A DJ, a Schizophrenic, and the Worst Hotel in the Universe

I´d be willing to bet that when Robert Earl Keen, Jr. wrote Love´s a Word I Never Throw Around, he didn´t think his song would be the impetus for a Guatemalan´s paranoid fear of dying at the hands of the government. Strange, how our words can have an impact we never would have guessed.

While in Rio Dulce, Bjorn and I managed to get caught up in a long conversation with someone who, as we slowly discovered, believed he was talking to more than just the two of us.

Laura and I had been playing poker, the last two survivors of a game with very high stakes (Snickers bars for the winner) when our friend Jose Guillermo sat down and began to talk to us. We both thought he appeared very sad, and couldn´t figure out why until Bjorn and I talked with him later. As it turned out, he was afraid of dying, a possibility that seemed a great deal nearer to him than it might to anyone else, because he regularly received messages from God.

Among them were the following:
- a firm belief that he would ride into the US on a donkey (given that he was rejected three times by immigration, and that his full name was Jose Guillermo de Jesus);
- a belief that his dreams predicted, among other things, Guatemalan civil wars and the 9/11 attacks;
- a belief that Bjorn and I, because we were US citizens, were somehow part of a new message.

At roughly 7:00 AM the next morning, he was walking around our dorm waking everyone up, holding my Keen lyrics sheet in his hand and crying, and demanding to talk to everyone about the message he´d just received of his own impending death.

(I´d wondered where the lyric sheet had gone.)

At the moment (some four days later), Bjorn, Elliot and I are lodged in a hotel that is most likely the original design for Hell (our God is truly merciful, it seems, and abandoned the original design). It costs a mere three dollars a night, which is apparently the reason the hotel staff has decided to abandon all those pesky rules that other places have adopted as "standards." Among the more conspicuous errors:

- a grave mathematical miscalculation in the backup rolls of toilet paper. One, apparently, isn´t enough for the entire hotel, especially when that one, because it is the last one, isn´t being given out to anybody;
- a false hope that the thin floorboards which serve as the only source of insulation from the competing sounds of other rooms will somehow block out any noise larger than a cricket or, in worse cases, the loud music that the hotel staff has seen fit to play at any and all hours of the night;
- water, or the lack thereof, leaving most residents unable to complete basic acts of hygeine, like flushing the communal toilets. Right now the toilets (which did not come with a top seat) act more like outhouses, but with a much smaller receptacle.

Highly entertaining. The town itself, however, is very clean and very cheap. Last night Bjorn and I had a full plate of eggs, rice, and beans, and tortillas and coffee for a buck fifty. We spent a good half-hour talking to someone who turned out to be a radio DJ for a station that reaches all of Guatemala and parts of Mexico, Belize, and Honduras. His Spanish was fast but clean and sharp, and we were able to understand almost everything he said.

Elliot is feeling better. And given the state of the bathrooms this morning, thank god for that.

Tikal, and Ancient Mayan Calves

There´s something a bit too Americanly brazen about reciting a short Hans and Franz skit off the double podiums of an ancient Mayan civilization that dates to a few thousand years before Christ. To my American credit, I only decided to stop after reciting "I am Franz!"

Elliot did the rest. Our voices were greatly magnified by twin stone templs rising over 200 feet in the air. They weren´t the largest temples, either. Each boasts the same design - ziggurat, with excptionally steep stairs that taxed the lungs and legs of every tourist who tried to scale them. The more difficult stone steps had been superceded by wooden walkways that, ironically enough, ended up being steeper than the stones themselves. Our safety was guaranteed by two sturdy ten-penny nails on each step, firmly adhering it to two-by-two supports. Firm stone that had weathered a few milennia didn´t stand a chance against modern building techniques.

I´m going to forego an accurate description of the ruins, the largest of their kind in the world, in favor of much better pictures.



Yup.



You get the idea.

3:00 AM, Flores, Guatemala

It´s late in the morning. I haven´t brushed my teeth. I´m on my third beer. And I´m listening to a conversation between two British lads that ranks as one of the best I´ve ever heard.

Read and enjoy. Our two subjects are Leslie and David.

L: God, you know what´s a classic film? Classic, classic film...I can´t remember the name. But it´s truly f---ed up, just two guys getting pissed. It´s the kind of film you walk out of thinking, "Damn, I ned to talk to someone about this. What the hell was that?"

D: I know what you mean. Damn, I used to watch those all the time.

L: Why exactly are you down here, David?

D: Oh, got into a little trouble at home. Did some drugs, drank a lot of beer, shagged my mom´s best friend.

L: Holy ----! How did your mum find out?

D: She found us. Took the first charity organization that popped up on the internet, and said, "that´s what you´re doing to sort yourself out." And then she sent me down here.

L: Wow. Where you from - Manchester?

D: Billingham. It´s really small, the shithole of England, really.

L: Billingham? My friend!

D: You know Billingham? You live there?

L: No, but a great friend lives there. He kicked my ass when I was young, paid me tuition, really set me on the right road. Like a father to me. Damn, and the most hard-assed bastard you´d ever meet. Pug-nose, and a mean little f-----. But I love him as much as I love me own father.

...

D: I nearly got shot in Nicaragua. Was in a taxi driving past the capitol, and I´d heard there was to be a demonstration. Students were protesting the rise in taxi fairs, something like that. I was thinking something paceful. Then I saw a student with a bandana over his head and a f------ rocket launcher. What the hell is going on? The taxi did a quick 180, and in the rear-view I saw some hundreds of students, all with bandanas over their heads, and carrying machine guns. The cops were on the other side. I swear, I thought I was going to die, and then they started shooting. There were holes all in the back of the cab.

L: You were all right?

D: Yeah. I got out, went to a bar, and had a beer. The sort of thing you do after something like that.

...

L: Wait, wait...so you pissed off your family, got into trouble with the law...and they send you down to a vacation in Central America? The punishment doesn´t really fit the crime, does it?

D: No.

L: Good god! Damn my parents. They would just beat the shit out of me.

Captain Eric

Yesterday myself, Bjorn, Elliot, Laura, two Canadians, and three unidentified Guatemalans boarded a motorboat to travel around Rio Dulce and visit the fort, hot springs, and Livingston in turn.

I was disappointed with the fort. It seemed pathetically easy to overtake, and apparently was, given that Drake managed to beat it sometime around 1575, if I remember the guide right. It had its own little charms, though...a dungeon below that killed a great many prisoners by being lower than high-tide, a factor that the builders seem to have overlooked. And a few of the cannons had a fleur-de-lis emblazoned on the front, from when the fort managed to defeat the English, who acquired most of their weaponry from France. No wonder they lost.

The most entertaining part of the day was Eric, our Guatemalan captain, and a player in every sense of the word, except where the word implies "successful in any way." The two Guatemalan women in the boat were alternately his friends, then his wives, and then his girlfriends, depending on who asked him. All association dropped when he met some marginally attractive girls on the mainland, however. He also enjoyed chasing birds, and several times shot the boat through a flock calmly resting in the middle of the lake. It was quite entertaining, since by the time the flock realized something was chasing them down, it was too late to do much of anything but dive underneath the boat.

Bjorn and Elliot were quite peeved (well, mostly Bjorn) when they received, upon my recommendation, a bowl of tomato soup that was supposed to be ceviche. My reassurances that it wasn´t good ceviche didn´t reassure them, and I doubt that they´ll try it again.

And the Caribbean is warm. It almost burned my feet.

Rio Dulce

A huge sigh of relief shot from Bjorn and I immediately after we heard the nice man at the embassy ask Elliot to raise his right hand and promise that he had filled out the passport form in a truthful manner. It meant that his new passport had scanned, which meant that the exceptionally small picture we managed to find for it had been found acceptable. As things stand, he can return for his passport in eight days, which gives us plenty of time to explore the surrounding cities.

I saw Eva again last night, and she is now free to leave the country. Apparently money does talk in Guatemala. It´s just very, very slow to speak (say, about eight weeks). Ironically enough, it takes about as much time to process a bribe down here as it does any legitimate business.

Bjorn, Elliot, and I spent a very enjoyable evening at Cafe No Se two nights ago before heading up to Guatemala City in the morning. I was roped into playing guitar and singing most of the evening, which, from what I was told, provided a nice background to the poker and moderate alcohol consumption. With us was a Castilian-German girl named Elisa, who, upon discovering that a cafe in Antigua didn´t have a Spanish menu, provided us a most entertaining angry display. She knew German and Spanish but very little English, and apparently far underestimated the power and reach of American culture.

We (the boys, anyway) spent the next day in Guatemala City, carefully avoiding the more dangerous sections of town by sticking to the nine-block commercial center. We decided to spend the night in order to see Episode III, which was, thankfully, full of action sequences and short on personal dialogue (although Lucas`...talent...for dialogue did manage to overshadow some portions of the movie). My favorite line: "Only the Sith deal in absolutes!"

Yes. Only them.

Today we arrived in Rio Dulce, which is, to put it mildly, one of the most gorgeous lakeside areas in the world. But for the slow internet, we´d have pictures up. Elliot and I have gone swimming twice today. The water is exceptionally warm, and felt great after sweating on a bus for a good six hours. All the profits from this little resort go to a small orphanage nearby. Tomorrow we visit a waterfall, a Spanish fort built to ward off the likes of Francis Drake, and a town (Livingston) alternately founded by Quiche indians, African captives, and French and English pirates.

More to come.

The Contents of Elliot´s Suitcase, in Order from the Most Numerous Items to the Least

1: Socks (14 pairs)

2: Underwear (14 pairs)

3: Books (5)

4: Sandals (none)

5: Towel (none)

6: Passport (worthless)

Humorous Similarities

Elliot Wild, three hours after arriving in Guatemala:

"I had no idea passports expired!"

It was good to know that my peculiar brand of absent-minded stupidity isn´t endemic to me.

So, as things stand, Monday we´ll be making a trip to the American Embassy where Elliot will begin the process of entering the country legally. For now, it´s probably best to stay within Guatemala.

Holy Freakin´ Crap!

Honduras has Firefox!

(La Ceiba, Honduras, right by the coast)

Bjorn the Great

Bjorn and I had a brief talk about religion last night, one of the few we've had in a long time (a great switch from college). And given that he's now not here, I figure it's a good time to let him know just how I feel.

Bjorn is, without a doubt, a great human being. Last night I tracked him down in a computer lab, burning CDs for everyone who wanted copies of all the photos we took, and told him that I was leaving in the afternoon to do some more diving. I was trying to convince him to stay as well, but someone had to go pick up Elliot Wild from the airport. And it was naturally going to be him.

I'm not sure why, actually, but it was obvious from the beginning that if anyone was going to stay behind, it was going to be me. Bjorn had taken responsibility for anyone who came down, myself included, and he decided to leave early on the chance that Elliot's plane came in the morning.

It didn't occur to me until a few minutes after I'd worked out rendezvous plans with him that he'd put a great deal of thought into what we would do when I arrived in Guatemala. It was almost as if I were a guest. Naturally, as a tourist, I was busily thinking about how I could squeeze out the most benefit from the trip, whereas Bjorn was thinking just that for the both of us.

That's how he thinks most of the time, actually. I've rarely, if ever, seen him be selfish. He's consistently and unfailingly thinking of others (though he's made it clear that our friendship is over if I end up winning the heart of Miss Gorgeous Chilean, about a bat's chance in hell). The contrast between us was quite stark to my eyes last night, when, after feeling a bit proud about getting two more dives in, I was utterly unable to convince him to stay, simply because he wanted to be absolutely sure he could be at the airport to pick up Elliot. If it weren't for him, neither I nor Elliot would be anywhere near South America. I wouldn't have gone diving, or to see magnificent Mayan ruins, or eaten dinners that cost a dollar, or a host of other things, without him.

I don't know when or if he'll read this, and I'm hoping he doesn't mention anything so to avoid the embarassment...but he's one of the least selfish people I know, and one of my greatest friends, and I thank God that I've been allowed to know him.

(Bjorn rocks.)

Big-Ass Fish, Turtles, and Other Wonderments

The picture doesn't do this pufferfish justice. It was easily as big around as a cocker spaniel.



Bjorn and I posing for the photographer, who happened in this case to be a gorgeous Chilean girl.



This was a lucky find. I was a good seven inches away from his head and about to snap a close-up when he decided he didn't like my company and swam away. I managed to get in a parting shot.



It's a party, and you're not invited.



One of two bars on the island (both within sixty feet of our lodging), where pretty much everyone goes to relax. Or hear loud techno music, in which case you wouldn't actually need to go to the bar. Youd be fine in our room...with the door closed, and the fan on, and whatever else you could do to muffle the noise.



And, finally, the one we've all been waiting for...the gorgeous Chilean. Who, I might add, is taken, and so it's a good thing I'm leaving tomorrow...albeit late in the day.



(I think I'm going to cry.)

I've Got Crab...s

DSCN6505
Originally uploaded by bjornfu.

I'm pointing at him, he's pointing at me...it's like we've been friends for years.

The Plan, and Hooray for Me

As it stands now, tomorrow morning I will bid farewell to Bjorn as he takes the early ferry to the mainland and begins a long journey back to Antigua to pick up one Elliot Wild.

I'll be spending the morning diving in what our divemaster has called "the site of the island." No camera with me, unfortunately, but reports will be pending. After that, I've got two days to make it back to Antigua.

Wish me luck.

More Diving with Bjorn

Tomorrow Bjorn and I leave the island of Utila and take a day-long journey back to Copan.

It's a pity. Although we'll both be happy to be out of sight of the Chilean girl (once we discovered she was taken, I figured flight and forgetfulness would be the least painful option), the diving will be greatly missed. We managed to jointly rent a waterproof digital camera with three other divers. Check back later for pictures of, among other things, Bjorn smiling in saltwater, schools of generic saltwater fish, and a sea turtle.

Diving

Bjorn and I dove together today for the first time. Bjorn ran out of air.

Really. Apparently he looked down at his gauge to find it pushing (literally) empty. Thankfully, he was already ascending (about five feet from the surface, though underwater distances are much greater where scuba diving is concerned - five feet is almost another atmosphere of pressure) and well beyond the point of having to choose between surface air and the bends or drowning. Or I suppose I could have given him some air. The two most notable sights were a truly enormous lobster about forty feet from the surface, and a barracuda that was over two feet long.

I discovered today a peculiar trait about my Spanish-speaking abilities. They rise to the task of utter fluency when I'm talking to an attractive member of the opposite sex, in this case a gorgeous Chilean girl. It was great...no halting, no stops, and I didn't have an idea where the words or conjugations were coming from. It's too bad I don't have that skill in other important moments, like when I'm trying to explain to an official that he owes me a good deal of money ("Can I stamp your passport for you?").

I think the Chilean girl will be the focus of most of my language practice the next few days.

Utila, Dialects, and Bad Investments

As Bjorn has already mentioned, the local language is English. It took us three days to figure that out. And here I was thinking my Spanish was much worse than I'd thought.

Yesterday marked Bjorn's first experience with scuba diving. I spent about fifteen minutes with him in the water, taking a ten-dollar refresher course on the essentials (breathe in, breathe out...rinse, lather, repeat), which was enough to clear me on any one of the recreational dives the company offers. I went on two this morning. The sights, unfortunately, were limited, save for a few parrotfish and the occasional askance view of the extremely voluptuous German/Norwegian girl as she changed in and out of her equipment. I avoided her in the water, however, out of fear that the piercings that adorned her head might attract barracuda.

Oh, and a school of bright blue fish managed to swim right through/around me. That, admittedly, was quite beautiful.

Our dive instructor is, in the truest sense of the word, just plain cool. Bjorn bought him a beer last night as a form of reparation for his training mistakes. He regaled us last night for a half hour with stories from his previous jobs, diving or otherwise. I was really excited to learn that he graduated with a degree in medieval history. The most entertaining stories, however, came from his time diving in Thailand ("If you see a good-looking Thai girl...it's a man. They're all men.").

The hotel's kitchen is truly...astounding, given that, so far as I know, no one has gotten sick. (Hell, I'm surprised that the rat that lives inside hasn't gotten sick.) It's even worse than the Beat's kitchen (read through the link. Yes, it's worse). The refrigerator was cleaned out yesterday (roaches were evicted), but it still doesn't quite have the level of chill that I'd normally associate with a freezer...or an air-conditioned room. Or the shade from a lean-to. I've been putting everything in the freezer.

In that very freezer, as a matter of fact, a pineapple awaits me.

Utila, and it's Approximate Degree of Removal from Paradise

About 2.5%, I'd say.

Bjorn and I left Copan early this morning, making our way to the small island of Utila, where, according to rumor, scuba diving is cheaper than anywhere else in the world. After comparing prices, I'm inclined to agree.

Refresher course - ten dollars.
Two tank rental - thirty dollars.
Room and board - five dollars a night.

That works out to...oh, I'd say a good three hours of working at Chili's.

The island isn't all fun and games, however. The journey here included a good two-hour trip by ferry over waves that would easily have graced the set of The Perfect Storm. Bjorn thought it a great idea to venture to the top of the ferry and look at the waves up close. Ten minutes later and I was soaking wet and had lost my sunglasses. I was still impressed with the view, however, and chose to stay up top and watch the waves and spray. Bjorn went downstairs to throw up. I followed soon after, and only managed to save my lunch by closing my eyes and curling into the fetal position for an hour.

Our hotel is but eleven feet away from the only two bars on the island, each located on a dock. Tomorrow Bjorn learns to dive, and for a brief fifteen minutes or so, I get to join him. Whale shark season has just begun, and we're both hoping very much to see one.

Bjorn has a map posted of where we are. Check it out.

Copan

Copan, Honduras, is a very, very small town. For some reason, the inhabitants still feel the necessity to use the small go-cart taxis that everywhere grace the streets of Antigua. After a brief stroll through the town, I understood why - most of the distance between any two points is straight up.

The average slope of any surface in Copan is at least 35 degrees. Gas mileage varies between approximately 1,000,000+ miles to the gallon or 2, depending on which direction you are headed (down or up).

Bjorn and I visited a friend from his high school, currently teaching math at a small, disorganized bilingual school about forty-five minutes outside of the city (by foot, that is. Apparently the taxis serve another useful purpose.). The children, as always, are unbelievably cute, tempting the local tourists to take them home, or, short of that, to carry them around until one or the other collapses from exhaustion (usually the other).

The coffee is fantastic. But, unfortunately for me, refills are costly.

More to come.

Conversations with Bjorn

My days of being ambiguously gay are over.

Wazoo, walking through Parque Central with Bjorn: "Bjorn, will you hold my hand?"

Bjorn: "Okay."

Wazoo, after a moment of stunned silence: "Whoa...ugh, hold up. I totally wasn´t expecting that...eww! Oh man..."

Bjorn: "What? You asked!"

Wazoo: "Yeah, but I was expecting a ´Hell, no!´ or something from you, not a quick OK...dude, give me a second. That totally weirded me out."

(long pause)

Wazoo shudders. "Ugh."

Conversations with Kohei

One of our housemates is a young Japanese language student, and my primary source for practicing Spanish, since it is the only language we share.

English idioms are extremely difficult to translate. I happened to mention that I record my own music, which quickly led to a long-winded explanation of the term "Cakewalk" and why in English it signifies something pathetically easy.

How do you explain the meaning of the term "wet paper bag" as a description of...someone's...directional capabilities? I managed to explain the gist of the phrase - the bag has one opening, so it's pathetically easy to navigate, and yet I...people...still get lost. But why is the bag wet?

My proudest moment, however, was successfully explaining what I believe has been the influence of Greek language on pholosophy (making distinctions where perhaps there needn't be...men, de, and all that jazz). It took a good forty-five minutes, but he understood.

Thankfully, most of my conversations aren't that dense.

(Vete, carajo!)

Eva

I spent a good hour talking with one of the Cafe No Se bartenders last night after discovering that she and I had gone to the same high school in Tucson, AZ. I thought she had looked familiar.

At the moment, she´s stuck here. Apparently the Guaetmalan government frowns upon unregistered vehicles, and the U.S. government frowns upon bribing members of the Guatemalan government to get said vehicles registered. Her visa/passport is long expired, and if she tries to leave the country without paying the considerable fines she´s managed to levy against herself, she´ll probably be thrown in jail.

(My life is very, very boring.)

Inasmuch as I probably wouldn´t want to be in the same situation, I do envy her. She´s got a place to stay, a job that involves listening to live music every night, and a fluency that I probably won´t surpass for a good long while. The only advantage I have is the ability to leave when I want, which, given my current feelings for the area, isn´t an advantage I´d rather use.

Bjorn may be playing jazz piano at a Woodstockian music festival tomorrow. More to come.

Cafe No Se

Bjorn and I spent a good four hours at a bar last night, talking to British students and listening to three guitarists, a bassist, and a vocalist do covers of Pink Floyd.

She really is the greatest vocalist I´ve ever heard. Every cover she did - Tracy Chapman, Bob Marley, old-school jazz - was better than the original. I decided that any years I´d spent learning to sing were all spent in vain. Then I heard the British guy play, and I decided the same thing about guitar.

Forty-five minutes later, a former member of the Buena Vista Social Club came in with a few jazz buddies. By the time they got to singing "Guantanamera," everyone else had joined in.

(For those of you who don´t recognize the significance of this event, picture Sting coming into a bar and playing Fields of Gold, and you just happen to be sitting in the corner watching.)

Holy Freakin' Basura

I've been in the country for six hours. I've listened to the greatest female voice I've ever heard, and that's no exaggeration. I've had a sip-shot of a fantastic...tequila, whiskey, I dunno. But it was good. And if it weren't for the apartment lease I've already signed, I would most likely not be coming back.

Really. Damn my foolish planning for the future.

Tonight, I'll be playing in the very same bar in which I listened, drank, and cursed my obligations. I'm hoping to get some WazooSings.com coverage there.

More to come. I love it here.

In the Steps of the Great Bjorno

Come Thursday, and I will be escorted by Bjorn the Great through scenic portions of Honduras and Guatemala, where I will begin an intense two-month program of Spanish immersion, including, but not limited to, eating with the natives, drinking with the natives, working with the natives, drinking with the natives, drinking with Bjorn, and carousing with the natives.

(kidding...but only because mixing malarial meds and alcohol is probably unwise)

Check in Thursday, and anyone who has been following Bjorn's travels are advised to check mine as well, since mine, like myself, are infinitely greater.