This is not the blog you are looking for...

So I got asked the other day, if after all my blogging about blogging and general blog-0-drama, I was still bloggin here.  Not really.  I likes me the livejournal better.  I can mix and match private vs. public and personal vs. professional in a way I like better.  Not that it makes any real difference.

So there probably won't be much to read here in the future, I'll be keeping the little profile thing together so I can comment on other peep's blogger accounts, and so that someone could read my old travel blogs.  I might be back.  I can't seem to make any decisions.  It seems nearly impossible to RSS any of my non-public livejournal posts and myspace blogging is lame, so maybe.  Whatever.  If you're reading this and want to make an effort to read more, you can follow the links below.  

Soooo (for the third time), if you'd like to read about my music related blog, and you have a myspace account you can go here

OR

If  you'd like to be able to read my music related blog without the necessity of having an account you can go here. 

OR 

If you'd like to read my personal blog, you'll have to make an account here then find me here and add me to your friends. I know, I know, making accounts are annoying, but this is the world we live in.

See ya round. I hope.

open ≠ closed

So, I had intended to leave this blog to float around, like a coconut swept out to sea after a hurricane, through the inter-fishing-nets simply as a memoir of my travels during the summer of 2006 and nothing more.  Sort of a time capsule.  I wasn't sure why I had written it in the first place. 

 

I guess it was because, people... friends really, had quite literally demanded it of me.  Funny, on my last two major travels abroad I had written long emails to a large number of people but that wasn't good enough this time.  It crossed my mind that even though the emails were far more personal and open, they weren't what was now demanded socially. 

 

Is this because the emails couldn't have public running comentary?  Not that my blog ever really did, but is it?  I can't really think of any other reason.  The emails were just as (if not more so) simple to receive and could contain pictures as well (in fact, gmail was far easier for some reason to upload to when dealing with third world internet connections).  Was it that the values of my interested parties had changed so much as to perfer reading my thoughts and misadventures in a more public forum?  Is it possible that they perfered the public, communal nature of a blog (even if no one ever read it) over the intimate more (albeit, slightly) personalized email?  Or was, "you have to write a blog about it" just the "in" thing to say in the spring of 2006?  Maybe we really are all robots.  Open circuit vs. closed circuit.

But as to why continue it?  Well, I guess for number of reasons.  I've come to realize that I have some things I'd like to say in a public, permanent forum from time to time.  I write regularly in a couple journals and fill notebooks with poems, lyrics, designs and song ideas, but I wanted to be able have my own (imaginary) bullhorn.  I have wrestled with this desire in myself for many years.  I was taught in my childhood (implicitly if not overtly) to disregard my desires, particularly those that others called "selfish".  My kinder-acceptance of this has spun a web of repression within my psyche to anything I really want or for that matter, am.  I am a performer, I have been since I was born.  I love the spotlight, I simply love to feel that energy pouring out into an audience, and if I'm lucky flowing right back.  I have opened my mind to the thought that there is no inherent wrong in this.  It's not selfish, it's not narcisistic, and even if it were, it's who I am.  I maybe a snake, so um, yeah, of course I bit you.  Duh, I'm a snake.  The world needs all types.  Except Penguins.  They're evil. 

A major counter-reason that has kept this blog post-less for so many months during my internal debate is the fact that it is just that: public.  Whoever wants to invade my head by reading this, can.  Well, this may seem like an incredibly overly-analytical, self-important and high-brow reason for continuing/not-continuing something so (in current western society) mundane as a personal blog, but: I want to be an (mostly) open person.  I think that one of the most basic differences in people, governments, social scenes was that they were either open of closed.  As I side note, I know this Either/Or statement over simplifies the discussion and puts things in a perspective that doesn't reflect the real world, but if we put aside the Kierkergaard for a minute, is has some useful analytical results.  Governments can be either open or closed (relatively).  Minds, art scences, skate board crews, burger joints, city council meetings, and liquor stores can all be either open or closed.  But not 7-11, they're always open. 

After a pause for thought, this is all bullshit, and I'll leave it at this: what I'm trying to get at is that I like the idea of attempting to be an "open" person because and "open" mental paradigm can accept and attempt to understand the existence of other (even "closed") paradigms.  A closed can not.  Open can tolerate other ideas, life styles, discussions, closed can not.  SO, yeah, a lot of mumbo-jumbo to preface the statement that I've come to some realizations that lead me to believe that I need to have a more open mind, personality and perspective.  Of course, tempered with the wisdom of Elliott Smith, "If it's your decision to be open about yourself, be careful or else, be careful or else".  Okay.  That was really narcisistic.  In a way.  In a way not really, because although, I am paranoid, there really are some people who are actually out to get me.  Some of them even think they love me.  But the only way I can really be destroyed is fear.  I think.  Maybe not.  Maybe if the penguins get me, I could be destroyed.

Whatever.  I'll post again.  Soon.  And I'll post something that doesn't explain why I'm posting.  I guess I had to get that off my chest before I started in on another things.  But I'm open for business.  Like 7-11.

 

It's not the end but we can see it from here

Okay. So. Um. This is probably my first blog post without any form of caffeine or alcohol. Yes, I have a problem. I have blogging compulsive/hatred disorder. So I need one or both of those drugs to get me to take off my metaphorical clothes and take a shite in the public fountain. Or maybe (by the looks of that last sentence), not. hmmm.

What to say about the starting. . . Okay, We´re in Juayua now, and since I last blogged we have been to Santa Ana, Lago Coatepeque and Cerro Verde. And lots of other things have happened as well. For example, after a week of feeling mostly healthy, being able to walk and hike and drink and sleep (sort of), I have come full circle to not wanting to come home after having some homesickness two weeks ago. Which brings us to the fine print. We´ll be home in nine days. Isn´t that the number of times Ferris Buhler was absent? Nine times. Ni-ne times. When Cameron was in Eygpt´s land. . .

Nope. I don't want to leave. I don't want to leave this place where honking is a not just for fun, but a moral nessecity. Who needs reasons when you have a loud horn? And besides the fact that most of the time horns have been used to instill the fear of gawd in me, they have also proved useful. For example, this morning we were staying in Lago Coatepeque. Through our intensive scientific research we had discovered that we could hear the bus honking from the otherside of the lake at about six in the morning. Since, once started, this honking didn't stop until the bus had driven all the way around the lake to our hotel (why quit when the job is only halfway done?), we could safely use this as our alarm clock. This fifteen solid minutes insured that only the dead would miss the next bus that came around seven (who's horn had an even more abrasive tone and diligent driver, he provided us with sounds that not even rocks slept through).

Sleeping would have been dumb at Coatepeque anyways. This is your picture perfect post-volcanic eruption caldera that formed a deep and beautiful lake. It was shadowed by it's still semi-active and fully active cousin volcanoes and made for an incredibly tranquil couple of days. Oh and super-rad bitchen camero swimming. Perfect water. I couldn't get enough. The only non-tranquil moments were the excessively loud Maddonna moments. Now we loves us some 'donna. But seriously the dude at one restaurant played lucky star on repeat at least sixteen times. No feckin B.S. Now, I know, and have been repeatedly told, that some people respect her political and religious stances and therfore find her to be vaulable and meaningful beyond her music, but lets be feckin serious. Come on. She's a pop star. She's not even John Lennon. She's selling political awareness with sex. And don't give me that tired old argument of, well she's drawing attention to these issues, so who care how she does it? That´s a load of crap. If you get people's attention you have to consider the quality of it. If they're looking at you because you're mock fecking somebody on stage they're not going to have some epiphany about their place in the world or their personal politics. They're gonna be thinking about two things. Gettin some and gettin some more. You can sell anything you want with sex, but you can't make people think. Ever. and I think the last thing we need with most people's current religious and political views is less thinking. Eh?

Feck, that was a rant. No wonder nobody posts comments or reads this thing. Well feck it, it's my blog. I have another rant before I tell more about what's been happening. I promise, there will be some more meat here, some descriptive tales of places I went and things I saw. But first. How is it that it is illegal to smoke marijuana or refuse to fight in a war but it's legal to pollute a small body of water with a jet ski? Innocent, harmless activity? Sure, of course it is. In small bodies of water (or even in larger water systems) the pollution created by these water toys is relative in scale to the atmospheric pollution in a hypothetical world in which all of us drives 747's to 7-11 for every little errand. Let's face it folks, it's cool in the States, and to my eyes becoming cool elsewhere in the world, to burn as much gasoline as is humanly possible. In the states, down here, everywhere I go; there are motors left on, bigger and bigger and biggest vehicles with one person in them, huge oil dumping boats in lakes and rivers that will take centuries to clean out. Feck, how does anyone in the business of making and enforcing laws expect me to take them even slightly seriously?

So now, back to the beautiful town of Santa Ana. We liked it. Santa Ana has been a center of the coffee producing plantations in western El Salvador for hundreds of years. Therefore, it's always had an interesting history of having some very, very rich people and the peasants who actually get you your joe. Some of the uprisings that led to the civil war here began around Santa Ana. But by the time of the actual war, the west had been thoughly pacified by the secret police of the military. So, there was a lot of colonial era buildings left to be seen. Hmmm. Yeah, no camaro. The Santa Ana theatre was definently a fascinanting peek into a bygone era. Erected through philathropy of the coffee elite it was built in the early 20th century to reflect those georgous old school theaters that had been built since the 18th century. Kinda like a Carnegie library I suppose. That sort of thing always leaves me feeling a little odd. It's beautiful, it's a history lesson and it's made possible by figurative (or often literal) slavery. So yeah. The main cathedral was also fascinanting and just as much a confusingly complex metaphor. It was massive on a european scale (or so I was told by my personal expert on such matters) but was a complete hodgepodge of gothic and byzantine and other construction styles. It looked like a bunch of churches in a blender. I know little about such matters, but even I could see it was feckin weird. Whatever, the thing that really stuck with me was the acoustics in there. Man, I gotta buy me a big church like that. I don't really care if gawd actually lives there or not. When you play music in there, it sounds like he does.

We also had a good lesson on getting around via bus while in Santa Ana. We wanted to take the bus to Cerro Verde (one of the volcanos that hovers over Coatepeque) and climb around on it. We went to where the guide books said to go, but no bus. We asked people and got told a lot of things but no bus. Finally after hours we saw the number of bus we were looking for, flagged down and were rewarded with a ride back to the Santa Ana terminal and the info that the next bus left in over three hours. We decided to call it a draw and retreated to a bar that looked out over the franken-cathedral to lick our wounds. We had learned that the guide books (all of them, lonely planet, let's go, what ever) do only one thing: confirm the existence of the country you are going to and maybe a few of it's cities. The rest is useless feckin crap. We also learned that in this part of the world, people will happily give you the most thorough, complex directions to a place, when they have no idea where it is or if it truly exists. We also learned that when you give up on getting some place and decide to just go drink some beer, it's maybe not best to wander into a cute little church south of the town square. Who knew they were having a funeral? Not us. At least not until we were halfway to the front, gaping around like the tourists that we are. Back to the gawd thing, well, umm, yeah, I know that didn't look to good, but it wasn't my fault. I swear.

So we left Santa Ana, it's hourly rate hotels with cockroaches, pretty buildings that I can't seperate from the totalitarianism under which they were built, and it's thin young rich people who sneer at us then go slack-jawed when we respond to their snide comments in Spanish. I'm not fat, dammit, I'm big-boned. My mom says so. Yeah, I want some gawddam ice cream.

We got to the Lago Coatepeque and enjoyed walking around and sleeping and swimming. We also finally got our bussing together and caught a bus up to Cerro Verde. From there we spent the day hiking down and way, way back up to the summit of Izalco, a still semi-active volcano. It was really cool to walk down through the lush jungle and fertile ground of Cerro Verde to see the wasteland the is the landscape of Izalco. It had been erupting for hundreds of years and only stopped back in the seventies or eighties (I wasn't listening closely enough to the guide, I was busy gaping). So the surface of it was a steaming wasteland. Like I was Frodo or something. Only no orcs, flying thingies or big red eye. But otherwise, just like that.

It was also an incredibly difficult hike. We started at over 6000ft. descended over 2000ft., climbed back up to about 5500ft. Then we made the return trip. For me at least, seriously thin air, rough as hell terrain and a big boat load o' asskick. We had these two Israeli guys in our group. These fuckers were 22 and had just gotten out of the infantry, so, they... well, they made me feel really feckin old. But it was so worth it. The view, the terrain, it was double rad.

Today we bussed into another small mountain town, closer and closer to the border with Guatemala and our bird home. Juayua just happened (no okay, honestly we knew it was going to be happening) to be having their weekly festiva gastronomica. So we found a hotel and mingled with Salvadorenan tourists while feasting on amazing food. We discovered a heated milk and cinnamon with rum drink just as it started to pour down rain. Yeah. Puppies. All in all a very nice day.

I guess we, or really I shouldn't speak for Auna... Okay, I, like the natural aspects, the small town culture and the interesting peoples on the busses of these countries more than the more expected, typical gringo magnets. I like being able to use my Spanish to offer two old ladies my kercheif to wipe down their seats after it has rained (yes I'm a frickin boyscout). I like keeping my outward calm as I get told that some Arabs (not all mind you) are just bad and need to be killed. Maybe about 30% or so. The hard part, is choosing which ones, right? I like being able crack jokes with the old lady trying to sell me a wicker basket and the young hippy who was successful in selling me some stupid hippy crap. I like learning. I like learning that I hate reggaetron. I like seeing new parts of the natural world. I like being sad to see them destroyed right in front of me. I like coming up with a bad ass lick while sipping rum and watching the thunderstorms rage. I like blowing little kids minds by not only having red hair and playing some slick guitar, but by being the only gringo they're ever met who understands their comments about those things. I like sadly and hopelessly watching the locals throw all their trash out the window of the bus into a nearly pristine river or forest after they offer me a seat and help with my backpack. I like wondering why processed food is more popular than the cheaper, healthier, local traditional food. I like the way the stars are different here. Especially while I'm night swimming on my back and staring at Jupiter. I don't want to go home. But all things must end. And I really, really want to get back to my music. I want to play in front of people and grow my music. More and more and more. I want it so bad.

We've got two more towns in El Salvador, then on to Guatemala and three days after that, home. I'm excited to get back to my work (not my feckin job, mind you) and sad to be so close to leaving. I like it like that. Bittersweet.

Oh Lord, I'm stuck in Suchi again

So I have no idea where I left off. I've been drinking pilsner for a while, so, well, here we go:

I think I left off with us heading to San Salvador. Yup, San Salvador was sweet. But something that quite nearly made me believe in gawd happened before we left. We walked out to a restaurant at the edge of Suchitoto that looks over the lake. It was an incredible place and we had it pretty much to ourselves. We had really enjoyed Suchitoto and so we were celebrating and drinking and the only other people there were at a far off table. After we had eaten one of the best meals we've had in central america we watched the sunset, drank more beer and watched the firefiles on the cliffs below us and the lightning above us. The restaurant was supposed to close soon so we asked for the check and the lady who had been serving us asked us if we would like to instead join "him" with a nod of her head to the other table. Mind you we were having this conversation in Spanish (not Spainish, we spoke that later). We were a little confused but we were waved over to the other table by a man there.

Turned out dude was the owner and he was entertaining some friends that were in from San Salvador. We stretched our Spanish legs and talked with them all about art and music for a few hours. We learned gradually that these people were all highly educated artist and teachers, and that they spoke alot of English, but didn't mind our Spanish (always nice to hear somebody tell you your favorite lie). Then the owner turned to me and said in perfect English, "So you are a musician. Now, I will drive you to your hotel and we will get your guitar. Then you can play for us and I will see if I can give you a gig." No, I'm not James Bond, I said something incredibly articulate, like, "oh, feck, really..., cause, like, feck!". Five minutes later we were in the town central park and I was drinking more beer from my new jefe's wife's bar and giving a little concert for a couple tables full of people. Auna and I did a number, it was tranquil and yummy.

So I got the gig and was to return to Suchitoto for a Saturday night show at my now favorite bar in Suchi. To give ya'll a little more back story, the first week in August is pretty much a national holiday, so the entire country shuts down and parties. Hard. Like frat boys with a coors sponsorship. But with nice people. And cute children that like to sit on Auna's lap. Bitchen camarro, eh? Ehhh? So we went off to San Salvador to stay with Auna´s family friend, but i had left my heart in Suchi.

And my nerves. I was really nervous to play for what could be a mostly spanish speaking crowd. But Auna helped me not be a stress biscuit by keeping me in sweet, sweet lovin and chocolate and peanut covered frozen bananas. Dude. I have no sweet tooth. But. But feck me on a tuesday those chocobananos were kick-ass-tastic.

So back to San Salvador. We went to the local fair, the modern art museum, the anthropology museum, a nearby Mayan site and out to see some music with my newest favorite person Karla. I have to give a super big thanks Auna's aunt and uncle for the hook up with her. Karla had taught english to them and they had stayed with her during breaks from there time in the peace corps down here. She turned out to be our best friend, info source, political debate partner, spanish teacher, cook and just all around best friend. Yeah dude, she kicked ass.

Besides all that, it was really cool to be speaking Spanish with her everyday and not just about simple things. She is well educated and politically aware, so we learned alot of new vocabulary if you catch my drift. No not swearing. Other stuff.

I don't really have it in me to go into detail about everything. But here's some really brief highlights. The Mayan site is called Joya de Ceren and is basically the Pompeii of the new world (dangerous phrase that one). If was amazing to see the food on the table and the crops in the field as they had been 1500 years ago.

The Modern Arte Museo or MARTE was really fascinating for a couple reasons. The first of which was that all though it's centrally located by the fair and another museum, people that live and work within a block of it have no idea it exists. I had three women in a farmacy tell me that I didn't understand them and that what i was asking about didn't exist. But the problem was more likely the material in the museum not my Spanish skills. My favorite exhibition was a series of monkey images using many different techniques and based on phrases from Kafka. In Spanish, that qualified as some "over my head" shite. Really, really fascinating though. We spent hours there, it was Auna and I's virgenal museum trip and we sang Madonna the whole time.

The last thing of note was when we went out to see some music and got rocked in at least two ways by a band playing, yes yous guessed it: Bon Jovi, Guns and Roses and Def Leppard. Seriously, only the hits. Two horns up.

So yesterday we came back here to Suchi and I played two long sets at Rene's Vista Conga Restaurant. First gig in El Salvador. And besided that, fun as hell. I had a mostly bi-lingual audience, and a few peace corps quys. Everybody was well lubricated and having fun. Auna and I did a number together and that felt really, really good. It was our first time performing together. We got fed, beered, rummed, and paid forty bucks. Hell´s yeah. Rene, si estas leyendo este, muchas gracias y buena suerte chero. So yeah, I'm on cloud nine.

Tommorrow we're on to Santa Ana. We don't have much time left and since I'm feeling better, my slight homesickness has evaporated and I don't want to go home. But that's for later today we are celebrating. Besides we were up until 3:30 last night and I'm a very fuzzy boy. Gawd i hope this is comprehensible.

Rawk on ya'll.

Happy Dogs, Happy People.

Just a quick one while she's away. not sure why I'm referencing townshend. Two and half days in El Slavador and man this is a really different place.

It fascinated me, while traveling in SE Asia, how different Cambodia was to Thailand and Thailand to Vietnam. While there were so many simularities, the differences seemed to stand out so strongly. I caught myself looking for such extreme differences between Honduras and Guatemala. There were but there weren't. Here there are. Or not. Maybe it's got more to do with how my perspective shifts. So many variables, physical health, travel duress, beer temperature, hotel matress quailty, dog talkative-ness, pretty pretty foggy greeny mountain visibility, water swim-a-bility, baby cuteness, smell of the buses, and all the other stupid stuff that adds up to my answer to Auna's loving question: how are you?

El Salvadorans, after my nearly three days of expertise, take better care of their dogs than Hondurenos. Also they smile more and engage more. Auna pointed it out that while the people stare at us about the same amount here, when we say hello, they respond. The dogs still won't talk to me, but whatever. I have no steak.

We're in Suchitoto now after a night just south of the border in a town called La Palma. La Palma is known for having its own style of modern-muralist-surrealist kind of painting. And not to disappoint nearly everly wall of every building was covered with this art. And they paint it on chunks of wood, and they paint it on little tourist curios, and they paint it on toliet seats (well I didn't see that, but I wish i had and you get the idea). It was quite a contrast from the honduran towns we had just left. They had had a simliar colonial legacy and they had similar cobblestone streets between the paved highway and the dirt paths of the residential areas. but the ubiquitous art made La Palma a world apart. It was a cool style, because you could see that there was the influence to the godfather of the style (fernando llort) but it seemed like just about everyone painted and they all had their own variance to the style, not just a copy cat technique. kinda like jazz might have once been I suppose, before it died. Okay it's not dead, I shouldn't say that. But like jazz was before it was choked to death by definition and arose as a zombie to haunt us in the night.

Why jazz, Christopher? well we're listening to what I believe Roland Kirk in a very bohemian cafe on the edge of the parque centro en Suchitoto. Es muy bonito y tranquilo. Despues la tarde de ayer estabamos bañarnos en la cultura y comida de este pueblo. Por la tarde hoy vamos a caminar por una cascada grande y posible bañar alla tambien. Man it's awesome to be able to say, "hey I think it's Roland Kirk, and I'm really enjoying it", without having some fecking jazzer correcting me. As tourists seem to kill the culture of the beautiful towns they visit it's the fans and practitioners of jazz that have complete choked the life out of it for me.

But Suchitoto has survived tourists like me so far. There are a surprising number here. Nothing compared to your average Guatemalan or Honduran town, but from what we've been told El Salvador is still feared by many tourists, so it seems like a lot. This town is another pueblo de arte. There are so many galerias and the restaurants and cafes are all selling art. And's it's good stuff too, not just derivitave crap for tourists. With the cafes and the city merging with the parque central and the view of the mountains and the lake, it's really idyllic.

Last night we went to a beautiful restaurant and had a romantic dinner of amazing food. We sat just off in a garden at our own little private table underneath a bell tower. Afterwards we walked back to the hotel through yet another parque (this one decorated with a couple pieces of art made from war garbage). As we passed a window, I saw a very hip looking, ponytailed, goateed man of about fifty watchin us from a window. We said good evening and walked around the corner only to find him welcoming us through huge wooden doors into a very hip little bar. Can I get a another hip in here folks? Maybe I can get a "burnin" in for you yazzers. This bar was all wood with the doors swept wide open onto the huge colonial streets and dramatically high ceilings. The walls were all covered with posters of John Lennon, Faburundo Marti (the namesake of the local revolution FMLN) and Che and other musicians and other art. There was quiet samba music playing (you think the rock shows are loud stateside, Central Americans believe if you can talk or even think while music is playing it is far to quiet). And when I asked the old señor for a cuba libre he responded, "si, por supuesto" (yes, but of course). He, Auna and I launched into an extended conversation about music, politics, differences of rum, more music, tourism and half a dozen other topics. He spoke slowly enough that I was able to understand everything he said and I could tell he truly enjoyed talking with us. It was the essence of why I travel in one evening. It wasn't even ruined when we payed him in US dollars (the official legal currency here).

Auna and I bought ice cream on our leisurely walk home and watched another mind blowing lightening storm from the roof of our hotel. ¡que romantico! We earned it too, Auna has only felt healthy for the last two days, and I'm still recovering. It's not all wine and roses folks.

Oh yeah, and my iPod fecked up. Or i should say, it got fecked up when the bus guy threw my pack on the ground. It wiped all of it's data. From my recordings to the music, everything. Whatever, I'm still an apple boy. If I added up all the times a microsoft product has gone tits up on me (my version of 98 could only save one in four word docs), I would run out of fingers. I do believe you get what you pay for in the computer world. But still, I'm bummed. There were some really cool recordings and some good song ideas on there. Plus now how am I gonna rock me some Eagles? God, I hate the fecking Eagles.

Okay so that was more of a Yes tune than a Who tune (unless of course we're talking about who's next era who then I guess that would work, but anyways). Either way, I wrote another tune last night in the hotel room, which was really nice because I haven't touched my guitar for two weeks due to my spending every spare minute I could find being sicky sick boy. Yeah, I'm homesick. But only to start recording again. Cheers. Puppies.

So long and thanks for all the fish

Get it? I know you think you do. So I just spent ten days or so on the bay islands in Honduras. And then the last week back in the highlands near the border with El Salvador. But back to the islands. Yes tropical. Yes reggae. Yes beautiful. Yes lots of tourists. Yes eco-system in extreme danger. And believe it or not: NO Español.

The Honduran Bay Islands were originally populated probably by the Maya, but by the time Robinson Crusoe washed up on Utila (yes that´s where we went) they were all gone or dead. Probably dead, from smallpox and all those nice european diseases. But after Crusoe the islands were essentially populated by English speaking (although their English is far less comprensible than Peter Tosh´s) people. They were part of the good old British empire until they were ceded to Honduras in the 1800´s. And the Spanish speaking Honduran´s only started immigrating there in the 70´s.

And now that the entire class is asleep, you are probably wondering who cares? No one, I just thought it was interesting to go to a place in Latin America and have a white man angrily explain to me that he WAS a local and that he hated the "fecking Spanish" (as the locals refer to the people of the rest of Honduras - I know, glorious irony) and that I had better speak English with him. So much for trying to speak the local language.

Anyways after a couple of days on Utila we had realized that the ¨Spanish¨ were truly fecking up an amazing island life by bringing in huge cars (the whole island has like two km of roads - wait, can you even call that roads? or is it just road?) and creating a population explosion (those catholics and their fifty children). It´s kinda sad that irony sometimes. In trying to make the islands more Honduran and less British the Honduran government is importing an unsustainable way of life. I know, I know we norteamericanos really like our ridiculous cars too. And some of us even like standing in the street and simply reving the throtle of our motorcyles for 45 minutes. Which is exactly what this guy has been doing ten feet behind me. Sure, I see how manly he is. Is that why he has that sloppy grin on his face?

On the Bay Islands we also learned that honesty is at best a questionable policy. I wanted to spend my birthday where I feel most at home, in the water. I wanted to begin a SCUBA course and get certified. SO, I filled out the questionaire honestly, stating that I had been diagnosed with asthma. First mistake. The second was to take the recomendation of the dive shop and go to the local Doc. to get him to sign a medical release. Hah. He had me blow in a tube and then proceed to tell me that I was going to die if I went diving. Seriously that´s the words he used. Probably going to die. He told me I had to go back to the mainland to see a specialist who would make me run up and down stairs for a half hour and I had to prove that that didn´t make my lungs tired. Sound a little ridiculous? Well baby, you ain´t seen nothing yet.

This one goes out there to my fellow asthmatics who are tired of being treated like geriatrics. Oh and even more so to you smokers (wish I could say I never ate that sweet, sweet forbidden fruit): All while examining me "Doc" (John´s Hopkins Grad from the pretty papers on the wall) was smoking. No, not in private. In the examining room and with the unabashed flair of a true lifer. Oh, and did I forget to mention: fecker was drinking beer out of his coffee cup as well. Yup, that´s right. It was ten in the morning. And the worst part was the metherfecker was wearing the most ridiculous tie-dye outfit I have ever seen. And I have four Grateful Dead and four Phish shows under my belt to back that claim up people.

So, yeah I was bummed. Auna was really sweet and sympathetic and offered to help me do what any red blooded american man wants to do when met with a farsical, yet insurmountable and very real rejection: get pissed. That´s drunk in British-ese. Yeah we started early and hard and had a grand ole time. But in ending up in the bar where all the divers end up at the end of the night, we gained two very valuable insights. First, Never lie to your bartender. Once you´re drunk you´re going to tell the truth, so you might as well start with it and not look like an ass. Besides when you tell the truth about things like your birthday to nice, nice, pretty, pretty Australian bartenders named Sarah you might get a free beer (or was it shot of tequila, Auna isn´t around to tell me and I can´t recall). Also, when you tell her the truth about why you aren´t diving on your birthday, she and her divemaster boyfriend (a nice, nice man whose name went bye bye with the tequila) will convince you and your hot, hot, nice, smart, nice, hot fiance that you should do only one thing: LIE.

Now for those of you with the ole "I trust doctors disease", the reality is I could have a bronchial spasm and die anywhere. Wait here it comes, while I´m typing this blog... up, nope false alarm, just a burp. Seriously, whether I´m here, 100 ft under water or on a mountaintop, I´m pretty much fecked. Unless I´m actually in a hospital that is. And I loves me dem hospitals.

So I went through with the dive training and here I am to tell the tale. It was one of the coolest things I have ever done. If anyone reading this has ever considered diving, do it now. Then go some where with a reef and dive that. Oh, and if you´re a PADI official, that asthma stuff is just my sense of humor, read my file, I have zero health problems. The wildlife is amazing enough but the act of diving underwater is incredible. It´s like flying. I have done a slo-mo, headfirst dive into a sunken cargo ship at 100 ft and it was like... undescribable. And the wildlife. Sweet Jesus. I swam with a loggerhead turtle whose shell was larger than my torso. I got charged by a four foot barracuda (minutes after hearing a story about one taking off a lady´s ear for the earing). I hovered above an enormous spotted eagle ray for what seemed like forever. I watched 30 or so reef squid move in perfect squadron-like postions as if they had telepathy. And the most incredible thing I saw was while hanging over the front of the dive boat as we raced to our dive site: 20 or so dolphins leaping and diving with the bow of our boat, following our exact movements and all only two feet beneath my face.

So where was my lovely weef-to-be during all this? Unfortunately, she didn´t take to it like I did. But I´ll leave that tale for her to tell. Her blog for these adventures is called "scardy cat in paradise". In fact, I´m realizing that my laziness combined with sickness of the last week has allowed her to publish two blogs probably making this entire tale redundant for most ya´ll. It´s true, I have no friends of my own. It´s okay, I understand, she is the prettier one.

A couple last things about the cayes. If you go there, get off the main islands. Don´t stay in a resort, but get to a smaller cay with no roads or cars (when´s the last time you´ve been in a place like that?), trust me, you´ll thank yourself. Also, Most of the laws there go out the window. There is no police presence and those guys smoking dope and blowing in your face are the closest thing to law enforcement ya git. So let them smoke their joints the size of babies arms, don´t stare at them, smile at them when they pilot your dive boat and they´ll probably help keep the really crazy drunks off your back. Lastly, the food was all fried. And I mean FRIED. They had access to some of the best lobster and game fish in the world and they fried it. All of it. In fact here in the mountains they fry everything too. Honduran canola oil conspiracy?

Here in the Highlands we´ve had a pretty good time. It´s been 70 degrees and occasional rain. We´ve actually been able to take hot showers. It was sooooo hot on the bay islands. The one day that the easternlies (those are the winds that brought that columbus dude there) didn´t blow I felt like marshmellow. Yup big and white and sweating in the fire. And square. Very square.

First we went to Santa Rosa de Copan and I had a bit of a hangover so I don´t remember about a day. Auna has just joined me and is now reading over my shoulder, smirking and saying, "a bit?, A BIT?". Hey when on the cayes... or whatever. After I recovered we got to know this little mountain town and fell in love. It´s really pretty. Colonial style archtecture with cobblestone streets and all. Also we managed to find some nice non-fried food.

Annnnnd! we toured the Flor de Copan Cigar factory. If you´ve ever smoked a Honduran, it´s probably come from there. They make hundreds of different styles and produce at least fifty different labels all under one roof. Well okay two roofs. They have a multi-year process of taking tobbaco from all over central and south america, humidifying it, fermenting it, roasting it and grading it before they ever start rolling their own. They de-vein it and roll it using molds in a three step process then pack it all up into boxes that they make right there under their second roof. Quite literally wood and tobbaco goes in and boxes of cigars come out. "Factory" doesn´t really work as a name because they do everthing by hand. Okay, they use one fork lift to load the trucks. Oh yeah, and one more super cool little machine that "breathes" through each cigar to make sure that not too much or too little air can be pulled through. Auna and I did the whole tour in Spanish and came out understanding a lot, like who knew that the temperature of the fermenting tobbaco during the fermenting process determines the tobbaco´s strength in nicotine. No, they don´t work like phillip morris and raise the levels to hook and kill you, they actually try and make sure it´s not to high so as not to take your head off. Anyways, I hear tell that their cigars are reeeaaaal nice. As a PADI certified diver I would never consider doing anything so risky with my lungs.

After Santa Rosa we went to a even smaller town called Gracias. We landed in town and found it a little more than difficult to find a room. It was the culmunation of their month long celebration of culture and most of the inns were full. We decided to do a hike in the local national parque called "Celaque" or box of water in Lenca (another pre-columbian non Mayan tribe, the currency is named after their last chief, Lempira). It´s the water source for eleven rivers, some as far away as El Salvador, which, umm, isn´t really that far away. And so, We took a lunch, used our Spanish skills to avoid needing a guide (and to save some lemps on transportaion) and had a great day. It was real romantic like to be off alone together and hiking. Auna and I hiked Mt. Si for our "first date", so this was pretty sweet for us. It was a truly beautiful place with next to no human presence. The hiking was steep and high. At where we stopped we were at over 2000 meters which is a whole lots of feets.

We saw one of the most amazing creatures I have ever seen. It was like a gigantic moth and a mouse had been caught in that machine from the movie the fly. Yup, that´s the best description I can offer. Sorry, the upload rates here are abysmal here or I would load the pic I have. We later found out from one of the parque guards (he was effectively doing his guarding while stretched out sleeping in a field with his radio, dogs, gun and of course his machete - I love Honduras) that the name of this beast was Alma de Perra. Yup that translates to soul of the dog. or more crudely: Soul of the Bitch. Sounds like the best album Motorhead never made.

After the hike, to celebrate I proceeded to get really, really drunk. joke. Seriously, I got really, really ill. In fact I´m kinda missing some spots due to fever and intense body aches. I don´t really remember much of Gracias other than trying to eat fried chicken and french fries (by the way that´s far and away more common here that tortillas and beans). I couldn´t do it. Auna got sick too. She´s had a mean head cold and has actually had trouble staying warm. And she had to take care of me because I was beyond non-functional. It was bad. But I´m pulling through, and Auna got us on the bus back to Santa Rosa de Copan and we´re back in a nice room at one of our fav hotels and we´re resting up for San Salvador. I got´s me an awesome weef-to-be here folks. Trial under fire shit for realz dawg.

Thanks to everyone who actually read all this, and thanks to those who started, realized they couldn´t stand my pointless rambling and switched back to watching vids on youtube. Is anyone besides "Ivy" (whoever you are: I don´t know how to spell, and I´m sensitive about it, so leave me the feck alone, okay?) actually reading this? Should I continue to bother? Whatever, I kinda like it. No, I lie. I love it. And I hate myself for that.

Much love. Adios.

Cultural Diversity, the Ludicrous Idea of Nation States and some stuffs that happened.

Okay, I don´t remember where I left off, but I think it was a rant about pictures and such. Well, sorry for whining, but it is hard to deal with a computer that isn´t yours, in a language that isn´t yours and for a purpose that doesn´t really come all that naturally.

So I had talked a little about our Spainish language school and how that was. I can´t really explain how awesome it was to live with a family and be immersed in spainish. I have never come this close to even being functional in another language. I have gotten to the point that I can speak to some people about some things without really having to think. In fact I have even noticed that I think differently about some things when I THINK about them in spainish. When I write a tune in Spainish, then I´ll know I´ve made it.

After we made our tearful goodbyes to our family we went by bus to Rio Dulce and got hammered by our first of many succesive three day periods of culture shock. While we had learned alot staying in San Andres, we had gotten used to the people, the dialect of spainish, the small town life and the rhythm of class and study. We had gotten used to not having to pick out a restaurant and being able to rely on a very high quality of food and place to sleep (although, there was that one bastard ass rooster who would crow all night long). In Rio Dulcie we ran right into a three way confluence of vacationing middle class Guatemaltecans (we didn´t know there was such a thing, becuase there wasn´t any in verapaz or peten), vacationing yachties (think slighty more sober parrotheads) and a large, young, animated political gathering for canidate Colum of the UNE party who is on his way to being the next president of Guatemala. He apparently has some crazy ass ideas about socialism not being all bad and corruption being definently all bad; but as we all know political talk (especially my political talk) is cheap.

We liked the area around Rio Dulce alot, it´s basically a huge lake/river/lake/river/hotsprings that flows into the carribean and is surrounded by biosphere reserves and has (supposedly) manatees swimming in it an a castle guarding it from pirates. I was bummed to find no pirates there currently, as it has been a long time since I have had to pull out my ninja skills and beat me some pirate ass. But speaking of skills, with our newly expanded spainish skills we found our way out of the normal backpacker havens and into a hotel close to the castle and filled with the aforementioned vacationing guatemaltecans. It was fun to go and tour the grounds of the castle and be the only whiteys and see what a weekend off was like for the locals. In a perfect example of our perfect spainish skills (actually just mine, I did the talking for this one), we got totally confused about the boat trips going down the river/lakey thingie to the city of Livingston and bought a ticket for a ferry that didn´t leave for four hours. We then sat with our backpacks and watched dozens of happy, spainish speaking people get on boats down the river. Eventually a old gentleman (who seemed to be running the show) took pity on us and put us on a boat that need two last people to complete the normal compliment of ten.

And that´s where Auna´s spainish skills saved the day! It turns out that that day, whatever day that was, was National Teacher Day in Guatemala. Instead of getting spit on, as they would have in the good ole U.S. of A, these fine teachers got to take a day trip to an area they didn´t know to learn more about their country. They thought we (read Auna) spoke Spainish really well and even laughed at one of my quips and I understood their questions AND they understood my answers. My first successful conversation with the some locals that I wasn´t either paying to teach me Spainish, or where the conversations involved something other than prices, schedules or the weather.

The trip down river with them was also really cool we explored another cave, without a guide this time, double bonus scary and got to see some really beautiful scenery. Although what we saw went by REALLY fast beacuse our lanchadore (boat driver guy) was about 12 and understood one simple fact in life: fast is good, faster is better.

When we got to livingston we got hit by another confluence of cultures with the Garifuna (I´ll let ya´ll google that one if you care), and a totally diffent set of languages and lifestyles. I think I´ve covered this in my last blog, but I´m to retarded from heat exahustion right now to figure out how to look at my old post, so sorry. Oh, and while I´m making no sense, a couple shout outs: Matt: I went to the rebel base from star wars, so I´m cooler than you now. Cori: stop making fun of me and tell me how to use this stupid blogger thingie that you made me promise to do. Basil: I have photographic proof that you are faking your life as an american actor/musician and that you are actually running for vice president of Guatemala with the UNE party. Okay back to other stuff.

After Livingston we went on a bit of a Maya trip. We went down to Quirigua, which is an really beautiful and really interesting site. I won´t bore you with the Mayan details but it was a city state that was interelated with Tikal and Copan. Oh yeah, did I say we went to Tikal as a side trip during our time at the spainish school? It was really cool, especially beacuse it´s the original rebel base and all, but man it was like fuckin disneyland with all the stuuuuuupid american teenagers and the carnival like food (crappy) and prices (high). WE much perfered Quirigua because not only did we feel like we undrestood much more about the Mayan structures and (huge, 30 ft. tall) stelae but we didn´t feel like cattle. We had to find our own way there and had to stay in the near by town which until the archelogists came to town (another cool part, they´re still working on the site) was a united fruit town. it´s was nice to be Spainish functional and away from other tourists. A little thought in to the asthetic beauty of a restored site also goes a really long way which is what made Copan kick ass.

We left Quirigua, and by soliciting info from the wife of a Guatemaltecan archeaologist (who spoken in verb tenses I´ve only heard about) we were able to enjoy the beauty of multiple perfectly timed microbus and larger bus trips. It´s amazing the way they´ll take you closer to where you want to be than a greyhound and some taxis, you just have to know what to ask and to stand confidently at the roadside in the middle of nowhere. We crossed the border into Honduras to a small disappointment, Auna was bummed to not see my passport photo get me stopped and searched and I was bummed to find out that the Honduran Migra accept Guatemalan stamps. So no new trophies in the passaporte. Honduras has been very different. But in many ways just as different as each area of Guatemala. Maybe I´ll come up with some comparisons later. It´s too hot to do anything to actually guide this babbling.

We really like Copan as a Mayan site. It was very informative and beautiful. It lacked the wildlife of Tikal but it also lacked the hordes of stupid english speakers. Copan has been very thoughtfully restored and I believe this encourages it´s visitors into a quite sense of awe. Copan Ruinas (the town within walking distance) was really cool. I really liked the cobblestone streets and the mix of colonial spainish architecture and the cosmopolitan nature. Also the food was amazing. That is one thing, the food in honduras has been much better, even the food at the ruins restaurant was good and dirt cheap. Although I do miss the way Guatemaltecans serve you a beer with a pile of lemons and salt. Speaking of beers, after a long day of templing, we went out and partied. It´s hard to explain that touring ruins can be exhausting but Auna spent a day in bed in Livingston from heat stroke, so for those of you about to call me a wuss, well, go a head. We had fun partying but we were rather disgusted at the bar in our hotel when the belgians who owned it turnned out to be fairly intellgent, nice guy sleaze bags with little to no cultural sensitivity. After repeatedly leering at Auna one of them proceeded to tell me how their place was all about backpackers getting to meet the local people. Yeah? Fuckin Idjits. The only locals there were the ones bringing us beers and they weren´t talkitive or even smiling like they had been in the other bars. Further, they played a madonna concert video at mind numbing volume and proceeded to tell me about how her social commentary was brilliant and sublte and some other horsecrap I forgot. As Auna put it later, I may even agree with Madonnas politics but that doesn´t mean her inspid little displays of her political opinions mean anything what-so-ever. Especially not to the Honduran wait staff forced to endure her. And further I was totally embarassed that those fools thought this was cultural confluence. Well it was, but it´s not the kind I´m looking for. Actually Auna put it in much better words while we were debriefing on the bus, you´ll have to ask her if you want to know what I really think about it all. Hah.

Now we´re in La Ceiba on the coast and we´re leaving for Utila island in the morning. This is a shitty, hot, dirty, sleazy, whory (judging from the girl who keeps looking at me from the street) drunk, weird ass town. There´s a really rude, loud texan yelling in spanglish to complete the scene. We won´t miss it here. And we´re heading into tourist central. I think it´s gonna rock and suck at exactly the same time, which should violate the laws of physics and bring about the destruction of the universe which is, of course, my real goal on this trip. I am however looking forward to learning to SCUBA for my birthday and I plan on a least one entire day consisting of a hammock, a bottle of rum and a cigar. Wish me happy birthday in your minds folks, I probably won´t be checking my email via satelite on the islands because I rather spend that money getting drunk. Cheers.