, asked our names, and then asked for money.
Back in Punta Gorda, and we went with a couple of other guests and Ian (the co-owner of Hickatee) to Mangrove Inn. You may recall that this is the place with excellent food where you walk through their living room to get to the terrace dining area.
The guy who lives there, John, warned us that his pet kinkajou wasn't in the house, so if we saw him, to let him know. Kinky Jew? No, Craig, "kinkajou." A couple of minutes after we all sat down, the kinkajou appeared. Kinkajous are part of the same family as raccoons. But they're a lot cuter. He seemed nice and inquisitive and, cautiously putting a paw on my shoulder and sniffed my armpit. He then went over and put his paws on Robin's shoulder and sniffed at her hair. Over he went to Bill and licked at his beard.
He then came back to me. Seeing he was a friendly little thing, I leant back and he sat on my lap and had a good sniff of my groin before climbing up my chest to sniff and lick my beard. I started to try and put my hand on his back and - in that super slow-motion you get, like when you see a car accident - he hissed and his head reared back and then: aaaaaaaarrrgh! His two big fangs are plunged deep into my cheek. My glasses go flying and he gets in a couple more vicious bites.
Blood is pissing in rivulets through my beard. John and his daughter whisk me off to the bathroom with a bowl of ice cubes and load of serviettes. I've never seen someone as apologetic as John at that moment. He over-apologised in that way that people do; rephrasing the same set of words to emphasise again and again that they are so very sorry. Dinner was on the house.
When the worst of the bleeding stopped, I went back to the table, found my battered specs (which have been held together with super glue for the past few weeks, anyway), and the conversation went into that weird lull that happens when something unexpected has occurred. Lots of concern for my well-being, lots of re-telling of the event from all angles; there was in fact, a shot heard from the grassy knoll.
Thankfully, with the kinkajou being a pet, I don't need to get any shots, John reassured me emphatically; and anyway, I'd had a rabies shot before I left Berlin, so there's no need to worry, Mum.
I spent the rest of the evening with my glasses resting forlornly on the table. It's very rare that I'm without my specs. The world closes in around me. I can only see about seven or eight inches of clarity without them. And when I'm in that bubble, I tend to quieten down. I think my quietness dampened the spirits around the table a touch, which was a shame as it was - kinkajou attack aside - a nice evening.
But, apart from a few red marks and a bit of bruising, I'm fine, and because of the last-minuteness of my return to Punta Gorda, there's no free rooms for me here at Hickatee for the next five nights, so, I'll be getting back on the bicycle, and staying in one of the guest rooms back at Mangrove Inn. And I'll be keeping a watchful eye on the bloody kinkajou.
There's another American couple staying here at the moment. Again, from Northern California. Bill and Robin. They're a fun couple to be around. Mid-fifties. They are looking to buy somewhere around here, and, within an hour of my arrival, had invited me along for the ride to go and see a piece of land in a village called Big Falls.
We all piled into the pick-up and set off. Bill's a cattle farmer, owns a ranch. I've never heard the word "acres" so much in one day. He has a very nice lilt to his voice; puts me in mind of Bob Ross. I like how they use each other's names all the time when they talk to each other: "Would you look at that, Robin?" "Isn't that something, Bill?" And when Bill wants to say something is broken or finished he uses the phrase "ready to take a shit." For example, he lost his glasses in the jungle and said, "It doesn't matter, they were ready to take a shit anyway."
We took a few coconuts from a tree 'cause nobody lives there so they'd have just gone to waste, and we drove into the main part of Big Falls. I say "main part" but really it just seems to be a few houses on either side of the highway near the Rio Grande crossing. We stopped next to the river and had a couple of beers at the bar (a simple place: concrete floor, wood railings, thatched palm roof) and chatted with four cute-as-can-be Mayan girls who came along when they saw the gringos and asked if we wanted to buy any arts & crafts. They stood around, just smiling at us, asked our names, and then asked for money.
Back in Punta Gorda, and we went with a couple of other guests and Ian (the co-owner of Hickatee) to Mangrove Inn. You may recall that this is the place with excellent food where you walk through their living room to get to the terrace dining area.
The guy who lives there, John, warned us that his pet kinkajou wasn't in the house, so if we saw him, to let him know. Kinky Jew? No, Craig, "kinkajou." A couple of minutes after we all sat down, the kinkajou appeared. Kinkajous are part of the same family as raccoons. But they're a lot cuter. He seemed nice and inquisitive and, cautiously putting a paw on my shoulder and sniffed my armpit. He then went over and put his paws on Robin's shoulder and sniffed at her hair. Over he went to Bill and licked at his beard.
He then came back to me. Seeing he was a friendly little thing, I leant back and he sat on my lap and had a good sniff of my groin before climbing up my chest to sniff and lick my beard. I started to try and put my hand on his back and - in that super slow-motion you get, like when you see a car accident - he hissed and his head reared back and then: aaaaaaaarrrgh! His two big fangs are plunged deep into my cheek. My glasses go flying and he gets in a couple more vicious bites.
Blood is pissing in rivulets through my beard. John and his daughter whisk me off to the bathroom with a bowl of ice cubes and load of serviettes. I've never seen someone as apologetic as John at that moment. He over-apologised in that way that people do; rephrasing the same set of words to emphasise again and again that they are so very sorry. Dinner was on the house.
When the worst of the bleeding stopped, I went back to the table, found my battered specs (which have been held together with super glue for the past few weeks, anyway), and the conversation went into that weird lull that happens when something unexpected has occurred. Lots of concern for my well-being, lots of re-telling of the event from all angles; there was in fact, a shot heard from the grassy knoll.
Thankfully, with the kinkajou being a pet, I don't need to get any shots, John reassured me emphatically; and anyway, I'd had a rabies shot before I left Berlin, so there's no need to worry, Mum.
I spent the rest of the evening with my glasses resting forlornly on the table. It's very rare that I'm without my specs. The world closes in around me. I can only see about seven or eight inches of clarity without them. And when I'm in that bubble, I tend to quieten down. I think my quietness dampened the spirits around the table a touch, which was a shame as it was - kinkajou attack aside - a nice evening.
But, apart from a few red marks and a bit of bruising, I'm fine, and because of the last-minuteness of my return to Punta Gorda, there's no free rooms for me here at Hickatee for the next five nights, so, I'll be getting back on the bicycle, and staying in one of the guest rooms back at Mangrove Inn. And I'll be keeping a watchful eye on the bloody kinkajou.
A step back
Part of me is disappointed with myself for doing it, but I flew back to Punta Gorda this morning. I was a bit paranoid about the whole yellow fever stuff; too paranoid to explore other parts of Panama, and I wasn't particularly enjoying Panama City. So, because I can't fly to São Paulo until the 18th, I decided to come back here. It was way too tempting to resist. It's good to be back.
09 February 2008
Tolls
The average toll for using the Panama Canal is, apparently, US$54,000. I like to think they have to pay in cash like on toll-roads.
Jesus Bueller
Over the past few weeks, in Mexico, Belize, and Panama, I've noticed one overarching theme: they all love that Jesus.
And whenever I see a big church, a crucifix hanging from the rear-view mirror of a taxi, or someone crossing themselves, the same thing always pops into my head: what Grace says to Ed Rooney about Ferris Bueller:
And whenever I see a big church, a crucifix hanging from the rear-view mirror of a taxi, or someone crossing themselves, the same thing always pops into my head: what Grace says to Ed Rooney about Ferris Bueller:
Oh, he's very popular, Ed. The sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, waistoids, dweebies, dickheads - they all adore him. They think he's a righteous dude.
08 February 2008
To the canal
I slept like a log last night, and things seemed better this morning. But, as often happens at times like this, it doesn't take much to knock my mood back down again. The atrocious service in the hotel's restaurant was one thing, but their "continental breakfast" was something else all together.
Which continent has two shiny bread rolls, a mini-tub of butter and apple jam as its breakfast? (Names like "continental breakfast" make me chuckle, though. How very British it seems to decide that a croissant with jam represents the whole of that continent which we seem to begrudgingly be on the edge of. See also Swiss roll, Turkish delight, French stick [can't be arsed to pronounce "baguette"], continental quilt [in the pre-"duvet" days], Danish pastry, Spanish omelette, etc.)
I was determined to enjoy myself, though, so I got out on the street, looking for a cab. Here, they seem to honk their horns at people who are walking along the street to see if you want to hire them, or maybe it's just the sunburnt tourists they do it to, I dunno. I signalled that I wanted the cab and he stopped. There was already a passenger in the back. This seems to happen quite a lot; taxis stopping to pick up people who might be going in a similar direction. I told him I wanted to go to Miraflores Locks, and he said something and waved his hands like, "I've gotta take this lady where she's going first."
The new leitmotif of my time in Panama is the dishing out of Tic Tacs in cars. Everyone, aside from Marie, wants one. I've done it in three cars so far, and they're always a hit and I'm rewarded with smiles. Smiles are good. We drop off the lady and speed along the motorway to the Miraflores Locks of the Panama Canal.
(Backtracking a bit, and going off on a tangent: what the hell is it about hot countries and people honking their car horns? I mean, I know it happens in Britain and Germany; but here, in Belize, Mexico, Turkey, Greece... they're all at it!)
So, the Panama Canal. I must admit, even though I'd not planned to come to Panama at all on this trip, the Canal is one of the things in the world that I've wanted to see but thought I'd probably never get around to. I paid the eight dollars, watched the ten minute introduction film and went up to the fourth floor viewing platform. Just as I got up there, there was a big Korean ship laden with huge wind turbines entering the locks. A voice kept coming over the public address system giving us a commentary, in Spanish and English, all about locks, the canal, and the ship itself. Apparently, it was a Panamax ship; a ship that is the maximum size it can can be to still get through the Panama Canal.
It inched its way into the first lock, and the locks did what locks do, just on a fairly grand scale. The whole process seemed to take about half an hour or so. Then the ship slinks along into the Miraflores Lake, through the next set of locks and then across the country to the corresponding set of locks on the Atlantic side.
After a brief look around the canal exhibit, I left to go and find a cab back into town. A bunch of men were waiting outside the visitor centre, all shouting "¿Taxi? ¿Taxi?" Like the one strong sperm that fuses with the egg, Elvio was the guy who got me into his cab. Nice guy. We stumbled through in broken Spanish and English. He pointed out this big hill, Cerro Ancón - one that I'd seen from the sea front near the hotel - where you had a good view of the whole city, so he asked if I wanted to go up there. I said I did, and it was pretty cool at the top.
Especially the chap and his kids who, seeing my Yankees cap, smiled and said "New York! New York!" I don't have the Spanish skills to say, "Well, actually, gentlemen, I'm from Lincoln in England; live in Berlin, Germany; but my preferred baseball team is, yes, the New York Yankees." So I said "Sí!" instead. They watched me taking photos, and one of the kids indicated that I should take a photo of them. So I did. I showed them the result, they seemed happy, so I present it to you here.
I'm quickly coming to realise that this travelling lark isn't at all about seeing canals, museums, or howler monkeys: it's about other people. I've not been doing this long, but I've had so many beautiful moments with strangers. It really is excellent to not know who you'll pass some time with next, but know that you inevitably will.
So, Elvio points out buildings in the distance for me, going way beyond being a taxi driver. Still, the cynical Brit in me was a tad suspicious of how this was all going to end. With my wallet a lot lighter was my suspicion. But, I'd never have bothered going up that hill had he not suggested it, so I was happy he had.
Back in the cab and he takes me where I'd originally asked to go: Casco Viejo, the old part of town I briefly visited the other day. I wanted to have a better look around. We pulled up outside a church, and he suggested I have a look around, and he'd take me further. Fearing the enormo-cab fare, though, I thanked him and told him I wanted to walk around and, bracing myself, asked "¿Quanto es?" Just twenty dollars. You'd pay more than that to go a few miles across London.
A walk around, a spot of lunch, a bit of rain. I passed the presidential palace, where there are armed guards and herons(!) patrolling the entrance. I tried to ask one of the security guards who checked through my bag as I came close the palace if the president actually lived there, or whether it was just an old ceremonial thing. He didn't understand, and I couldn't say it in Spanish. So he just asked where I was from. I told him England, and his colleague said, "Manchester? Chelsea?" I told him "Liverpool!" and did a rather dumb double thumbs-up move. (Boring football stuff: it does amaze me a little bit how quickly Chelsea have "penetrated" the global market. Apart from the Mancs' shirts, I've seen more Chelsea shirts than any other English team's shirts. Although, rather oddly, I did see a builder today in an Aston Villa shirt.)
I ambled back towards the hotel, through some sort of port area. Filthy. Stinking of fish, oil, diesel, stagnant puddles, dead birds, and piles of garbage. The only smell that wasn't entirely offensive was the perfume of the prostitutes; though I doubt I'll be being that particular brand for my Mum's birthday.
I mentioned yesterday that a lot of manhole covers seem to be missing here. Coincidentally, that observation and the glum feeling I've had about my last few days collided, when I saw this one.
I noticed something move inside the hole. It wasn't a rat (and fuck me, they've got some big rats here; it's no exaggeration to say I've seen a couple that were as big as cats). It was a man's legs. Moving around, as if shifting in sleep, on top of a piece of cardboard inside the two foot high area beneath the hole's entrance. I was walking past, taking a photograph with my Pentax, wearing my Nike trainers, Levi's jeans, Lacoste shirt, and New Era cap. He was trying to sleep in a stinky, dirty hole used for I-don't-know-what. Feeling sorry for myself about "having to" postpone my flight to Brazil. Yep, now I feel like a shit.
I don't mean that in the "I need a poo" sense, you understand. Although, come to think of it...
Which continent has two shiny bread rolls, a mini-tub of butter and apple jam as its breakfast? (Names like "continental breakfast" make me chuckle, though. How very British it seems to decide that a croissant with jam represents the whole of that continent which we seem to begrudgingly be on the edge of. See also Swiss roll, Turkish delight, French stick [can't be arsed to pronounce "baguette"], continental quilt [in the pre-"duvet" days], Danish pastry, Spanish omelette, etc.)
I was determined to enjoy myself, though, so I got out on the street, looking for a cab. Here, they seem to honk their horns at people who are walking along the street to see if you want to hire them, or maybe it's just the sunburnt tourists they do it to, I dunno. I signalled that I wanted the cab and he stopped. There was already a passenger in the back. This seems to happen quite a lot; taxis stopping to pick up people who might be going in a similar direction. I told him I wanted to go to Miraflores Locks, and he said something and waved his hands like, "I've gotta take this lady where she's going first."
The new leitmotif of my time in Panama is the dishing out of Tic Tacs in cars. Everyone, aside from Marie, wants one. I've done it in three cars so far, and they're always a hit and I'm rewarded with smiles. Smiles are good. We drop off the lady and speed along the motorway to the Miraflores Locks of the Panama Canal.
(Backtracking a bit, and going off on a tangent: what the hell is it about hot countries and people honking their car horns? I mean, I know it happens in Britain and Germany; but here, in Belize, Mexico, Turkey, Greece... they're all at it!)
So, the Panama Canal. I must admit, even though I'd not planned to come to Panama at all on this trip, the Canal is one of the things in the world that I've wanted to see but thought I'd probably never get around to. I paid the eight dollars, watched the ten minute introduction film and went up to the fourth floor viewing platform. Just as I got up there, there was a big Korean ship laden with huge wind turbines entering the locks. A voice kept coming over the public address system giving us a commentary, in Spanish and English, all about locks, the canal, and the ship itself. Apparently, it was a Panamax ship; a ship that is the maximum size it can can be to still get through the Panama Canal.
It inched its way into the first lock, and the locks did what locks do, just on a fairly grand scale. The whole process seemed to take about half an hour or so. Then the ship slinks along into the Miraflores Lake, through the next set of locks and then across the country to the corresponding set of locks on the Atlantic side.
After a brief look around the canal exhibit, I left to go and find a cab back into town. A bunch of men were waiting outside the visitor centre, all shouting "¿Taxi? ¿Taxi?" Like the one strong sperm that fuses with the egg, Elvio was the guy who got me into his cab. Nice guy. We stumbled through in broken Spanish and English. He pointed out this big hill, Cerro Ancón - one that I'd seen from the sea front near the hotel - where you had a good view of the whole city, so he asked if I wanted to go up there. I said I did, and it was pretty cool at the top.
Especially the chap and his kids who, seeing my Yankees cap, smiled and said "New York! New York!" I don't have the Spanish skills to say, "Well, actually, gentlemen, I'm from Lincoln in England; live in Berlin, Germany; but my preferred baseball team is, yes, the New York Yankees." So I said "Sí!" instead. They watched me taking photos, and one of the kids indicated that I should take a photo of them. So I did. I showed them the result, they seemed happy, so I present it to you here.
I'm quickly coming to realise that this travelling lark isn't at all about seeing canals, museums, or howler monkeys: it's about other people. I've not been doing this long, but I've had so many beautiful moments with strangers. It really is excellent to not know who you'll pass some time with next, but know that you inevitably will.
So, Elvio points out buildings in the distance for me, going way beyond being a taxi driver. Still, the cynical Brit in me was a tad suspicious of how this was all going to end. With my wallet a lot lighter was my suspicion. But, I'd never have bothered going up that hill had he not suggested it, so I was happy he had.
Back in the cab and he takes me where I'd originally asked to go: Casco Viejo, the old part of town I briefly visited the other day. I wanted to have a better look around. We pulled up outside a church, and he suggested I have a look around, and he'd take me further. Fearing the enormo-cab fare, though, I thanked him and told him I wanted to walk around and, bracing myself, asked "¿Quanto es?" Just twenty dollars. You'd pay more than that to go a few miles across London.
A walk around, a spot of lunch, a bit of rain. I passed the presidential palace, where there are armed guards and herons(!) patrolling the entrance. I tried to ask one of the security guards who checked through my bag as I came close the palace if the president actually lived there, or whether it was just an old ceremonial thing. He didn't understand, and I couldn't say it in Spanish. So he just asked where I was from. I told him England, and his colleague said, "Manchester? Chelsea?" I told him "Liverpool!" and did a rather dumb double thumbs-up move. (Boring football stuff: it does amaze me a little bit how quickly Chelsea have "penetrated" the global market. Apart from the Mancs' shirts, I've seen more Chelsea shirts than any other English team's shirts. Although, rather oddly, I did see a builder today in an Aston Villa shirt.)
I ambled back towards the hotel, through some sort of port area. Filthy. Stinking of fish, oil, diesel, stagnant puddles, dead birds, and piles of garbage. The only smell that wasn't entirely offensive was the perfume of the prostitutes; though I doubt I'll be being that particular brand for my Mum's birthday.
I mentioned yesterday that a lot of manhole covers seem to be missing here. Coincidentally, that observation and the glum feeling I've had about my last few days collided, when I saw this one.
I noticed something move inside the hole. It wasn't a rat (and fuck me, they've got some big rats here; it's no exaggeration to say I've seen a couple that were as big as cats). It was a man's legs. Moving around, as if shifting in sleep, on top of a piece of cardboard inside the two foot high area beneath the hole's entrance. I was walking past, taking a photograph with my Pentax, wearing my Nike trainers, Levi's jeans, Lacoste shirt, and New Era cap. He was trying to sleep in a stinky, dirty hole used for I-don't-know-what. Feeling sorry for myself about "having to" postpone my flight to Brazil. Yep, now I feel like a shit.
I don't mean that in the "I need a poo" sense, you understand. Although, come to think of it...
07 February 2008
A tough day
I learnt a lot today. Simple things, really. I learnt that in Panama City, manhole covers are optional at best. I learnt that Hollywood's continuing portrayal of Latino men as shady characters isn't always true. I learnt that FC Barcelona are by far the most popular football team in Panama City if replica shirts are anything to go by (Real Madrid, Boca Juniors, and, sadly, the Mancs are fairly popular, too.) And I learnt that you really can't beat the smile of someone who is happy to have helped you.
Yesterday, something dawned on me. When I was talking to the Australian couple, they told me they'd been forced to spend a bit of extra time in Panama waiting to get their visas for Brazil sorted. A cricket ball dropped in my stomach, and when I got back to the hotel, I frantically checked the Brazilian Embassy's website. Phew! Brits don't need one. But what Brits do need is a certificate saying they've had a yellow fever vaccine. Fuck.
Stupid, stupid, so very fucking stupidly, when I was getting my shots, I'd not considered the possibility that my travel plans might deviate from the simple Mexico City/São Paulo/Montevideo/Buenos Aires plan, and take me into places where yellow fever is "endemic," which it is - apparently - in Panama.
Bugger bastard shit wank.
So this morning, I went off to find the British Embassy. Jolly good it was to be in there, too. Felt right at home. Nice cup of tea, some biscuits, and a quick game of croquet before having some Pimms by the pool. Not really. It was like being in any office on the fourth floor of a big tower, except with a bit more security. The very helpful lady there gave me the address of a place to get a vaccine, and reassured me that, as long as I don't go into the rural, exceedingly humid areas of Panama, I'll be safe from yellow fever here.
Back at the hotel for a couple of hours to wait for the clinic to open. I asked at reception if they could call a taxi for me. She lifted up a couple of pieces of paper, as if to pretend to be looking for something, and then with what could be the world's most bored look on her face, said "No, I don't have a taxi number." For fuck's sake, woman, this is a fucking hotel! How the fuck can you not have at least one taxi company's phone number!?
Being forced to ignore the general advice for travellers in this part of the world (call for a taxi, don't just grab one off the street), I grabbed one off the street. Hollywood Latino Badguy was the driver and started blathering on, and I kinda got worried that he might not be taking me where I needed to go. But, of course, he did take me where I needed to go. He did fleece me on the fare, though, claiming to have no change for a $20 bill, more or less getting a 50% tip.
The place where he'd dropped me was the place where the people of Panama City come to get their jabs. It seems a fairly efficiently run place. Go to the cash desk in one building. Five dollars, please. Go over to the other building, where they write your name on a yellow piece of card. Take that piece of card to a nurse, she stamps it, and sticks a needle in your arm.
She needed to tell me something, though. Aaah, problemo. No hablo español. She keeps saying "No marisco, no marisco." Sorry, luv, I don't understand what marisco is, but look, I have a dictionary, perhaps you can look it up. Now, I don't speak Spanish, but I do know that when I hear a word like marisco, the best place to look for that word is in the M section of the dictionary. She opened up, flipped to H, and started going towards the front of the dictionary, past G, F, E...
At that point, a guy knocked on the door. I'd noticed him in the queue behind me at the cashier place. When I say I noticed him, what I mean is that I noticed the girl he was with. Early-twenties, quite slutty-looking, teetering on stilettos, huge fake breasts barely staying inside her dress. The nurse asked the guy if he spoke English. Yes! He did! Result. He told me not to eat any seafood (marisco) or drink alcohol until Sunday. And if I get headaches, not to worry, it's just a side-effect of the vaccine. He smiled at me. The nurse smiled at me. The girl smiled at me in that way that says, "I know you were looking at my tits."
Back outside, and there again is the man who was enthusiastically waving me to my destination at each stage of the money-paper-injection transaction. He was a middle-aged guy in a filthy t-shirt, moving around like Manuel off "Fawlty Towers." I gave him a couple of dollars and a cigarette and he told me where to stand for a taxi.
The deal here seems to be, you wait until someone arriving in a taxi gets out. I was in for a long wait. No traffic along the street whatsoever. Then Mr. English-speaker and Tits pull up in their fancy, big, white-with-blacked-out-windows car. The passenger side window descends, and Mr. English-speaker turns, says something to Tits, then smiles at me and says, "You need a ride?"
I jump in the car, introduce myself, he tells me he is Roberto, and I turn and smile at the girl in the back, she smiles, and I tell them which area I need to go to, and we're off. My mouth tasted like a baboon's arse, so I got my Tic-Tacs out, took one, and offered them to Roberto. He took one. I indicated to pass them to the girl. He asked Marie if she wants one. I understood her reply; she didn't want one because it contained sugar. One point nine calories, woman, one point nine! You're still gonna get adoring looks on the beach in Rio if you eat one Tic-Tac, luv. I didn't say that, of course.
By this point, it's quite clear by the way that she talks to Roberto, and the way the back seat is strewn with all of her belongings, that Roberto is her driver. Is she rich? Is she famous? I don't know. But, she was civil to me, Roberto was friendly, and they dropped me off right outside my hotel, which was exceptionally nice of them. I wished him a good day, her a good time in Rio, and came up to my room to swear loudly at myself in the mirror.
Why why why didn't I get a fucking yellow fever jab in Berlin? Why? The notes on the embassy website say it must be taken at least ten days prior to arrival in Brazil. My flight leaves in four days. All of the entries in the log book back at the clinic, I noticed, were for people travelling to Brazil, so they must be pretty strict about it. And even though my friend there seems to think I'd be okay to risk it, I'm not brave enough to arrive at São Paulo airport and be swiftly turned away.
So I check the details of my booking on Expedia, and send them an email. It seems that, for a fee, they could change my flight, but I'd still have to contact the airline to confirm it. I remembered that down the road is a Copa Airlines office, which I passed yesterday. So rather than replying to Expedia's email, I went for a walk.
Now, the Internet is great. The Internet has been very good to me. I wouldn't be on this trip had the Internet not allowed me to publish my work for you folks and clients to see. It gave me a way out of the music industry just at the right time, and I look at my good friends back in London who still have fingers in that pool, and fear for what they will do when the inevitable happens and they all get fired 'cause no-one at the big record companies has worked out how to make money via the Internet.
And, of course, the Internet has made this trip so much easier. Log on, find a flight, book it, and you're off. Problems can be solved relatively easily. And, without wishing to get all sentimental on you, doing this web log has made me enjoy the trip a lot more. It's lovely to read your comments and emails. God knows that if it was someone else, I'd be reading all this thinking, "Flash fucker, swanning around Latin America..." It allows me to stay in touch with my friends and family, too. (And my Mum has told me that she's started reading the blog; which worries me a touch, 'cause I really shouldn't be using words like "tits" and "slutty" and "cunt" in her presence. Sorry, Mum.)
My point, though, is this: no matter how essential the Internet is to me, it can't actually smile back at you. It can try, like this : ) but it can't do it with the eyes. When I went in to the Copa Airlines office and, with the weight of the last few days dragging my face down, asked how much it would cost to postpone my flight for a week, the woman behind the desk looked at me and said, "Nothing."
I was shocked. That didn't seem right. She asked when I wanted to change it to. I told her from the 11th to the 18th of February. She printed off a ticket, saw the almost tearfully happy look on my face and beamed at me. Fucking hell, that was truly one of the most magnificent things that could've happened at that moment. I was so unbelievably happy. It was a tiny matter, and I wasn't expecting to have to pay too much, but it was just that one potential hassle had gone so smoothly, so much better than I'd expected. I had a lump in my throat.
It's been an exhausting day, mentally. I haven't the will to go and explore Panama City this evening. I'm just gonna sit down, enjoy the wifi, and email some friends back home. I miss them.
Yesterday, something dawned on me. When I was talking to the Australian couple, they told me they'd been forced to spend a bit of extra time in Panama waiting to get their visas for Brazil sorted. A cricket ball dropped in my stomach, and when I got back to the hotel, I frantically checked the Brazilian Embassy's website. Phew! Brits don't need one. But what Brits do need is a certificate saying they've had a yellow fever vaccine. Fuck.
Stupid, stupid, so very fucking stupidly, when I was getting my shots, I'd not considered the possibility that my travel plans might deviate from the simple Mexico City/São Paulo/Montevideo/Buenos Aires plan, and take me into places where yellow fever is "endemic," which it is - apparently - in Panama.
Bugger bastard shit wank.
So this morning, I went off to find the British Embassy. Jolly good it was to be in there, too. Felt right at home. Nice cup of tea, some biscuits, and a quick game of croquet before having some Pimms by the pool. Not really. It was like being in any office on the fourth floor of a big tower, except with a bit more security. The very helpful lady there gave me the address of a place to get a vaccine, and reassured me that, as long as I don't go into the rural, exceedingly humid areas of Panama, I'll be safe from yellow fever here.
Back at the hotel for a couple of hours to wait for the clinic to open. I asked at reception if they could call a taxi for me. She lifted up a couple of pieces of paper, as if to pretend to be looking for something, and then with what could be the world's most bored look on her face, said "No, I don't have a taxi number." For fuck's sake, woman, this is a fucking hotel! How the fuck can you not have at least one taxi company's phone number!?
Being forced to ignore the general advice for travellers in this part of the world (call for a taxi, don't just grab one off the street), I grabbed one off the street. Hollywood Latino Badguy was the driver and started blathering on, and I kinda got worried that he might not be taking me where I needed to go. But, of course, he did take me where I needed to go. He did fleece me on the fare, though, claiming to have no change for a $20 bill, more or less getting a 50% tip.
The place where he'd dropped me was the place where the people of Panama City come to get their jabs. It seems a fairly efficiently run place. Go to the cash desk in one building. Five dollars, please. Go over to the other building, where they write your name on a yellow piece of card. Take that piece of card to a nurse, she stamps it, and sticks a needle in your arm.
She needed to tell me something, though. Aaah, problemo. No hablo español. She keeps saying "No marisco, no marisco." Sorry, luv, I don't understand what marisco is, but look, I have a dictionary, perhaps you can look it up. Now, I don't speak Spanish, but I do know that when I hear a word like marisco, the best place to look for that word is in the M section of the dictionary. She opened up, flipped to H, and started going towards the front of the dictionary, past G, F, E...
At that point, a guy knocked on the door. I'd noticed him in the queue behind me at the cashier place. When I say I noticed him, what I mean is that I noticed the girl he was with. Early-twenties, quite slutty-looking, teetering on stilettos, huge fake breasts barely staying inside her dress. The nurse asked the guy if he spoke English. Yes! He did! Result. He told me not to eat any seafood (marisco) or drink alcohol until Sunday. And if I get headaches, not to worry, it's just a side-effect of the vaccine. He smiled at me. The nurse smiled at me. The girl smiled at me in that way that says, "I know you were looking at my tits."
Back outside, and there again is the man who was enthusiastically waving me to my destination at each stage of the money-paper-injection transaction. He was a middle-aged guy in a filthy t-shirt, moving around like Manuel off "Fawlty Towers." I gave him a couple of dollars and a cigarette and he told me where to stand for a taxi.
The deal here seems to be, you wait until someone arriving in a taxi gets out. I was in for a long wait. No traffic along the street whatsoever. Then Mr. English-speaker and Tits pull up in their fancy, big, white-with-blacked-out-windows car. The passenger side window descends, and Mr. English-speaker turns, says something to Tits, then smiles at me and says, "You need a ride?"
I jump in the car, introduce myself, he tells me he is Roberto, and I turn and smile at the girl in the back, she smiles, and I tell them which area I need to go to, and we're off. My mouth tasted like a baboon's arse, so I got my Tic-Tacs out, took one, and offered them to Roberto. He took one. I indicated to pass them to the girl. He asked Marie if she wants one. I understood her reply; she didn't want one because it contained sugar. One point nine calories, woman, one point nine! You're still gonna get adoring looks on the beach in Rio if you eat one Tic-Tac, luv. I didn't say that, of course.
By this point, it's quite clear by the way that she talks to Roberto, and the way the back seat is strewn with all of her belongings, that Roberto is her driver. Is she rich? Is she famous? I don't know. But, she was civil to me, Roberto was friendly, and they dropped me off right outside my hotel, which was exceptionally nice of them. I wished him a good day, her a good time in Rio, and came up to my room to swear loudly at myself in the mirror.
Why why why didn't I get a fucking yellow fever jab in Berlin? Why? The notes on the embassy website say it must be taken at least ten days prior to arrival in Brazil. My flight leaves in four days. All of the entries in the log book back at the clinic, I noticed, were for people travelling to Brazil, so they must be pretty strict about it. And even though my friend there seems to think I'd be okay to risk it, I'm not brave enough to arrive at São Paulo airport and be swiftly turned away.
So I check the details of my booking on Expedia, and send them an email. It seems that, for a fee, they could change my flight, but I'd still have to contact the airline to confirm it. I remembered that down the road is a Copa Airlines office, which I passed yesterday. So rather than replying to Expedia's email, I went for a walk.
Now, the Internet is great. The Internet has been very good to me. I wouldn't be on this trip had the Internet not allowed me to publish my work for you folks and clients to see. It gave me a way out of the music industry just at the right time, and I look at my good friends back in London who still have fingers in that pool, and fear for what they will do when the inevitable happens and they all get fired 'cause no-one at the big record companies has worked out how to make money via the Internet.
And, of course, the Internet has made this trip so much easier. Log on, find a flight, book it, and you're off. Problems can be solved relatively easily. And, without wishing to get all sentimental on you, doing this web log has made me enjoy the trip a lot more. It's lovely to read your comments and emails. God knows that if it was someone else, I'd be reading all this thinking, "Flash fucker, swanning around Latin America..." It allows me to stay in touch with my friends and family, too. (And my Mum has told me that she's started reading the blog; which worries me a touch, 'cause I really shouldn't be using words like "tits" and "slutty" and "cunt" in her presence. Sorry, Mum.)
My point, though, is this: no matter how essential the Internet is to me, it can't actually smile back at you. It can try, like this : ) but it can't do it with the eyes. When I went in to the Copa Airlines office and, with the weight of the last few days dragging my face down, asked how much it would cost to postpone my flight for a week, the woman behind the desk looked at me and said, "Nothing."
I was shocked. That didn't seem right. She asked when I wanted to change it to. I told her from the 11th to the 18th of February. She printed off a ticket, saw the almost tearfully happy look on my face and beamed at me. Fucking hell, that was truly one of the most magnificent things that could've happened at that moment. I was so unbelievably happy. It was a tiny matter, and I wasn't expecting to have to pay too much, but it was just that one potential hassle had gone so smoothly, so much better than I'd expected. I had a lump in my throat.
It's been an exhausting day, mentally. I haven't the will to go and explore Panama City this evening. I'm just gonna sit down, enjoy the wifi, and email some friends back home. I miss them.
Schaufensterpuppe
Well, I've never seen a mannequin with boobs like this before.
I guess this post wouldn't be complete without embedding this video:
I guess this post wouldn't be complete without embedding this video:
Cinnamon
I had my first cup of coffee since Tuesday morning today. This, in dog years, in bloody ages for me. But it was ruined - ruined! - because the lady who made my cappuccino put cinnamon on top. I loathe cinnamon. Dust of the devil. But I feel so very alone with my loathing. I surely can't be the only person who hates cinnamon, but everyone who I've ever mentioned it to smacks their lips in a mmm-mmmm, it's lovely manner. Help me! Anyone else share my disliking of cinnamon?
06 February 2008
Bit of a washout
So, Panama City. The things I knew about this place before I arrived can be counted on one hand: There's a canal; it's where John Darwin was hanging out for a while; it's where Mo comes from; and I knew about Noriega. (You really would think I'd know more about these places, considering I wrote an atlas, wouldn't you?)
Obviously, I'm here now, and it's a steep learning curve. I went to the hotel reception at lunch time, asked if they had any sort of map of the town, and, err, sorry, no. So I just walked the two blocks towards the ocean. It seems like in the immediate area around the hotel there's a [collective noun] of hospitals and clinics. Helpfully, and somewhat ominously, there's also a bunch of funeral parlours. And I walked past several people with obvious mental illnesses. It was quite a sad sight.
At the waterfront - where I'm seeing the Pacific Ocean for the very first time - there's just a bunch of black rocks, some black birds, a fair amount of garbage, and several gazillion litres of murky water. To one side it looks all modern and skyscraper-y; to the other all old and colonial Spanish-y. I choose to go in the direction of the old stuff. Shortly after that, I saw a white-skinned couple who were rather obviously tourists: taking photos, and a Lonely Planet guide in hand. Keith and Claire were from Adelaide, and seemed only too happy to chat in English for a while. I walked with them past the rather grubby dock area, and wandered around the virtually deserted fancy old bit.
I couldn't find an ATM, so I left the Australians to get on with their sight-seeing, and because I only had $8 in my pocket, I couldn't risk getting a taxi. So I had to walk all the way back alone the sea front road and on and on to where all the skyscrapers were. By this time, I'd eaten virtually nothing for 24 hours, and despite still feeling a bit grotty, I was hungry.
Once I'd found an ATM, the first restaurant I saw was the Hard Rock Cafe. Never been in one of these before. I got to see one of Richie Sambora's guitars AND eat a cheeseburger. Hopefully tomorrow will be a bit more interesting.
Obviously, I'm here now, and it's a steep learning curve. I went to the hotel reception at lunch time, asked if they had any sort of map of the town, and, err, sorry, no. So I just walked the two blocks towards the ocean. It seems like in the immediate area around the hotel there's a [collective noun] of hospitals and clinics. Helpfully, and somewhat ominously, there's also a bunch of funeral parlours. And I walked past several people with obvious mental illnesses. It was quite a sad sight.
At the waterfront - where I'm seeing the Pacific Ocean for the very first time - there's just a bunch of black rocks, some black birds, a fair amount of garbage, and several gazillion litres of murky water. To one side it looks all modern and skyscraper-y; to the other all old and colonial Spanish-y. I choose to go in the direction of the old stuff. Shortly after that, I saw a white-skinned couple who were rather obviously tourists: taking photos, and a Lonely Planet guide in hand. Keith and Claire were from Adelaide, and seemed only too happy to chat in English for a while. I walked with them past the rather grubby dock area, and wandered around the virtually deserted fancy old bit.
I couldn't find an ATM, so I left the Australians to get on with their sight-seeing, and because I only had $8 in my pocket, I couldn't risk getting a taxi. So I had to walk all the way back alone the sea front road and on and on to where all the skyscrapers were. By this time, I'd eaten virtually nothing for 24 hours, and despite still feeling a bit grotty, I was hungry.
Once I'd found an ATM, the first restaurant I saw was the Hard Rock Cafe. Never been in one of these before. I got to see one of Richie Sambora's guitars AND eat a cheeseburger. Hopefully tomorrow will be a bit more interesting.
I'm bringing grumpy back
Lots of flying to do yesterday, lots of take-offs and landings. And lots of little things that annoyed me. The flight from Punta Gorda to Belize City was fine. I was sat in the seat behind where a co-pilot would've been, so I had a pretty sweet view. Until the plane made the first of its four stops on the way to the capital, where some dickhead American dude with Bono-ish shades and one of those faces that's begging to be punched came and sat down next to me. Looking for both ends of the seat-belt, he was half-talking to me, "It's gotta be somewhere..." and at that moment, he found one end, then looked at me, and sang "...over the rainbow!"
Thankfully, he didn't sit next to me for more than a couple of minutes, as he then leant forward and asked the pilot if he could sit in the co-pilot seat. Now, I'm a tad jealous that he got to do this, but then, I'm way to politely British to even consider asking the pilot such a question. Anyway, I no longer had a dickhead sat next to me; I had one sat in front of me. Taking photos constantly. His arms blocking any nice view I had as he snapped away and kept looking back at what I assume was his brother, and smirking.
Soon enough, though, I was in Belize City. My tummy had been rumbling the whole journey, and, I must confess, I did break wind once or twice. But I put it down to a sudden switch of cigarette brands. I'd taken a whole load of Camel Lights and Marlboro Lights with me to Punta Gorda, but in the last 24 hours, I'd run out and had to resort to smoking one of the local brands, Colonial. They're a bit rough for my taste, and, like I said, assumed that they made me feel a bit dicky.
A quick trip to the gents once I got off the flight and, well, I don't need to go into too much detail. All you need to know is that the next person to come into the gents said "Phwoooo-weee!" very loudly. That was the first of five visits before I got my next flight. And I had serious reservations about taking the flight. I mean, I knew that if the seat-belt signs were on during the flight, I'd need to defy them and dash off or I'd soil myself there and then in seat 3A. And that seat number is why I didn't consider it too much: I'd been upgraded for the one hour Taca Airlines flight to San Salvador. Frankly, though, aside from the bit of extra room, I can't see why anyone would pay for business class on such a short journey.
Fairly nice view out over El Salvador as we came in to land at dusk. And if the airport is anything to go by, El Salvadorean women are mmm-mmm-mmm mighty fine. Still, all I really saw of San Salvador was the inside of the toilets. I had an hour and a half to wait before my next flight, so I asked the Taca Airlines guy if I could change my window seat for an aisle seat, 'cause of my "predicament." That sorted, and feeling a tad more confident about not shitting my pants on the flight, I went for one last celebration dump before boarding began.
I'm sat by the aisle, next to some cunt who spends the whole time shuffling cards, plane takes off, and before the seat-belt signs go off, I spy two blokes coming from the front of the plane towards the toilets at the rear. Now, I know it's a cunty move, but I did it nonetheless: I un-buckled and dived in front of them. And a good job, too: seconds after locking the door I was throwing up like nobody's business.
By the time I was through, I had the evil, red-eyed, pasty-faced look. And still the stewards on the flight didn't seem to understand that my request for water was quite urgent. I was feeling so dehydrated, and the Taca dudes were, if truth be told, lacking in training. I've seen those docu-soaps about airlines, and they're meant to look after you if you're feeling a bit ill. But all I got was sneers when I asked for three water re-fills of the mini-cups.
All this got to me by the time I arrived in Panama, and for the first time in ages I was chuntering away to myself like a loony when the ATM would only allow me to take out $50, and the Coke machine wouldn't accept any of my notes. I collected my backpack to find that, for whatever security bullshit reason, it had been gone through. Nice of whoever that was, in whichever city that was, to not bother closing any of the zips or buckles when they were done. It's some sort of minor miracle that half of my belongings aren't littering the hold of the plane.
The hotel where I am staying is supposed to lay on a transfer bus. Was it there? Was it fuck. So I get a cab and I'm being driven around Panama City at midnight, not knowing what the hell it is I'm doing here. Why did I randomly pick Panama City? I know nothing about this place. All I know is they've got a canal down the road.
Since I woke up this morning, I've not been outside yet. No idea what Panama City looks like, apart from the rectangle of view from my hotel window, which looks, well, average at best. Which is more than can be said about the room itself. Amazingly, the hotel has wifi. Which blows my mind considering how shit everything else is. The door looks like a shoulder could knock it in, it's got paint all over it, as has the plastic chair. The mirror is broken, the pillows are like porridge in a sack, the soap is as thin as an After Eight mint, the curtain is filthy, and the only power outlet is seven feet up, next to the bracket holding the TV. Still, it's only $25 a night, so what - really - was I expecting?
Thankfully, he didn't sit next to me for more than a couple of minutes, as he then leant forward and asked the pilot if he could sit in the co-pilot seat. Now, I'm a tad jealous that he got to do this, but then, I'm way to politely British to even consider asking the pilot such a question. Anyway, I no longer had a dickhead sat next to me; I had one sat in front of me. Taking photos constantly. His arms blocking any nice view I had as he snapped away and kept looking back at what I assume was his brother, and smirking.
Soon enough, though, I was in Belize City. My tummy had been rumbling the whole journey, and, I must confess, I did break wind once or twice. But I put it down to a sudden switch of cigarette brands. I'd taken a whole load of Camel Lights and Marlboro Lights with me to Punta Gorda, but in the last 24 hours, I'd run out and had to resort to smoking one of the local brands, Colonial. They're a bit rough for my taste, and, like I said, assumed that they made me feel a bit dicky.
A quick trip to the gents once I got off the flight and, well, I don't need to go into too much detail. All you need to know is that the next person to come into the gents said "Phwoooo-weee!" very loudly. That was the first of five visits before I got my next flight. And I had serious reservations about taking the flight. I mean, I knew that if the seat-belt signs were on during the flight, I'd need to defy them and dash off or I'd soil myself there and then in seat 3A. And that seat number is why I didn't consider it too much: I'd been upgraded for the one hour Taca Airlines flight to San Salvador. Frankly, though, aside from the bit of extra room, I can't see why anyone would pay for business class on such a short journey.
Fairly nice view out over El Salvador as we came in to land at dusk. And if the airport is anything to go by, El Salvadorean women are mmm-mmm-mmm mighty fine. Still, all I really saw of San Salvador was the inside of the toilets. I had an hour and a half to wait before my next flight, so I asked the Taca Airlines guy if I could change my window seat for an aisle seat, 'cause of my "predicament." That sorted, and feeling a tad more confident about not shitting my pants on the flight, I went for one last celebration dump before boarding began.
I'm sat by the aisle, next to some cunt who spends the whole time shuffling cards, plane takes off, and before the seat-belt signs go off, I spy two blokes coming from the front of the plane towards the toilets at the rear. Now, I know it's a cunty move, but I did it nonetheless: I un-buckled and dived in front of them. And a good job, too: seconds after locking the door I was throwing up like nobody's business.
By the time I was through, I had the evil, red-eyed, pasty-faced look. And still the stewards on the flight didn't seem to understand that my request for water was quite urgent. I was feeling so dehydrated, and the Taca dudes were, if truth be told, lacking in training. I've seen those docu-soaps about airlines, and they're meant to look after you if you're feeling a bit ill. But all I got was sneers when I asked for three water re-fills of the mini-cups.
All this got to me by the time I arrived in Panama, and for the first time in ages I was chuntering away to myself like a loony when the ATM would only allow me to take out $50, and the Coke machine wouldn't accept any of my notes. I collected my backpack to find that, for whatever security bullshit reason, it had been gone through. Nice of whoever that was, in whichever city that was, to not bother closing any of the zips or buckles when they were done. It's some sort of minor miracle that half of my belongings aren't littering the hold of the plane.
The hotel where I am staying is supposed to lay on a transfer bus. Was it there? Was it fuck. So I get a cab and I'm being driven around Panama City at midnight, not knowing what the hell it is I'm doing here. Why did I randomly pick Panama City? I know nothing about this place. All I know is they've got a canal down the road.
Since I woke up this morning, I've not been outside yet. No idea what Panama City looks like, apart from the rectangle of view from my hotel window, which looks, well, average at best. Which is more than can be said about the room itself. Amazingly, the hotel has wifi. Which blows my mind considering how shit everything else is. The door looks like a shoulder could knock it in, it's got paint all over it, as has the plastic chair. The mirror is broken, the pillows are like porridge in a sack, the soap is as thin as an After Eight mint, the curtain is filthy, and the only power outlet is seven feet up, next to the bracket holding the TV. Still, it's only $25 a night, so what - really - was I expecting?
05 February 2008
Off to Panama
My last morning in Punta Gorda. Suffering from some nasty sunburn on my calves that I must've got while snorkeling. One last little adventure early on when we all went down the road to an area of land that's been partially cleared by loggers, to collect any remaining orchids. The humidity's pretty high today, the highest it has been since I arrived.
One of Hickatee Cottages' staff, Mr. Rafael, with an orchid.
Barbara, Kraig, Jenny, and Walt.
I'll be sad to leave, it's been really lovely; but the next part of my journey begins this afternoon, when I fly up to Belize City to catch a plane that will take me, via San Salvador and San Jose, to Panama City, arriving there around midnight.
Next update from there.
One of Hickatee Cottages' staff, Mr. Rafael, with an orchid.
Barbara, Kraig, Jenny, and Walt.
I'll be sad to leave, it's been really lovely; but the next part of my journey begins this afternoon, when I fly up to Belize City to catch a plane that will take me, via San Salvador and San Jose, to Panama City, arriving there around midnight.
Next update from there.