After Cuetzalan began the first day of the rest of my life (ok, month). For those who don't know, I'm one of five reporters in the COP16 News Center, which is a semi-official function of Mexico's Foreign Affairs Ministry. The COP16 is the UN-organized conference where diplomats and delegates get together to not reach any binding agreements regarding greenhouse gas emissions, alternative energy, and programs to mitigate and adapt to the effects of man-made climate change (i.e. global warming). This year it's in Cancun!
For the first week and a half, our team of 10 (reporters, editors, translators and the like) met for 10 to 12 (or 13) hours a day to practice, practice, practice producing multimedia reports for our website. We stalked people on the street, in parks, in their offices, to produce somewhat mindless videos and written stories on climate change, mostly to practice our production skills and familiarize ourselves with the language of the business.
Last Wednesday (Nov. 23?), we flew out together to Cancun. We're staying at an all-inclusive resort at one of the best beach spot's in the Caribbean city. It's incredibly bizarre to wake up each morning dressed to impress, laptop strung across the shoulder, stress levels set to explode, and see a bunch of lobster red, overweight tourists in tank tops and flip flops enjoying the beach and buffet. Our first afternoon, at least, we got to join them. Since then, however, it's been hectic, and as today (Nov. 29) is the first official day of the conference, it's only going to intensify.
Sunday was a very go-go-go kind of day, but I enjoyed it. My production team (cameraman, camera assistant, photographer and slighty-nuts production assisant) and I were rushed out of our bedrooms without breakfast to head north up to an archeological zone, where who knows what was happening. Once we arrived, not even the security guards knew what was happening, but as we walked past the gates, the camera dudes went racing up a sandy hill to where a huge group of people was standing. I scurried along in my pretty gold flats as they filled with rocks and sand. When I got up, I saw that the leader of an indigenous Mixe community from Oaxaca was performing the ritual sacrifice of a wild turkey to bless the inauguration of a Foreign Affairs-organized campsite for NGO workers and indigenous groups participating in the COP16. In retrospect, it was a little psychotic of me to ask that the cameras cover the actual slaughter, because of course we couldn't put that in my video, but at the time the ridiculousness of it all made me hysterically amused. Luis, the photographer, has an excellent picture of the neck and head splayed across a rock.
After the butchering, the Mixe leader passed around cups of mezcal, and the Foreign Affairs Secretary poured some on the turkey like any proper gangster would do. We hung around for a while waiting for an official to grace us with his presence, and finally bolted back to Cancunmesse, a convention center and one of two headquarters for high-level talks and events. There, we dropped off the van and caught a COP bus to the Moon Palace Hotel, the other HQ and home to our News Center. Which is in a basement. The space is normally used for training and hiring service personnel for the hotel (like cleaning ladies, waiters, cooks, etc). To get to the bathroom, we essentially walk through their complex, and it's still silly to me that when I take a break from a story and rush to pee, I run past neatly dressed Yucatecos in squeaky white sneakers and crisp uniforms.
Today, I've been blessed with a 10:30 a.m. work call, which can only mean that I'll be in the office until 2 a.m.
Check out our stories here!
Monday, November 29, 2010
Stupendous Spelunking in Cuetzalan
With my work on the COP16 News Center looming ahead, I made sure to make the most of my last weekend of freedom. Grant, Nick and I left DF at the splendid hour of 11:58 p.m. and headed 5 hours north to Cuetzalan, an ancient city in the state of Puebla. The name comes from quetzal, a beautiful bird whose peacock-like feathers were prized by the Aztecs. According to my 12 year old tour guide, quetzales are now extinct, but only since the 1980s. Way to go, cultural patrimony.
When we arrived around 5:30 a.m. to the posada, we awoke a sleeping man at the reception, who let us into a room with two double beds. Being a princess, I naturally got one to myself, but Nick was a little nervous that Grant would get the wrong idea, so in the morning, we went downstairs and asked for a triple.
We thought it would be obvious not to pay the full price on the double room, as we'd only slept in it for 3 hours. Wrong. We started bickering in Spanish with the lady at the front desk, who was like "hellz no," but fortunately Nick shifted approaches and asked gently if we couldn't reach a compromise. And it worked! Half price for the first night, and full price on a triple with ridiculously high ceilings and a bathroom with a shower head facing the toilet.
Later in the morning, we wandered around the tiny pueblo up steep streets and through a maze of market vendors.
Then we hired a 12-year-old gentleman to lead us down the highway, through a small annex town and out to Las Brisas, a beautiful waterfall whose natural wonder is amplified by the michelada (beer with spices) carts. 
All in all, the perfect way to spend my last sweet drop of freedom.
When we arrived around 5:30 a.m. to the posada, we awoke a sleeping man at the reception, who let us into a room with two double beds. Being a princess, I naturally got one to myself, but Nick was a little nervous that Grant would get the wrong idea, so in the morning, we went downstairs and asked for a triple.
We thought it would be obvious not to pay the full price on the double room, as we'd only slept in it for 3 hours. Wrong. We started bickering in Spanish with the lady at the front desk, who was like "hellz no," but fortunately Nick shifted approaches and asked gently if we couldn't reach a compromise. And it worked! Half price for the first night, and full price on a triple with ridiculously high ceilings and a bathroom with a shower head facing the toilet.Later in the morning, we wandered around the tiny pueblo up steep streets and through a maze of market vendors.
Then we hired a 12-year-old gentleman to lead us down the highway, through a small annex town and out to Las Brisas, a beautiful waterfall whose natural wonder is amplified by the michelada (beer with spices) carts. After Grant threw rocks at a hole in the waterfall's rock wall for a good 15 minutes, and after Nick skipped rocks with our guide's 10-year-old brother, the five of us went up and around to a second waterfall. Once we headed back into town and tipped our escorts, we went to a well-regarded restaurant across the narrow street from our posada. I thought I picked a winner when I ordered crepes with mushrooms, but it turns out, they had a different kind of mushroom in mind. They were long, chewy, earth-tasting strips in a blanket of crepe batter. At least the beers were cheap! 
On Sunday, we met up with Dario, who friends had recommended that I call about a spelunking excursion. For 250 pesos each, we got equipment, a 4-hour tour and an "esnack," which I think is amazing. From Dario's house, we headed past a landscape of tropical green hillsides and down to the entrance of a cave. We climbed through the narrow walls, slithered "Matrix"-style along rocks and cannonballed into icy, icy waters. It was an impressive amount of fun, especially since all the other caves I've been to before are grandiose mammoths where well-lit paved paths with handrails invite families to gaze at stalactites. At the end, we each enjoyed a Negrito (or, "little black person"), essentially a Twinkie stuffed with chocolate filling, exactly the kind of snack you'd expect to be handed after an outdoorsy, athletic adventure, right?
Next, we cleaned up at Dario's house. I had brought a small hand towel on the trip just in case, so I used it to wipe the mud off my legs. Then, I realized I was wearing a bathing suit, so I could just rinse off my entire body! Then, I realized that the towel I had been planning to use was streaked with mud, so I had to air dry for a bit and wipe off with my soggy clothes. Sexy. For lunch, more micheladas at a seafood restaurant, and then a later afternoon departure for DF.
On Sunday, we met up with Dario, who friends had recommended that I call about a spelunking excursion. For 250 pesos each, we got equipment, a 4-hour tour and an "esnack," which I think is amazing. From Dario's house, we headed past a landscape of tropical green hillsides and down to the entrance of a cave. We climbed through the narrow walls, slithered "Matrix"-style along rocks and cannonballed into icy, icy waters. It was an impressive amount of fun, especially since all the other caves I've been to before are grandiose mammoths where well-lit paved paths with handrails invite families to gaze at stalactites. At the end, we each enjoyed a Negrito (or, "little black person"), essentially a Twinkie stuffed with chocolate filling, exactly the kind of snack you'd expect to be handed after an outdoorsy, athletic adventure, right?
Next, we cleaned up at Dario's house. I had brought a small hand towel on the trip just in case, so I used it to wipe the mud off my legs. Then, I realized I was wearing a bathing suit, so I could just rinse off my entire body! Then, I realized that the towel I had been planning to use was streaked with mud, so I had to air dry for a bit and wipe off with my soggy clothes. Sexy. For lunch, more micheladas at a seafood restaurant, and then a later afternoon departure for DF.
All in all, the perfect way to spend my last sweet drop of freedom.Madre y Padre come to visit
It's been almost a month since Madre y Padre came to visit me in Mexico City, but it still deserves a dignified mention on my blog. My parents stayed at an excellente bed & breakfast, the Red Tree House, just south of Parque Mexico and about a 15 minute walk from my apartment. Mornings started with a delicious breakfast (I know, I was there eating all the pan dulce), and evenings ended with a wine happy hour and, if he had the better half of a glass, my dad serenading the room on the piano.The first afternoon they arrived, I took them on a walking tour of Roma and Condesa and to all the pretty parks in the neighborhood. At the last park, my dad admitted that his back had been killing him and that he can't walk for extended periods like that. Oops. On Sunday, we headed up to the Chapultepec Castle (where Matt proposed, how darling), then over to the beloved Anthropology and History Museum, where we skipped lunch and slammed chile-covered peanuts instead. At night we had a super fancy dinner (at a restaurant that was so fancy I'll never get to return) to celebrate John & Gretch's 29th wedding anniversary. Also darling.
Monday we took a road trip to Tepotzlan, in the state of Morelos, which was pleasantly free of DF crowds and angsty groups of adolescent students. Despite complaining of back pain earlier in the trip, my dad bested my mom and I throughout a steep, hour-long hike up to an Aztec pyramid. Fortunately he reminded us on various occassions, lest we forget :) After my parents devored a giant slab of salty cecina meat (pork? beef?), and I a soggy enchilada disappointment, we caught a coach bus back to DF and took a proper siesta. In the evening, the padres treated my friends to an evening of tacos and beer, and Lord help us, the Browns were playing.
Tuesday began with my parents waiting on me as I interviewed a source for a freelance story, then we headed to the Pachuca street market, where fruits, veggies, flowers and spongy cow stomach tissue are deliciously displayed. Next stop: Centro Histórico. Unfortunately, the grandeur of the Zócalo plaza and the billowing Mexican flag had been put aside for endless production equipment, which I later found out was for a crazy light show to celebrate the centennial of the start of the Mexican revolution. We passed through a labrynth of security to get to Mexico's Bicentennial Museum (this time for Mexican independence), which offered a very interesting but very long foray into Mexican history.
We put off lunch to have an early dinner at one of my favorite places to eat, whose name I can never remember. In Mexico, most restaurants have lunch menus, where you can get soup, rice, a main dish and dessert, plus fruit water, for 40 pesos. This place costs 85 pesos, but is infinitely more fancy. On Wednesday, the padres last day in DF, we headed south to Coyoacán. To my delight (I swear I didn't plan it) we had lunch at a vegetarian sidewalk café then checked out the Casa Azul, where Frida Khalo and Diego Rivera lived and got all Communist on each other. A walk through Coyoacán's historic little plaza ended with a mountain of pistachio ice cream for all. Qué rico.
Our last supper, if you will, was at the Taco Ladies, the infamous sidewalk eatery where the tables and chairs are plastic and foldable and the roof is a plastic tarp strung over a plastic tube framework. They actually serve quesadillas on their portable stove, but they're known universally as the Taco Ladies. And my, do they make a mean tortilla.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Hunger in Puebla, mishaps in Cholula
Fun title, huh? As my stay in Mexico is winding to a wistful close (Dec. 22 is my departure date), I'm trying to make sure that each weekend involves some sort of special Mexican adventure. Three weekends ago, me, Paul plus a handful of Mexicans, Frenchies and a New Zealander went to Malinalco, in the State of Mexico. The town really is a hidden gem. Craggy green mountains tower over the city center of two-story concrete buildings painted eccentric shades of red, orange, blue and yellow. Narrow streets lead mostly in the same directions: back onto the highway, through a crowded food market, or to the archeological site, where Aztec warriors came for spiritual training centuries before the Spanish "offered" Catholicism as a religious alternative.
The next weekend I partied like the college student/Mexican I am no longer suited to be, and last weekend I met up with Texan Grant in Puebla, the capital city of a similarly named state about 2 hours east of Mexico City. It's a city that's so close to Mexico and such a standard stop along the tourist route, that somehow I managed to put it off until the very end. I hopped on a bus Saturday morning to Puebla's bus terminal, then rode a public bus through clogged traffic to the center. Grant and I (mostly I) marveled at the painted ceramic tiles (or azulejos) that bedazzle all the historic buildings around Puebla. Floral patterns and symmetric designs painted in deep blue glaze are most common, while others are yellow and green and equally mesmerizing. We stopped in the Alfeñique Museum, which details Puebla's history through maps, paintings and fancy French-influenced gowns. The ornate white molding on banisters and ceiling lends the museum the title alfeñique, a technique for making cooked sugar decorations, like those on a wedding cake or Day of the Dead skulls.
Next stop was a beautiful colonial church whose interior was nondescript, but whose facade was covered in more of the shiny ceramic tiles. By then, it was 1 p.m. and I was starving, but we were waiting for Grant's girlfriend to get out of a dentistry conference to get lunch with her and her classmates. So I bought a giant bag of popcorn covered in Valentina salsa from a little stand by the entrance, while Grant purchased the world's largest taco. Seriously, it was an entire serving of steak and fries, plus refried beans and cheese, on a mammoth tortilla. We headed into the Zócalo and dropped by the Casa de Cultura and the giant cathedral. The conference ran over, so we stopped by the Museo Bello and checked out Señor Bello's extensive collection of everything - keys, locks, chests, music stands, Chinese porcelain, oil paintings, bronze kitchenware, etc. - in his ritzy colonial mansion. I might've lessened the value of some pieces by leaning on them or touching them absentmindedly, but no one yelled at me, so at least I got away clean.
Finally, it came time for lunch. Well, for the others, at least. Just as had been the case on Friday night at a post-party taco joint, this taquería served only meat tacos. Usually a taco place will at least have tacos with boiled cactus (nopales) or mushroom fillings, but not this one. Just strange cuts like brain, tongue, intenstines and a mosaic of mystery meat. Defeated by hunger, I ordered a simple quesadilla. When it came with spare chunks of unidentifiable meat, I picked them out and forged onward. When it started dripping with oily, grayish meat juice, I sent it back. Just as I stood up to clarify I didn't want another one, a fresh quesadilla was served. It was speckled with red beef. The waitress and I eyed each other as I explained that a new meat-covered quesadilla was still not vegetarian friendly. She slowly pushed the meat around with her fork, as if to show me that it was removable (I know about the juice, lady!) before I walked away and left her plate in hand.
When the dentists left Puebla and returned to Mexico City, Grant and I headed to the crafts market so I could salivate over talavera pieces (a white and glazed type of earthenware, says Google). Of all the flower vases and mirrors and tea sets I fondled, I went home instead with a pocket-size candle holder. With my genetic disposition to shop fulfilled, we took a public bus to Cholula, a small city nearby. We wandered in the dark to the Zócalo, a very lively and charming place to be on a Saturday night, and got our bearings. We headed out to find a hotel that a Cholulan friend of a friend had recommended. Instead, we find a row of abandoned buildings on a street with no lights, and decided to use my guide book instead. The first place we found was pretty dingy, with just a double bed and a bathroom whose wall didn't quite reach the ceiling. The next place we tried was fancier, but completely booked. Apparently there was some sort of convention in Cholula that weekend. The receptionist made us a reservation at another hotel, and we walked around for an hour with no luck. Finally a cab driver we had asked earlier ran up to us with the directions and drove us there.
Our hotel was decent, but a bit much. Every room was really a suite, so for the two of us we had two bedrooms, a kitchen and a living room with concrete couches built into the wall. Then Grant read a follow-up text from our hotel-suggestor saying that the hotel was in San Andrés Cholula. That's when we realized that the city has two municipalities, and we were in San Pedro Cholula. But it was 10 p.m., I still hadn't eaten and Grant's head cold was increasing with every sniffle, so we stuck with the Zocalo and watched some "Evita" before bed.
Sunday morning was far more successful. We ambled through an indoor market, pointing disgustedly at pig snouts and giant vats of cow head soup, then visited a cathedral, a history museum and a convent whose chapel has nearly 50 domes...crazy! Probably one of the most unique religious spaces we've seen in Mexico though. From there, we headed up to the giant colonial church sitting hilariously on top of a massive Aztec pyramid. Unfortunately, the pyramid is still buried, so the true irony of the matter isn't as obvious. Around the pyramid's base, however, is a well-kept archeological site with temples, palace walls and a courtyard for people in Aztec costumes to dance in a big circle while gringos take pictures.
Determined to see the second municipality - which is populated more by university and exchange students, plus hippies - we walked the lengthy journey to San Pedro. We ordered pizza at an eclectic restaurant around the city square, which naturally came with pork rinds on top (the 15-year-old waiter misinformed us that tlalitos was an Italian lettuce). After lunch, we asked a lady at an ice cream stand in the street if she could point out the taxi stop. Her customer then whipped out a walkie-talkie mid scoop and called us a cab. We're still not sure if she works with the cabs, or if this is a normal occurance.
We made it home in one piece, however, and then I tried to make veggie burgers as a battle cry against all carnivorous encounters I'd had that weekend. Absentmindedly I blended the ingredients into a veggie burger pancake batter that refuses to cook on the stove or in the oven.
Maria: 0. Meat: 4
The next weekend I partied like the college student/Mexican I am no longer suited to be, and last weekend I met up with Texan Grant in Puebla, the capital city of a similarly named state about 2 hours east of Mexico City. It's a city that's so close to Mexico and such a standard stop along the tourist route, that somehow I managed to put it off until the very end. I hopped on a bus Saturday morning to Puebla's bus terminal, then rode a public bus through clogged traffic to the center. Grant and I (mostly I) marveled at the painted ceramic tiles (or azulejos) that bedazzle all the historic buildings around Puebla. Floral patterns and symmetric designs painted in deep blue glaze are most common, while others are yellow and green and equally mesmerizing. We stopped in the Alfeñique Museum, which details Puebla's history through maps, paintings and fancy French-influenced gowns. The ornate white molding on banisters and ceiling lends the museum the title alfeñique, a technique for making cooked sugar decorations, like those on a wedding cake or Day of the Dead skulls.
Next stop was a beautiful colonial church whose interior was nondescript, but whose facade was covered in more of the shiny ceramic tiles. By then, it was 1 p.m. and I was starving, but we were waiting for Grant's girlfriend to get out of a dentistry conference to get lunch with her and her classmates. So I bought a giant bag of popcorn covered in Valentina salsa from a little stand by the entrance, while Grant purchased the world's largest taco. Seriously, it was an entire serving of steak and fries, plus refried beans and cheese, on a mammoth tortilla. We headed into the Zócalo and dropped by the Casa de Cultura and the giant cathedral. The conference ran over, so we stopped by the Museo Bello and checked out Señor Bello's extensive collection of everything - keys, locks, chests, music stands, Chinese porcelain, oil paintings, bronze kitchenware, etc. - in his ritzy colonial mansion. I might've lessened the value of some pieces by leaning on them or touching them absentmindedly, but no one yelled at me, so at least I got away clean.
Finally, it came time for lunch. Well, for the others, at least. Just as had been the case on Friday night at a post-party taco joint, this taquería served only meat tacos. Usually a taco place will at least have tacos with boiled cactus (nopales) or mushroom fillings, but not this one. Just strange cuts like brain, tongue, intenstines and a mosaic of mystery meat. Defeated by hunger, I ordered a simple quesadilla. When it came with spare chunks of unidentifiable meat, I picked them out and forged onward. When it started dripping with oily, grayish meat juice, I sent it back. Just as I stood up to clarify I didn't want another one, a fresh quesadilla was served. It was speckled with red beef. The waitress and I eyed each other as I explained that a new meat-covered quesadilla was still not vegetarian friendly. She slowly pushed the meat around with her fork, as if to show me that it was removable (I know about the juice, lady!) before I walked away and left her plate in hand.
When the dentists left Puebla and returned to Mexico City, Grant and I headed to the crafts market so I could salivate over talavera pieces (a white and glazed type of earthenware, says Google). Of all the flower vases and mirrors and tea sets I fondled, I went home instead with a pocket-size candle holder. With my genetic disposition to shop fulfilled, we took a public bus to Cholula, a small city nearby. We wandered in the dark to the Zócalo, a very lively and charming place to be on a Saturday night, and got our bearings. We headed out to find a hotel that a Cholulan friend of a friend had recommended. Instead, we find a row of abandoned buildings on a street with no lights, and decided to use my guide book instead. The first place we found was pretty dingy, with just a double bed and a bathroom whose wall didn't quite reach the ceiling. The next place we tried was fancier, but completely booked. Apparently there was some sort of convention in Cholula that weekend. The receptionist made us a reservation at another hotel, and we walked around for an hour with no luck. Finally a cab driver we had asked earlier ran up to us with the directions and drove us there.
Our hotel was decent, but a bit much. Every room was really a suite, so for the two of us we had two bedrooms, a kitchen and a living room with concrete couches built into the wall. Then Grant read a follow-up text from our hotel-suggestor saying that the hotel was in San Andrés Cholula. That's when we realized that the city has two municipalities, and we were in San Pedro Cholula. But it was 10 p.m., I still hadn't eaten and Grant's head cold was increasing with every sniffle, so we stuck with the Zocalo and watched some "Evita" before bed.
Sunday morning was far more successful. We ambled through an indoor market, pointing disgustedly at pig snouts and giant vats of cow head soup, then visited a cathedral, a history museum and a convent whose chapel has nearly 50 domes...crazy! Probably one of the most unique religious spaces we've seen in Mexico though. From there, we headed up to the giant colonial church sitting hilariously on top of a massive Aztec pyramid. Unfortunately, the pyramid is still buried, so the true irony of the matter isn't as obvious. Around the pyramid's base, however, is a well-kept archeological site with temples, palace walls and a courtyard for people in Aztec costumes to dance in a big circle while gringos take pictures.
Determined to see the second municipality - which is populated more by university and exchange students, plus hippies - we walked the lengthy journey to San Pedro. We ordered pizza at an eclectic restaurant around the city square, which naturally came with pork rinds on top (the 15-year-old waiter misinformed us that tlalitos was an Italian lettuce). After lunch, we asked a lady at an ice cream stand in the street if she could point out the taxi stop. Her customer then whipped out a walkie-talkie mid scoop and called us a cab. We're still not sure if she works with the cabs, or if this is a normal occurance.
We made it home in one piece, however, and then I tried to make veggie burgers as a battle cry against all carnivorous encounters I'd had that weekend. Absentmindedly I blended the ingredients into a veggie burger pancake batter that refuses to cook on the stove or in the oven.
Maria: 0. Meat: 4
Overnight Climate Change Expert
While I've always had a particular interest in environment-related issues, I've never paid too much attention to climate change policy. But now it's my job to know these things, so consider me an overnight expert. Last month, I signed a contract to participate in a news team for the official web site of the COP16 climate change summit in Cancún. I'll spend about 2.5 weeks in the city of spring break fame reporting on the various conferences and revelations, all while bossing around a photographer and cameraman to oblige my journalistic whims. The entire project is a month long, which means I get two paychecks, which means: Yay. All expenses are covered, and we get an allowance for two beers a day, naturally.
To reiterate my position as an expert, I wrote my first paid freelance piece for a non-Mexican publication last week. Read: Yay. It's for SolveClimate News, an online service focused on all things environment and climate change, and the story was also picked up by Reuters.
Read the story here.
To reiterate my position as an expert, I wrote my first paid freelance piece for a non-Mexican publication last week. Read: Yay. It's for SolveClimate News, an online service focused on all things environment and climate change, and the story was also picked up by Reuters.
Read the story here.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Honduras: Home at last
FYI, sand fly bites are delightfully itchy and unsightlyTuesday, July 13, 2010
Ahh, the ripe hour of 2 a.m. Such a wonderful time to stash my life away into a backpack and grab a ride to the bus station. I actually got there before it opened, but the guards let me slouch on one of the cushioned seats in the lobby and watch some weird, weird movie about a fictional high-profile kidnapping in Mexico City. It's like the guards knew I was heading home and wanted to send me off just right. Solitary grandmothers and Garífuna families slowly filed in for the 3:30 bus, which meant we all got to enjoy the soft core porn scene between the sexy kidnapped lady and her brawny, gentle captor. That'll wake you up.
We passed through heavy construction but made our way into Tegucigalpa by 10:30, giving me ample time to catch my flight. On the way to the airport, the cab driver assured me that all flights had been canceled for days. I said "Hmm, I didn't get an e-mail yesterday from Taca so let's keep on keeping on." Ten minutes of silence later, he giggled to himself and noted that not even a single aircraft had flown overhead that day. We pull up to the airport, and everyone is unloaded suitcases and grasping boarding passes and passports - life as usual. After eavesdropping and eventually asking, I concluded that an unscheduled construction project was underway earlier that morning, so they temporarily shut down the airport while they figured out what to do. Not as exciting as the rumors I'd heard that someone had brought weapons into the airport. Booooring.
I spent my last L17 on a coffee, excited that I managed to leave Honduras without annoying change in a foreign currency. Then, to my obvious delight, I learned there was a $37 airport fee for international flights. You had to pay in dollars, and they didn't accept credit cards. Oh, and the ATMs (despite their lying screens) don't carry dollars either. So I had to withdraw lempiras, walk over to a currency changer with a fanny pack full of bills and get $42 back. Naturally, half of my change at the fee booth was in lempiras, so I bought some poundcake to spite them all.
On the flight home, I sat next to the regional coordinator of the United Nations Development Program, so he had a lot of fascinating insight on Latin America and all its woes. By the grace of Dios, I zipped through immigration and customs in D.F. and grabbed one of the first taxis out of the airport. I got to the apartment at 1:30 a.m. on Wednesday and passed out on the futon (was renting out my room) only to wake up at 7 a.m. and start the first of several months spent on the guide. Then on Thursday, I flew home to Ohio for 2 weeks. Never a dull moment!
El Fin.
The mighty Río Plátano in the heart of the reserve.
The mighty Río Plátano in the heart of the reserve.Honduras: La Mosquitia Day 5
Monday, July 12, 2010
Carlos graciously woke me up at 2:30 a.m. to catch my boat to Batalla. The water taxi, however, took its precious time in arriving, so I nearly hyperventilated with stress while waiting on the riverbank in the pitch black. Eventually, the owner of the ecolodge emerged from her room to wake up a young man (perhaps her cousin?) to run to the property next door and tell the captain (also a cousin?) to get a move on. Grumpily he rolled up on the shore at 3:30 and hurried me onto the boat, in what I'm guessing was his sassy response for my previously sassy response to getting stood up. Stupid men.
We shuttled around the lagoon for about 2 hours with only the moon and powerful flashlights to guide us as we picked up nearly a dozen passengers on the way to Batalla. Macjeck (a genuine Polish name, and sadly, not spelled "Magic" like it sounds) came to greet me at the truck depot. They had already negotiated with a driver - 250 lempiras for the 3 to ride in the back, and L350 for me to ride up front (this time not on the lap of a creepy Honduran molester). The driver had discovered the annoyingly repetitious sounds of Mexican "banda" music , and proceeded to play two CDs over and over again at an ear splitting volume the entire 5-hour ride back.
The heavy rains meant that our maniac beach driving was interrupted by a newly formed lagoon, so all the trucks had to wait in line as we boarded a raft one at a time and made it to the other side. I spotted the driver L100 to pay for the raft, expecting to recuperate my donation later.
When we finally reached Tocoa, however, confusion ensued. I asked the truck driver to drop me off at the Cotuc bus station - yes, I knew that this bus takes longer than other lines, but I also knew that it cost a lot less. As we whizzed past the indicated bus stop, he ignored my complaints and proceeded to drop me off at the more expensive line with everyone else. He was in a mad dash to get to the central market, so he all but chucked me and my pack out of the truck cab. In this crazy exchange for my change, in which I should have received L350 back (as I'd already paid L100), I got L250 back, as I would have if I'd never paid the raft fee. I yelled at him a lot in Spanish - "Pero ya te di 100 lempiras!!" ("But I already gave you 100!!") - but since I'm basically a 7-year-old when it comes to math, I couldn't quite figure out what amount I should be getting back.
They sped away and I defiantly walked 15 minutes down the dusty highway to reach the one-room "station" for the cheaper bus line. As I peeled back the lid on my last can of tuna, I realized that I wound up paying L450 instead of L350. This means I lost $5, which isn't very much, but I was so furious that I was too stupid to figure this out on my own, that I hyperventilated once more as I shoved flaky bits of mush into my mouth. I decided that in the way that some travelers carry a pocket Spanish dictionary with them to foreign countries, I should carry a pocket calculator. I left my bag in the bus station and paced alongside the highway trying to talk myself down from the proverbial ledge.
The bus came 1.5 hours later and dropped me off almost directly in front of the La Moskitia Ecoaventuras office in La Ceiba. I hung my smelly, moldy clothes up to dry on the line in the back and showered off the stench of swampy rainforest. Then I walked a ways to an expat restaurant for a celebratory, end-of-the-road dinner (which involved a large piece of carrot cake and beer). Customers can make free calls to the U.S., so I let my loved ones know I was still alive before attempting a superficial amount of work on my first guidebook chapter. I stared warily at a group of 30-something American expats who either brought their newborns to dinner or talked incessantly about them. I thought, "Please, God! Not me! Not yet!"
I leave you kind folks with a video clip I took during the truck ride on the beach. I hope it makes you nauseous just looking at it.
Carlos graciously woke me up at 2:30 a.m. to catch my boat to Batalla. The water taxi, however, took its precious time in arriving, so I nearly hyperventilated with stress while waiting on the riverbank in the pitch black. Eventually, the owner of the ecolodge emerged from her room to wake up a young man (perhaps her cousin?) to run to the property next door and tell the captain (also a cousin?) to get a move on. Grumpily he rolled up on the shore at 3:30 and hurried me onto the boat, in what I'm guessing was his sassy response for my previously sassy response to getting stood up. Stupid men.
We shuttled around the lagoon for about 2 hours with only the moon and powerful flashlights to guide us as we picked up nearly a dozen passengers on the way to Batalla. Macjeck (a genuine Polish name, and sadly, not spelled "Magic" like it sounds) came to greet me at the truck depot. They had already negotiated with a driver - 250 lempiras for the 3 to ride in the back, and L350 for me to ride up front (this time not on the lap of a creepy Honduran molester). The driver had discovered the annoyingly repetitious sounds of Mexican "banda" music , and proceeded to play two CDs over and over again at an ear splitting volume the entire 5-hour ride back.
The heavy rains meant that our maniac beach driving was interrupted by a newly formed lagoon, so all the trucks had to wait in line as we boarded a raft one at a time and made it to the other side. I spotted the driver L100 to pay for the raft, expecting to recuperate my donation later.
When we finally reached Tocoa, however, confusion ensued. I asked the truck driver to drop me off at the Cotuc bus station - yes, I knew that this bus takes longer than other lines, but I also knew that it cost a lot less. As we whizzed past the indicated bus stop, he ignored my complaints and proceeded to drop me off at the more expensive line with everyone else. He was in a mad dash to get to the central market, so he all but chucked me and my pack out of the truck cab. In this crazy exchange for my change, in which I should have received L350 back (as I'd already paid L100), I got L250 back, as I would have if I'd never paid the raft fee. I yelled at him a lot in Spanish - "Pero ya te di 100 lempiras!!" ("But I already gave you 100!!") - but since I'm basically a 7-year-old when it comes to math, I couldn't quite figure out what amount I should be getting back.They sped away and I defiantly walked 15 minutes down the dusty highway to reach the one-room "station" for the cheaper bus line. As I peeled back the lid on my last can of tuna, I realized that I wound up paying L450 instead of L350. This means I lost $5, which isn't very much, but I was so furious that I was too stupid to figure this out on my own, that I hyperventilated once more as I shoved flaky bits of mush into my mouth. I decided that in the way that some travelers carry a pocket Spanish dictionary with them to foreign countries, I should carry a pocket calculator. I left my bag in the bus station and paced alongside the highway trying to talk myself down from the proverbial ledge.
The bus came 1.5 hours later and dropped me off almost directly in front of the La Moskitia Ecoaventuras office in La Ceiba. I hung my smelly, moldy clothes up to dry on the line in the back and showered off the stench of swampy rainforest. Then I walked a ways to an expat restaurant for a celebratory, end-of-the-road dinner (which involved a large piece of carrot cake and beer). Customers can make free calls to the U.S., so I let my loved ones know I was still alive before attempting a superficial amount of work on my first guidebook chapter. I stared warily at a group of 30-something American expats who either brought their newborns to dinner or talked incessantly about them. I thought, "Please, God! Not me! Not yet!"
I leave you kind folks with a video clip I took during the truck ride on the beach. I hope it makes you nauseous just looking at it.
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