Sunday 25 February 2007

Maximon

.....my body ached after an hour of a bus journey over cobbled streets. We arrived in a small town in the mountains around Antigua. The town is worn out, faded by sun and cracked by tremors. I turned right up a steep incline, dotted by half hearted peddlars of tourist ware and strange little statues of a suited figure. About 100 metres up the incline I turned into a typical courtyard. A group of people sat hunched, carefully arranging an elaborate floral design, consisting of petals, fruit, cigarettes and other selected offerrings for the MAN. Three women dragged my eyes away. Two of them had eight cigars each, carefully bundled into one. All were burning and they took deep drags of smoke and clicked fingers and spat in respect. A large burst of flame errupted from the small group. Their elaborate design had gone up in smoke and they paced around mumbling utterances of hope. A large blue building hemmed in the south side of the courtyard. It seemed to be a church and on entering I was greeted by 6 large tabes, heavy with wax. Large candles glowed from them. Different colours for different wishes, black is for death. There were several black candles. Beside them lay upturned cigarettes slowly burning with bent ash. Plaques adorned the walls giving thanks to Maximon. I gazed into the belly of the building and the great man sat there. An old man bowed before him placing gifts of liqour and food while flaggelating himself with coarse whippet branches. I waited until he had finished before approaching. I climbed three steps and found Maximon. He wore a dapper suit with a sharp wide brimmed hat. A Texas style moustache hung beneath his nose. In his hand he held what seemed to be a cane. The people worshipped this pale faced saint, he resembled a boss from the old United Fruit company think man from Del Monte in a black suit. ..........
........These people do religion. I am a lapsed Catholic, yes a person who has been worn down by scandals and ignorance of the church in Ireland. I cant place the relevance of it in my daily life. Or maybe it is all in the presentation at home. Here all religious festivals are accompanied by joy. There is reverance but its hidden amongst smiling faces. At home its a sombre thing. This week has seen countless colourful parades, giant symbolic floats with depictions of Jesus carrying the cross. Numerous weddings to signify Ash Wednesday, where the brides wore bright brash colours and crowds gathered outside just to applaude them. Locals seem comfortable with the church and its place in their lives, not as a dictator but as a guideline and not a rule book.
This contrasted interestingly with a group of Evangelical missionaries who gathered outside the cathedral. They huddled in a massive group with one mans voice ringing out in an American twang. I overheard his pleas for God to save these people. Then I moved on.........

Thank you all for listening. One more week in Antigua and I´m gone mofo. To the lake, the most beautiful lake in the world.

Sunday 18 February 2007

The Washer Womens Paparazzi.

....they come in packed chicken buses from surrounding villages overlooking Antigua. Their diminutive size alows three to a seat. Great bundles of soiled clothes lie on their laps and in the above bag space. The bus trundles through cobbled streets, sinking in the centre and stops outside a yellow building, housing an ill looking hospital. The women gather their carefully packed bundles and pop out of the bus. From the hospital they cross a manicured green park towards a row of bright orange arches. Cracks in the stone work and paint give them a jaded look, but the colour compensates in the strong sunshine. Beneath the arches is a line of sinks. They come here to wash their clothes, as they have no running water in the village. Each woman takes a position at one of the faded red sinks. The gently take heavy ethnic skirts, blue, red, white and black intermingled in a chaotic tartan. These dresses reach up to their brests, giving the impression of long legs, but their short blouses make them seem disproportionate. They place the garment into the sink, which gently slopes deeper into the water. And they scrub. As I sat there watching these women going through this ritual I saw 3 different tour groups clamber out of air conditioned buses. Each group had their own washer woman. Each group had a hundred flashing cameras. Nobody asked if this intrusion was welcome. The women seemed use to it and ignored them. Occasionally one would lift an eye suspiciously searching out danger. These women have heard the rumours of the Gringos coming to their villages and kidnapping their children to harvest their organs or raise in ádoption´. I didn´t know I was in a human zoo....
.......The Dutch are over-running this town. Maybe thats an exagerration but the majority I have met are Dutch. Overall their seems to be 2 categories of people here. 18-22 year old students and middle aged dropouts who run businesses. I dont fit easily into either one. The former are an interesting bunch. They come to learn Spanish and travel Latin America. Some end up staying here for months, enjoying the afterparties and nightlife. It doesn´t take long to meet people here and there is a party atmosphere. By the end of six months, they have ended up working for $2 an hour just to exist. I am surrounded by these teenagers in my hostel. Its ok, but sometimes you cant help feeling you are alone. I met one guy who will remain nameless, who has almost assumed royalty in the nightlife here. He is teetering on the brink, a holden Caulfield waitng to happen. At 18 he has already broke down once, or maybe its just rubbish talk. You never can be quite sure when you are travelling.
As for the latter. They are infinitely more interesting. Genuine hippies, mostly from the States, some from Britain who got so sick of the real world they ran away and sat in the bars and criticised their homelands in comfort. These guys are pumped full of lives of excess, sense of abandonement and years of travel. They gather in Cafe No Se and entertain each other playing music, denouncing bush, writing lists of music prohibited (U2,Oasis,Tom Petty, to name a few) and drinking. In short, you can talk to them for hours.
......´want to go to an after party?

´si´
´come with me´
After parties , unofficial clubs and purely underground in this town. Full of us lot trying to carry on into the night. And curios locals looking for a foreign fling. Interesting.

Thanks for listening, you been great, a bit heavy I know, but get back to work, I provided some rest bite.

Tuesday 13 February 2007

Guatemala, good god

Arrived here after an interesting 12 hour journey which involved 2 bus changes, 2 immigration offices, thousands of helpful locals trying to make money off me, back spasms from pygmy sized seats and wreckless driving by everyone who has ever touched tarmac in this country. It was worth it.
......after milions of years of great earthquakes and volcanic eruptions a huge valley formed at 1500 metres in Central America. The Spanish, discovering the rich volcanic soil decided to establish one of their quaint colonial towns here and went about erecting many one storey buildings of charm planned out around a market square in the centre. All was well until the earthquakes struck again, and again and again, rendering this town uninhabitable in the 1500´s. But the people with the questionable never say die spirit(stupidity) re-inhabited the place. They were prepared to put up with the earthquakes and I can see the reason why. Antigua is stunning. It is flanked by three huge volcanoes, Pacaya, Fuego and Acatenango. The cones of which jut high into the sky covered in lush jungle up to their waist. One of them throws smoke into the air constantly and to such an extent I swear I could smell it. The town sits uneasily between these amazing natural occurances. One redhot belch and it is all gone. The town itself has an interesting nightlife because of people like me, learning Spanish but is generally serene save for the infamous Guatemalan chicken buses shattering the serenity. Tourist board of Antigua should give me a job.
............on occasion while travelling alone you must lower yourself to the lowest common denominator of entertainment in town. Moreover than not for an Irish person it is an Irishbar. This may seem extreme, but considering I have not met a single Irish person yet, I felt obliged to seek them out on a lonely night in Antigua. It beat sitting in a cafe bar alone, hoping the barman would have some pity conversation with me. The following is roughly an account of what happened. It has been distorted by beer and whiskey.
One Gallo por favor. The bargirl asked my name in a pitying way. I responded cheerily, happy for the company. She was Canadian with an Irish mother and father. The guy sitting next to me exclaimed when he heard of my nationality, he was Danish and the owner of the bar. He questioned me at great length about the inside of the bar, its decor and if I thought it was authentic. For an Irish bar abroad it was. Tacky and full of Guinness adverts. He then warned the only Irish drink they had was Baileys because of strict importation laws. fair enough, he may aswell cash in. Then he ambled away behind the bar. Thats when I met German Eddie. Giant grey locks of hair sprouted from beneath his flatcap. A native of the Fatherland but resident of Kerry for twenty years he tried to tell all he was Irish. In the background the first chords of Irish Rover began playing, I turned to find the Danish owner winking at me knowingly, (I was the first Irish person he´d come in contact with in months). Eddie began to Irish dance hysterically and grabbed my arm forcefully, his flat cap barely controlling his hair beneath. His German moustache gave his nationality away. Within moments I was involved in a bastardised ceile. The space was no bigger than a kitchen and all wanted a go. Free shots of whiskey surfaced and disappeared quickly. Locals began getting involved. (At this point I began thinking I was a performing Leprechaun, only missing a Shellaleigh and Pot of Gold), Old women came up, asking to dance with the Irishman. Before long it was over with German Eddie draped on a Guatemalan woman of a pensionable age being dragged out the front door to who knows where. All was good, to a point as I bumped home through cobbled streets, tripping over giant footpaths and dodging dangerously placed window ledges.
Go on yis good things, hasta luego, I´ve started intensive Spanish.

Saturday 10 February 2007

Adios Me hi co

It took 12 long grueling hours to get from San Cristobal to Antigua in a shuttle bus. This miniture buses serve only to cramp up every muscle in my body and making my arse numb, anything could of happenned. This Antigua place has an Irish bar, and I have a house keeper here. Her name is Anna and think of the little fella from Fantasy Island only for a woman.
....there is a certain stereotype of a backpacker that is usually scruffy, long hair or dreads, ethnic clothing, it doesn´t matter from where just once its made by some poor villager whose tribe us Europeans whipped out with the flu and an certain air of body odour because thay have not washed in a week because its what the natives do. These people stick to their own kind. When they see me a lobster red t-shirt wearing gringo come into a hostel they think Gringo who will feck off home after two weeks. They are the equivolent to travel snobs, making snap judgements about everyone who doesn´t look dirty, and dosen´t smell of petulia oil or whatever is native to these parts. bums, I´ve even seen some begging here. For fucks sake.
I am in Guatemala now, where everything is slightly more nuts than Mexico. It was late when I got here but it seems quaint and colonial. With 3 huge volcanoes surrounding it and the fact that it was destroyed three times over the years does not make me nervous at all.
After

Tuesday 6 February 2007

An Irishman, an Englishman and a Swede.........

....miming an illness has become an interesting thing to do for travellers with absolutely no Spanish. Mafin a good egg from Sweden had stomach cramps for the last two days. He needed something for it and with little Spanish tried valiantly to explain his lack of bowel movements. Resorting eventiually to miming out his ailments with shoked onlookers laughing at him openly,
.....San Cristobal de Las Casas is where I´m at right now. It´s a hippy town in the Chiapas in Mexico. Its high on altitude and attitude. I´ve been here for 3 days now and instead of gawking at the native Mayans zoolike(they still believe cameras steal your soul and if you take a picture of a church its soul goes too, wonder if thats what happened at home?) I´ve decided the best plan of action is to take in the town itself. It is like Nimbin in Oz, Hoi An in the Nam etc. Yes there are hippies all over this place, some begging on the street. These hippies are robbing the local peoples staple means of earning. Get a job bums. I´ve hooked up with Mafin and Dave, both sounds blokes and hit the clubs of the town. Caught a salsa band straight out of Latin America Machismo and a reggae band playing Ska and Bob Marleys greatest hits. Drank some free pink stuff and roamed the streets looking for some tacos. Yeah its a holiday.
.......the market radiated with the smell of dried fish, fresh meat and bulls bollox(seriously its a delicacy) when I came across a stall while waiting on Mafin talking to a person he knows. A pottery stall stood in fromt of us and behind it a young boy stared down intently at his crotch. He was fiddling with a piss of cling film and his mini me. Luckily he was not serving food.

How yis anyways hope yis are all good, Pat Rafter

Saturday 3 February 2007

Wa ha ka (oaxaca) Security Meltdown

.....walked down to the Zocalo(main sq) this morning to find an interesting site. About 1000 police and army had blocked it off and only let in foreigners and workers. Those knowledgable about recent troubles here (Jasper, Vinny, and Noleen,sorry Noirin) know that a strike lasted for six months here and was nasty. Today there is another strike and I´m hiding in an internet cafe looking out at sweating Mexican soldiers with giant riot shields. The protestors have been served.
Wahaka is not Fozzy Bears punch line but a nice if slightly boring colonial town. Lots of mariachis and samba dancing and history. Which brings me to museums and art galleries. At home we have them in other languages,( I think) why cant they here. (sound very English of me, or American, apologies). The sun just won´t relent and is doing damage to me, also the wildlife is against me, in one day 3 birds shit on me and I was stung by an indeterminate insect. Bring on the malaria.
....hola, I´m homar from mexico city, djou wanna go dancing.
....no, gracias, homar I´m how you say straight. Keep to your side of the dorm.
And this is how I make new friends.
I leave for San Cristobal de las Casas tonight.