Clay is Still Alive

The End

2009-08-27T15:53:00.003-04:00

Well friends here it is, the last post. I fly home tomorrow, and looking back I do not have nearly as much to say as it seems I should. This traveling, like any sort of deliberate living, inspires a lot of change. That makes it hard to relate to the person I have been, even recently and hard also to comment on him and his time here. Looking back on the things that he or I have said, I can count on my fingers the times we have been right. I expect that number will shrink even more with time. It always does. It is almost enough to make us stop speaking, almost.

I remember being asked about this trip and saying that I was not determined to see every Central American country but to see as many as possible as completely as possible. I wanted to firmly cross a few countries off my list and to have no reason to return. Of course it is virtually impossible to see anything completely, especially such large and complex things as entire countries.

I remember how much I wanted to escape America, its cities, its chain stores, and its various other problems – like they did not exist here. Now I have been, and I have seen. I do not claim to know the truth, but hopefully I am getting closer.

After two months of traveling, these may seem like unremarkable revelations. Beggars, I am afraid, cannot be choosers, and that is all we travelers are. Beggars, with little or no plan, rolling along, we try we try to open ourselves up and receive whatever this too-big too-strange world cares to share. Without knowledge enough to form a question worth answer, we howl at the moon, the bottle, the bus and all the other gods that govern reckless lives. In the museums and the conversations uncertainty is repaid with like. In the most unlikely places little bits of knowledge are gained, and somewhere out there on the highway the strains of deliberate curiosity feed hungry dreams. That might be the nastiest trick wildness ever played on civilization, for they are the dreams that make it so difficult for us to rejoin our coworkers, and the weight of our newly acquired knowledge and uncertainty serves only to close our mouths when our friends ask us what we have seen.

That, if overly romanticized, is the way I now wander home, much like I wandered away. Though I have changed, the path has not. I do not know where I am going. I am only vaguely aware of what I have seen, but I know that I was here. In this summer of 2009 I walked, rode, drove, climbed, flew, swam, thought, wrote, and lived through some beautiful places.

Living in a Boomtown

2009-08-25T16:33:00.007-04:00

I am now in Playa del Carmen and in a much better mood than when last I wrote. I have officially given up and given in to the trappings of tourist life. I have often said that every point of view is valid, and worth consideration. With that in mind, I am spending my last few days observing what I have spent the last seven weeks avoiding, the boomtown.

Playa del Carmen maintains one stark distinction between the big two Mexican beachfront towns, Cancun and Acapulco. It is young. Walking along Quinta Ave., the Playa's main drag, there is not one building to be found of more than ten years age. In fact the layout of this beach-hugging town is very different from Cancun and Acapulco. They are towns divided where the old town, which once survived as a port dealing in physical commodities, is set far inland from the hotel/condo strip out there on the beach selling sunsets and the drinks that mimic them. Yes Playa del Carmen is a new breed with little past to way it down. Everything here is built specifically to get ‘em in and get ‘em out while facilitating as much commerce as possible in between. In a previous post I mentioned the idea that we industrialized nations have streamlined capitalism for import. If so then we have done a poor job in comparison to what Mexico has managed with tourism.

Among all the silliness here I have managed to have a pretty good time. Thanks to mass commerce and industrial tourism there are plenty of ways for a poor boy to have some fun. I have found a cheap hostel, and plenty of cheap food. The people who work in the fancy places have to eat somewhere too. When I first got to the beach, I was somewhat upset to see the endless string of umbrellas and beach chairs all with advertisements for massages. I put on my "leave me alone" face and prepared to struggle through to the beach when one of the more tenacious barkers informed me that free five minute sample massages were available. As it turns out every one of the stalls gave a five minute sample, and I of course took full advantage. It is a little bit of a drag having to move every five minutes during an hour-long massage, but it is certainly not worth paying to fix. Lying there in the sun I also meditated on the future, a subject seldom friendly to places like Playa del Carmen. How long can it last? Will any one here or anyone who has visited be any better off as a result of all this "progress"? They are silly questions to ask since they have so little bearing on the present, but I like to ask them anyway. I think Greg Brown said it well on his album The Poet Game.

"Welcome to the new ways, the new century. Welcome to a town with no real reason to be... It's a boomtown. We're living in a boomtown. It's gonna boom just as long as the boom has room."

Shunned by My Peers, Banned by the Authorities

2009-08-23T14:08:00.007-04:00

Howdy. After a minimum of struggle, I have escaped Chetumal. I must admit though, that after a month and a half I am finally experiencing the first real downer of my trip, and it is a two-parter. The first part is having to give up hitching and get back on the bus. I am still walking and hitching when possible, but those situations are occurring less and less here in Mexico. That means I am spending more time packed into buses and hostels that are becoming increasingly touristy and exponentially less exciting as I near the end of my trip. I am in Tulum today. On the map it is followed by Playa del Carmen, Cozumel, and Cancun. I have had a good run, but it appears to be all downhill from here.

All this bumming about, walking, hitching, and camping have largely confirmed my own suspicions about life without principal. Thoreau certainly was right about life being sweetest when lived closest to the bone. I now see this, but to my surprise I am having serious difficulty explaining it to anyone here in the Yucatán, hence part two of this particular downer. The first couple times I was given the opportunity to tell my fellow road folks that I hitched or walked from the previous town, admittedly I was expecting a response along the lines of, "how brave," or, "how tough," but I have not received it yet. Almost universally I have received a slight furrowing of the brow, a long "hmmmm" and a quick exit, as if to say, "He must be the one those guys the guide book warned us about." It seems I, a white English speaker in Mexico, have managed to isolate myself even further. I am too pale for the locals, and too dirty for the travelers.

Considering all this I have been in a bit of a sour mood for the past couple days, and today, well today was just a little bit too much. Let me preface this story by saying, that if you are a lifeguard at a beach, I probably hate you. Sorry about that, but I have always had a problem with lifeguards at the beach. Visiting the Tulum Archeological site today, I did like most everyone else and quickly walked past the Mayan Structures in favor of a dip on the beautiful beach it backs up to. If you saw the movie Planet Terror that came out a couple years ago, Tulum is where the end scene was shot. While swimming, I was whistled at by the lifeguard for being too far up the beach, too far down the beach, too close to the rocks, and my personal favorite, for treading water for too long. It was difficult to tell from so far out, but I think I even got the Spanish equivalent of "Don't make me come out there!" I was whistled and yelled at so much that the people around me started to get upset with me. I probably should not go into the details of what happened from there. It really is not important. I will issue you all a quick bit of advice though. If you ever find yourself in the situation I just described do not compete with the lifeguard by using the emergency whistle on your backpack, they do not like that. If possible it is also best not to carry your argument up onto their little platform, apparently lifeguards are big on personal space. Just remember those rules and you will probably not be thrown out of the Tulum Archeological site.

Until next time, I may be banned, but I am still alive.

A Fool´s Walk

2009-08-21T18:16:00.004-04:00

Last time around I wrote that bit about knowing what your own feet can do. I had no idea that I would find out today. When I set out this morning from my hotel in central Chetumal, Mexico, I had every intention of walking to the edge of town and hitching from there. The mass of concrete, steel and glass that is Chetumal turned out to be a sprawling one, and just getting to the edge turned into a 5km walk in itself. When I got to the highway and saw that road sign reading "Bacalar 30km" the familiar urge rose up. I put down my thumb, and I started walking. Aside from the blisters and the sunburn I really enjoyed the walk.

The fact that I am a big fan of rebellion to just about any cause (especially when rendered in an artful and useless gesture) is probably obvious in my posts and in this trip itself. I remember more than one time when I have been down to my last dollar and spent it on a lottery ticket as way of spitting in the eye of the universe. "So you leave me with one dollar? Well screw you I don’t need it", I would think to myself. My favorite kind of rebellion to has always been self-reliance, in any form. I say rebellion because so inward an action cannot really be considered a protest, but it is certain that every time you make you own way you are saying to the systems, the governments, the general order of the universe or whatever else is in control, "I don’t need you". I am not talking about biting the hand that feeds, just growling a bit.

As much fun as all this is, I must caution you. When you buck the universe, you have to be prepared for the repercussions. Sometimes you walk all the way to Bacalar from Chetumal to find that for some unexplainable reason the Western Union office has closed at 3:30 on a Friday afternoon, with no plan of reopening until Monday. You find yourself nearly broke and required to take a taxi all the way back to Chetumal. With a mixture of disgust and the overwhelming humor of the situation, you lift your eyebrows and crack a broken smile as you watch the mile markers -- the ones that were so very important to you so very recently -- whiz by. Eventually you find yourself still in one piece, still alive, and right back where you started with nothing to show for it but a story (hypothetically speaking of course). I will check back in if I ever get out of Chetumal.

Belize... Check.

2009-08-19T16:37:00.003-04:00

Howdy. I am writing today from Corozal, Belize, a town on the Northern end of this country and the Eastern edge of this continent. "Can't go no more 'cause there ain’t no more land!" Said Dean Moriarty. I can however go swimming, and I intend to.

Today as well as a few preceding it have been long and tiring, composed of short rides and long walks. Hitching in Belize has proved to be much more difficult than in Honduras. I do not mind it too much though. Finding out just what my legs can do is an experience I need every so often, and the ridiculously laid-back nature of this country needs a little hardship, if for nothing other than punctuation. The hardship has found its punctuation in beautiful resting spots. Last night was spent at the Crooked Tree Wildlife Reserve (where I may or may not have almost stepped on a snake and run off into the night like a little girl). The night before I chilled out at a great little guesthouse in Belize City with the kind of instant friends you can only make traveling.

Tomorrow I will attempt my last boarder crossing and return once more to Mexico. With only nine days left before I fly back to the states, the clock ticks more loudly than ever, dovetailing nicely with my decreasing funds and the pressures of the life I left behind. I love it when a plan comes together.

Livingston in Retrospect

2009-08-15T15:10:00.004-04:00

Today I spent about two hours on boats getting to Belize from Livingston. In all that time my mind did its best to wander, but could not get a way from Livingston and one of the overwhelming themes that has been following me this entire trip. That is the slow march of Capitalism. It is visible absolutely everywhere. Most of the indigenous cultures that survived the first rape of this pseudo-continent did so by adapting to and embracing European culture and religion, so it is not surprising that a similar situation is now occurring.

What is most disconcerting is that the tide of industrialism, as it rolls along this narrow isthmus, seems to be carrying all of the undesirable parts of the first world way of life and leaving the good behind. Cultures crumble, concrete sprawls into the jungle, and many people are finding themselves less a part of anything they have known before, and more like an interchangeable part in an international machine. The strict regulation that keeps our water drinkable and working conditions tolerable are nowhere to be found. Perhaps that will come with time. Perhaps, after one hundred years of industrialism at home, we have created a more streamlined version for export.

Of all the places I have been on this trip, resistance to the change has not been stronger anywhere than here on the Caribbean coast. The Garifuna protect their way of life, sometimes playfully, and sometimes fiercely, as if to say, "Bring it, this is not our first struggle." Sure they cater to the tourists in Livingston, selling t-shirts and handicrafts, but they draw a thick line between work and life. The community is strong, close, and in many ways isolationistic. It is also big, boisterous, and a lot of fun. Every night and plenty of mornings the bars quiver with the same percussive tones and hearty laughter that they always have. It is true that the tourist stalls and nightspots occupy the same space on the same streets, but little else can be said about their similarities. Maybe by seeking pay and pleasure within the same system, the rest of us have been shitting where we eat, and just maybe there is something to be learned from the Black Caribbean.

Old Country New Culture

2009-08-14T18:20:00.004-04:00

Howdy friends. I am still alive and kicking in Livingston, Guatemala. As it turns out my worries were just that, and I had zero problems getting back across the boarder. If there is one thing that can never be underestimated it is the apathy of Central American officials. The fact that recognizing my CA-4 status means the border guards could not ask me for any money surely did not hurt my cause either.

Though I’m backtracking through Guatemala, today I have found myself in Livingston a place that is completely foreign to everywhere else I have been so far. The twenty-minute boat ride I took from Puerto Barrios might as well have crossed the Atlantic. Livingston is a primarily Garifuna town with no road access to the rest of Guatemala. Garifuna is a people and a culture that draws its roots from various escaped and shipwrecked African slaves, as well as those from the British colony that once existed on the Honduran island of Roatan. This peculiar culture with its peculiar language (a mixture of African, European, and Amerindian languages) is an incredible testament to the human ability to adapt and survive. It is also a lot of fun to peak in on for a day or two. I think I am going to go now and do just that. Thanks for peaking in on my peculiar story.

It´s the Heat I Tells Ya

2009-08-13T17:26:00.004-04:00

There is not much going on in the sleepy ocean side town of Omoa, Honduras, on this summer afternoon. I get the feeling that there seldom is, and that is just fine with me. Yesterday I finished hitching to San Pedro Sula, and spent a night in the big city. After riding one bus out to Puerto Cortes this morning, I had every intention of catching another to Omoa. As the bus attendants barked at me in the Puerto Cortes station, the old urge rose up and I stared walking. Smiling and waving at the same bus drivers as I passed them in my truck bed a few minutes later, might have been one of the high points of this trip.

If anything stands out about this place it is the heat. A poor white boy like me could loose his mind in heat like this. We are just not made for it. I am doing my best to stay cool, and to keep my sanity, but to be honest the thought of loosing it does not worry me all that much. Looking back it has gotten me into nothing but trouble. I must admit that it is also possible that trouble was what I was looking for. One of the things that it has done recently is to completely overlook the fact that the Central America Four agreement between Guatemala, Belize, El Salvador and Honduras allows me only a thirty day stay in the region. That means that as of three days ago I am no longer allowed to be here, and I still have a whole country left unvisited.

One other curious detail of my life is that I have never gotten away with anything, ever. My knack for getting caught is so consistent that it has worked its way into my conscience. When debating the morality or legality of an act, I often find myself just going ahead with it and looking around for the cavalry. If I don’t get caught I must have been doing the right thing. Right? I told you my brain is no good. Tomorrow the plan is to hitch a few more miles to the Guatemalan border and pretend like I have never heard of CA4. If this is my last post, blame it on the heat.

The Flatbed Seat

2009-08-11T18:15:00.005-04:00

Good Afternoon, world. It is Clay here, and not only am I still alive, I feel like a million bucks. This solo traveling thing is wearisome business, and lately I have been seriously dragging. Fortunately, leaving Playa Tunco something wonderful happened. Two very nice men in a flat bed pickup stopped and gave me a ride all the way to San Salvador. I am in Santa Rosa de Copán, Honduras now. Save for a bus ride from San Salvador to the border, I have hitched the entire way.

I have mentioned before how we travelers are sometimes referred to as "broken". This certainly must be the case, because the amount of pleasure I receive from playing Jack Kerouac in the back of a pickup truck cannot be normal. Feeling the wind on my face and every bump in the road, singing every Tom Waits and Old Crow Medicine Show song I could think of, I have already knocked out a good chunk of Western Honduras. It does not matter whether I am propped up on a spare tire or a load of wood, as far as I am concerned it is the catbird seat.

My drivers have all be ridiculously nice as well. Two of my three rides offered to take me all the way to the north coast. I over heard one of my drivers asking his friend if they should ask me for gas money.
"But we don't need it" the passenger replied
"I think it is customary with Americans, I don't want him to think we're poor"
"At the next stop we'll just buy him a Pepsi, that way he'll know"

And they did. What wonderful people and what a wonderful country. Riding along I couldn’t help but liken the rocky topography just barely covered with a layer of green to New Mexico during the rainy season. Riding up into the mountains was just like hitchhiking to Cloudcroft all over again. There was one serious difference between my American and Honduran hitchhiking adventures. No one here yells, "Get a job hippy!"

Sunburn, a Bruised Ego, and a Ticking Clock

2009-08-10T11:47:00.004-04:00

It is Monday and I am leaving Playa Tunco. I have had a great time here. If anything can be said about this town it is that it is all surf. Sadly the same cannot be said for me. I did try, and if nothing else, I think the locals benefited from the comic relief I provided out there on the beach. Among other things, I managed to catch one wave sitting on my board and one wave standing backwards. One wave caught my trucks and washed me up in a cluster of children.

I wish that I could stay longer and give this surfing thing the effort it requires, but sadly that is just not possible this time around. Thanks to my ever diminishing bank account and the new revelation that the law allows me much less time in these countries than I originally planned (thanks a lot Central America-4 Agreement) I have officially booked my flight home. I will be heading out of Cancun on August 28th. Between now and then I still have Honduras, Belize and the Yucatan to hit so I gotsta go. I would love to stay and write some more, but there is also the chance that I might be wanted for indecent exposure from the incident on the beach.

Now I am headed back to San Salvador just as fast as my sunburned little piggies will carry me. From there I should be able to catch a bus into Honduras. I may be on the run, but I am still very much alive. Peace.

Playa Tunco

2009-08-08T20:12:00.006-04:00

It turns out my hopes were justified, and I had no trouble exiting Guatemala. I am writing you this fine evening from Playa Tunco on El Salvador’s west coast. Ever since I first saw the Pacific from a rocky bluff on California’s Highway 1, it has held a special place in my heart. I still remember lying down on my stomach, my head and forearms overhanging the cliff’s edge and staring out at water so blue I could not tell where it stopped and the sky began. It is nice to be back.

After a night in the soul crushing San Salvador, (I don’t have anything against San Salvador, just cities in general) I caught a one hour ride on a chicken bus out to La Libertad, and one more ten minute ride to Tunco. I have mentioned them a couple times now so I suppose I should explain what a chicken bus is. Chicken busses, the cheapest form of transportation in Central America, are renovated (some more than others) American school busses. The moniker comes from the fact that just about anything is allowed on, including live chickens. Of course every bus does not contain chickens, just the possibility of chickens.

There are more luxurious ways to travel south of the States. I ended up riding a first class bus on my trip from Guatemala City to San Salvador, and in Mexico it is often difficult to find anything other than a first class ride. These are more expensive much more comfortable buses on par with or even a bit nicer than American Greyhounds. One curious and some might say annoying feature of first class busses is that they show movies. So far I have seen Taken, Gladiator, Transformers, Bee Movie, Match Point, Knowing and about a dozen others so far, all in Spanish of course. By far my favorite was Braveheart. Rolling into town today I could not help but remember Mel Gibson stretched out on the table screaming "Libertad!" Now that is great filmmaking

But enough of that tangent, It is time to go get to know my ocean again. All you Pete and Pete fans will be happy to know I spent a good portion of today beating it up, which is seriously difficult with 8 ft breaks.

Goodbye Guate (Hopefully)

2009-08-07T12:46:00.005-04:00

Howdy everyone. It’s Clay here, still alive and still in San Jose Piñula, Guatemala, but not for long. After three weeks, the time has finally come for me leave this country. If all goes well, I will be catching a bus from here to Guatemala City and then one more to San Salvador. The trip should not be difficult to make happen in one day, but we will see. At this point I’m not counting on much.

My main concern is crossing the border to El Salvador. Thanks to the unsavory events that transpired in Chimaltenango, I am still without my bank card, and it looks as if I will be until I return home. At the moment I’m relying on my parents who have been wonderful enough to withdraw money from my account and send it to me via Western Union. I have been told that occasionally border officials will ask to see a major credit card or a fat stack of travelers checks to prove that one is not a vagabond (like having money and tramping are mutually exclusive). I am not too concerned. At this point the uncertainty is almost comforting. I would not know what to do with myself everything was easy.

I suppose I ought to say a word or two for Guatemala before I leave. As I am sure you have noticed from my previous blogs, I have had a fantastic time here. From Flores to Xela and everything in between, it has been a dream on wheels. Wheels connected to a poorly maintained and dangerously overcrowded Volkswagen Bus, but a dream nonetheless. Guatemala, I will miss you, your land, your people and even your slightly funky smell.

Finca Santa Ines, Yeah It was Alright

2009-08-05T14:37:00.004-04:00

After a week on the farm, I am officially back to civilization. I must say, it is nice to be connected to the outside world again. I had a great time at the farm, but I realized quickly that it was no new home for me.

I was picked up last Wednesday by a man named Pablo who is pretty much the man in charge. When I asked what I would be doing, he asked me what I knew how to do. The laundry list of past professions that fell out of my mouth surprised even me. So far I have been a park ranger, a event coordinator (read party maker in Vegas), a photographer, a dock worker (read fish thrower), a plumber, a raft/canoe/mountain bike/cave guide, a radio DJ, a stock boy, a car detailer, and a sandwich artist. Not surprisingly Pablo was not impressed, as none of these endeavors left me with any skills useful on an equestrian farm. That is after all what Finca Santa Ines turned out to be.

Pablo asked me if I liked horses. My response, "Yeah, they’re alright", might as well have been the end of my beginning. The majority of working with horses is pushing a shovel, first for feed and then for excrement. To take much pleasure in the job, you really need to love horses. When I met Eleazar, the owner of the farm, he was quick to tell me, between sips of his bottomless glass of whiskey, that Ricardo, his favorite horse, had cost 250,000 US dollars. At that moment it became clear that there is a serious gap between 250,000 dollars and "Yeah, they’re alright".

That being said, I did enjoy my week shoveling horse poo. It was nice to be out of a city for the first time in a while. It was nice to work with my hands; however, my itchy feet just will not let me sit still. From here I think I will head down to El Salvador, maybe for a little surfing. I really have not worked out a plan for the next move, and I do not plan to. For now I am just here, free, taking life as it comes. Hasta a proxíma amigos, sigo vivo.

At the Farm

2009-08-02T18:02:00.003-04:00

Hey everybody. I am sorry for not posting lately. I am also sorry that I do not have time to write anything substantial right now. I am on a quick trip into town from Finca Santa Ines where I am currently volunteering. I just thought I would let you know I am still alive. Surprised? Hopefully I will be able to write more soon.

Leaving Utopia

2009-07-29T12:10:00.004-04:00

Hey all. It is a warm morning here in Antigua, and as per usual I am leaving. It seems like I leave more than I arrive. Although Antigua is a tourist town on par with Panajachel I have enjoyed my time here.

The only way I can describe this place is to say that it is something like a caricature of a community. Sure it is a fine jumping off place for adventure trips, but the main attractions I see in town are things that ought to exist everywhere, even if there are dolled up a bit here. There are nice restaurants and bars that display local art and host local musicians, visible history in the streets and structures, churches that actually function and invite all comers as well as various street parties and get-togethers.

I just can not help but be amused by cultures at home or abroad that have removed all likeness of community from everyday life as if it was an unnecessary annoyance, but then reconstruct it somewhere else for weekend getaways. Just yesterday I stumbled onto the Vonnegut (is anyone else impressed that I made it three weeks before bringing up KV?) quote

"Human beings will be happier - not when they cure cancer or get to Mars or eliminate racial prejudice or flush Lake Erie but when they find ways to inhabit primitive communities again. That's my utopia."

Right on Kurt.

But how to reconsile that with this traveler lifestyle... that is a thinker.

Shoot Me Again

2009-07-26T19:42:00.004-04:00

After spending most of my time in Xela mourning my departure like a child out on summer vacation, I begrudgingly made my exit this morning via chicken bus. I took my first bus to Chimaltenango where I transferred to one more for Antigua, Guatemala, where I am writing you from now. It must have been there on that sidewalk in Chimaltenango where it finally happened. That is right folks, I was robbed.

Lingering in the back of my mind this entire trip has been robbery, an almost inevitable occurrence as far I was concerned. I have also been hanging onto the idea that my being so big and hairy and smelly might make folks think twice about messing with me. I recall the only time I felt thoroughly sketchy on this trip. I was walking through Salina Cruz, Mexico, in the darkness of early morning. To my surprise the locals all crossed the street to avoid me, looking over their shoulder to keep an eye on me.

That being said, it is true that no one did mess with me, at least not in direct confrontation. They just picked my pocket without my knowing until the bus attendant asked for my fare. They only got away with about sixty bucks in cash and my bank card which is insured well enough. The only thing that really upsets me is that I have no story to tell. In a way I had been looking forward to the experience. I wanted to know what I would do, how I would react to some thug sticking me up on the street. In that respect I have to say this was the most useless boring robbery I have ever been a part of.

Fortunately I have a little bit of emergency cash stashed up my hooziewhatsit for just such occasions so I can go enjoy Antigua while ING Direct straightens all this out. I should also say that I hold nothing against the good people of Guatemala. After I found myself bamboozled, the bus attendant and driver decided to let me ride for free. I was even given free Internet access at a local cafe to contact my bank. There are good people and bad people everywhere. To any of you bad folks who might be reading, I have only one thing to say, "Shoot me again. I ain’t dead yet!"

Tajumulco

2009-07-25T16:26:00.003-04:00

I am officially still alive and have conquered Volcán Tajumulco. The mountain that was once a god for the Maya then a stronghold for guerilla fighters is now a personal achievement for me and a blog article for you. If that is not entropy in action I do not know what is.

It was a hopeful trip. By that I mean that I spent most of the trip hoping. For example, I hoped for clear skies. Outside of my backpack and camera case, the only waterproof gear I own is my bivy (a thin all-weather covering for a sleeping bag). I did not particularly feel like wearing it like to toga all the way to the summit. Fortunately it did not rain, unless you count the phenomenon that occurred when dew that precipitated out of the cloud we spent most of our ascent inside of onto the needles of the pines was dislodged by wind. It seemed that whenever we got near trees they spat on us.

I hoped that my silly bottom-lander´s lungs would find use for the thin air of Tajumulco´s summit at 13,850 feet. My first time up (to watch the sunset), I did in fact experience shortness of breath and a nasty headache, but I made it. Our second attempt began at four am this morning began with me in my sleeping bag hoping that if I pretended to be asleep and mumble hurtful words at my companions, they would stop shaking me and leave me alone. They did not give up though, and I found myself much better acclimated to the altitude.

Scrambling up that last 650 vertical feet might have been the most hopeful part of all whether in daylight or the morning’s darkness. There I found myself trudging up through scree and boulders hoping that my footing would remain secure, and imagining scenarios that might occur if it did not. I hoped I would have the presence of mind to grab another boulder in better position than the one that let me down in the first place. If not that, then perhaps I could avoid my fellow climbers and stop myself by digging my boots and elbows into the hill before finding out what exactly all that mist was hiding.

On top of Tajumulco I became completely incapable of hoping, or thinking much of anything. I just turned in circles and said "Wow" over and over again. While viewing the world from under just under 14,000 feet may not sound like much to the mountaineering community, it certainly was for me. What now? It is time to find a new reason to hope I suppose.

I must also say a word for my fellow participant Thane from Texas and my Guatemalan guide Franklin. It was great to have both of you along. I must especially thank them not only for being so kind and so entertaining, but also for taking so many great pictures. Unfortunately I do not have them yet so I cannot post them. I did get around to posting the pictures of my river cave trip at http://www.flickr.com/photos/25911249@N08/sets/72157621827041274/

Bittersweet Xela

2009-07-23T20:01:00.004-04:00

It is a lazy day (as most of my days have been recently) in Xela, and honestly I do not have much to say. I spent only one night in Panajachel on Lago Atitlan, and returned to Xela as quickly as possible yesterday. I just couldn’t take any more hassling to buy cheap trinkets or marijuana. From what I hear there are much better towns on the lake, but sadly I just do not have time to see them this time around.

Even if I have not done much with my day, it feels nice to be back in Xela. I did spend a couple hours walking up to Los Vahos ("The Steams" in English) an area of natural steam baths, beautiful views, and pine and madrone trees just outside of town. Looking down on Quetzaltenango from above I could not help but be amused by how quickly I was able fall in love with this place for next to no good reason at all. The jury may still be out on person-to-person love at first site, but it surely exists with cities. My darling Xela and I are proof.

Tomorrow I depart for Tajumulco, which I am very excited about. Saturday, volcano willing, I will be back, and by Sunday It will be time to depart in the direction of Guatemala City and the farm I have agreed to spend some time at. I expect to leave with far to many loose ends here, far to many streets unwalked and more than enough reasons to come back.

Land of the Lost

2009-07-21T20:04:00.004-04:00

Hi friends, Clay here and still alive. I must admit though, that I am currently more fearful of my surroundings than I have been on this trip so far. After a couple splendid days in Xela, I have accepted a mission of great concern and as a result am now entrenched far behind enemy lines. I am in Panajachel, Guatemala, boomtown central and home to that most despicable and conspicuous breed of bandit the American tourist.

Ok, so maybe I am an American tourist myself. I am trying hard to believe that there are at least a couple fundamental differences between me and those of my sightseeing ilk from this particular strain of restless Caucasian. It might be said that we tramps travel between different cultures while the tourists bring their own, or that tramps travel to peacefully observe new landscapes rather than to buy and bury them. It might also be said that the tramps are just tourists with shallow pockets and big egos. Who can say?

I have been reminded during many a rant that I should not "Hate the player," but rather "Hate the game," as it is so often and so eloquently put. With that in mind I should say that these folks, in my experience, have been nice enough and just trying to have a good time. All that can really be hated here are the massive Americanized hotels, markets and restaurants that line the shores of the breathtaking Lago Atitlán. Fortunately these trappings of tourist life fail by a very large margin in making the lake any less beautiful or the surrounding hills any less imposing. That little peace of mind is enough to satisfy me for now. My trip to Tajumulco is booked for Friday from Xela, so I have a couple days here to fart around with the herd, and fart around I intend to do. If it leads to anything interesting, I will let you know.

Beautiful Day and a Reason to Climb

2009-07-19T17:52:00.006-04:00

Today is a beautiful day. For one thing, it is the first day in a little while that I do not have to go anywhere near a bus. More importantly, I am finally here in Quetzaltenango, a town not on a hill like Cobán, but among hills, big ones. This town, locally referred to just as Xela, (a shortening of the town’s Maya name) is cultured, friendly and delightfully chilly at about 7,500 ft from sea level. Xela is also big, but I still dig it.

I spent most of the day wandering around town wondering why everything is closed. Only in the past hour or so have I learned that it is Sunday. I honestly have no idea where Saturday went, and as a result I’m feeling pretty sour about it. Outside of that it really is a red-letter day.

I am so excited about Xela because it is the jumping off place for expeditions to Tajumulco. I have been dreaming about this town since I first read about the great volcano. Since then, this town and that peak have been sitting smugly in the center of my aspirations. Understand; I started this trip with several goals like learning a language, absorbing new landscapes and understanding new cultures. They are, however, vague and unsubstantial goals. They have no beginning, no defined trail and certainly no summit or end. Life’s greatest pursuits are always of such airy effervescent stock. Love, truth, faith, morality and the rest are characterized by uncertainty and wrapped in hazy layers of questionable interpretations. Tajumulco exists clearly. Without question it is there, which of course has been the unanimous cry of mountaineers since Mallory was asked why he wanted to climb Everest. "Because it is there", he said famously and simply.

As soon as I am allowed, I will go to join the valiant smelly ranks of the climbers, putting one foot in front of the other to put the intangible difficulties of life aside for a while. As for now I am killing the rest of the day just to watch it die, and waiting for tomorrow when I should be able to go get this thing figured out.

City on a Hill, and the Hero that Brought Me Here

2009-07-17T19:37:00.008-04:00

Well I’m one relatively unexciting step further down this western road I’ve chosen through Guatemala. Cobán is the town, and it is a fair size one with about 60,000 people. It is also built on a hill, which I am quite fond of. The hill, aside from all the other wonderful things that hills do, makes finding your way nice and easy. The town center is the highest point, so if you find yourself walking downhill you know you are walking out of town. Likewise if you find yourself walking uphill – that’s right – you are walking into town.

Getting here was yet another adventure of Central American public transportation. I road about five hours from Fray Bartolomé de las Casas in a seriously overloaded Volkswagen Vanagon. At one point there were twenty-four full-grown adults and two children inside with six more folks on the roof. Given all that weight and the condition of many of the roads we traveled I have to raise my glass to that poor little bus. To think that it does this kind of thing every day! I salute you Mr. Vanagon you previously unsung hero of Guatemala.

As long as I am going on about buses, there is one other central experience I feel I must mention. I’ll warn the ladies, this is boy talk. I am talking about trying to piss in one of the much nicer full size first or second-class deals with the little bathroom in the back, just like an American Greyhound. These buses are nicer and larger, but they still ride on the same roads as the Volkswagens. They are roads that would remind one of a battlefield straight out of a big Hollywood flick, complete with foxholes, troop trenches, and mortar craters. When you are riding in the little plastic box that contains the toilet it feels like there are still plenty of buried land mines as well (although I’m told this isn’t true).

So the next time life gives you lemons, or some other equally unfavorable fruit with witch to make the smoothie of your day, think of Clay Kilby bouncing off the walls and even the ceiling of his plastic box, doing his best to aim for the toilet. If that is not enough to make you smile, imagine me walking back out of the box.

That’s all I’ve got for you right now. Tomorrow, I’m going to try to make my way further west toward those rumbling Volcanoes I’ve been dreaming of (smug things, just begging to be climbed really). I don’t yet know where I’ll be headed or how, but that is what tomorrow is for.

Ticks

2009-07-16T20:07:00.004-04:00

If purgatory had street vendors, it would probably look a lot like Fray Bartolomé de las Casa. It’s hot, flat, not good and not bad. It is just here, halfway between Poptún and Cobán, Guatemala, because the road is to long to have nothing and to flat to have anything nice. I think hills are necessary if only to keep the wind and the people agitated and interesting. I wish I could have blown through this town like the warm unimpaired breeze, but it is just not in the cards, or rather the bus schedule.

What then will I have to share today with nothing to stir my thoughts? I do have one thing still keeping my mind occupied. The ticks I keep finding embedded here and there from my hikes at Finca Ixobel seem to be begging me to tell the story of their home.

Thoreau wrote that the new world in both hemispheres was ¨particularly fitted to the habitation of man¨ because it possessed few ¨African beasts¨ capable of devouring men. It is true that even now, 150 years later, there are places in the western hemisphere where townspeople are regularly carried off by tigers, and that a man can walk alone most anywhere in the Americas expecting to see, at worst, a black bear. Henry’s statements make it quite clear that his famous walks never carried him far outside of New England. He did not mention mountain lions, or jaguars, or grizzly bears or ticks either. Yes, that’s right, my chief complaint with Thoreau after a day of hiking through the Guatemalan jungle is that he failed to say one single word of warning about all the bugs.

Climbing up and tumbling down muddy jungle hills all day also made me wonder why such hearty looking saplings choose to root themselves so loosely that at the first pull they release from their respective hills and go flying downward attached to clumsy hikers. There may not be African beasts here in the Central American jungle, but there certainly is something determined not to be nice to us two legged oafs. It is for that I am thankful today. These are the mechanisms by which hills stir our hearts and thoughts and thicken our skin.

Outside the boundaries of Finca Ixobel we passed through several fields of corn and sugar cane cut into the jungle. I have read in the local paper and heard from the people I have met that more jungle is falling every day for more of these fields for crops and cattle. I can only hope, when I think of the men out there right now falling timber, that the ticks are at work on them as well.

Finca Ixobel and River Cave

2009-07-15T20:50:00.004-04:00

Finca Ixobel is a small sustainable farm and hostel just outside of Poptun, Guatemala. It is absolutely beautiful, friendly and full of ways to have a great time. It is also where I am writing you from today. All good things.

This morning I woke up feeling like I had finally overcome my illness, so I did what anyone would and put my body to the test with a seven-hour trip to River Cave. The trip consisted of four hours walking to and from the cave, and three hours caving. Now when I say caving you probably think of walking, crawling and climbing underground. That is after all what caving usually consists of. On this trip however I spent the majority of my time treading water. The rest of the time our group (an Israeli couple, a father and son from the Holland, our Guatemalan guide, and me) was wading, except for one point where we were required to jump from about 20 feet into a cave pool to continue our trip. Mind you, I grew up doing this sort of thing in the lakes and rivers of the Carolinas, but there is something very different and very terrifying about cliff jumping inside a cave.

I would write more, but after all this I am starving and there is a gorgeous buffet here at the farm calling my name. I will take time for a quick shout to my little sister Rebecca and my cousin Jesse whom I have been told are reading. You would have loved it! You will have to come back with me someday.

Road Folks

2009-07-14T12:13:00.003-04:00

Hey all. I’m sitting here today in beautiful Flores, an island in Lago de Petén Itza in the Guatemalan region of El Peten. On an unrelated note, there’s a frog on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea. I’m still working through this mean stomach bug I’ve picked up, so outside of some quite interesting buses and bathrooms, I haven’t done much sightseeing.

On this off day, I would like to speak a word for the road folks. Probably the most difficult thing about this trip has been the isolation. Traveling solo so far from home and being unable to communicate with locals in more than three word increments certainly makes one feel lonely. So far the only relief from this loneliness has been from fellow travelers. I’ve met wonderful people from Finland, Sweden, Denmark, England, Iran, Mexico, Guatemala, Chile, and the US.

An American traveler in San Cristobal de las Casas recommended my next stop in Poptún, Guatemala. If not for the help of a couple extremely nice and multi-lingual Danes I am not sure whether or not I would have gotten myself and my bags across the terribly confusing Guatemalan border. I also have to thank the group of boisterous Brits who kept me so well entertained on yesterday’s bus rides by singing, joking and acting out the works of Charles Dickens (much to the dismay of some of the local passengers).

Overall I have been blown away by the caliber of people that I have met on the road. Surely the cross section of people I meet must be a better than average representation of their countries as a whole. If I ever find a place where all the people posses the kindness, intelligence and desire for understanding as these saunterers and seekers, I doubt that I will be able to return to the States.

My hour at the Internet cafe is almost up so I’d better get going. I am going to try to catch a bus to Poptún today and finish recuperating there. I’ve managed to outline my other goals in this country as getting to the organic farm I’ve agreed to work at near San Jose Piñula, visiting Antigua, Lake Atitlán and climbing Volcan Tajumulco (Central America´s highest point at just less than 14,00 feet.) It’s a list I’m pretty happy with right now, but it will certainly change with time as all things do. When it does you will be the first to know. Good-bye for now, and once more I’ll say:

THANK YOU ROAD FOLKS

Sunday Morning, Palenque Town

2009-07-12T17:33:00.003-04:00

Howdy, I’m writing this time from an internet cafe in the town of Palenque, Mexico (as I sit here a Spanish version of total eclipse of the heart just came on, and I’m very excited about it). I spent most of the day perusing the spectacular Mayan Ruins a couple miles out of town. They are HUGE, and beautifully set in a dense jungle on the line where the plains meet the mountains. When I say jungle I mean really old growth, complete with howler monkeys and vines as big around as my forearms.

On many of the structures in what must of have been a metropolis (estimated at 8000 inhabitants) red paint is still visible. It is believed by archaeologists that this paint once covered all the structures and - hang on for this - it was made by crushing individual insects. I know that the construction of these homes and temples is impressive, but I cannot imagine the time and effort that went into crushing bugs one at a time for dye. Wow.

I remember thinking while enjoying the colonial era churches of San Cristobal that if the religions of the world can be credited with anything it is their contributions to architecture. The ruins at Palenque are further and much grander proof indeed (especially with parts of the town dating back to 100 years before Christ), but I can’t help but ask why. Why do we [people] create these structures whenever we get the chance? I am quite used to denouncing the United States for its giant strip malls and chain stores. If I had lived in ancient Palenque would I have protested the temple?

Furthermore, we have access to something the Maya most likely didn’t, history. Yeah these structures are cool, but they’re nothing this world hasn’t seen before. Do we hope to be remembered like the Maya? Did they, do we think that our rearrangement of the earth will make our lives better or easier? It’s certainly not better for the earth.

If I sound upset, it might not be purely ideological. I had to cut my visit to the ruins a little short because of some hearty gastrointestinal issues. I’ve been guzzling fluids and taking medicine for a couple hours now and feeling a bit better. Hopefully my body will work itself out by tomorrow. I’ve got an all day trip by bus and boat scheduled to Flores, Guatemala. I just wrote to a friend that I’m hopeful, about my stomach, my cash, the trip, and the world. Bleak situations don’t afford us with the luxury of being anything else. Night all, and I’ll try to check in when I get to Flores.

Medicine and Revolution

2009-07-11T00:25:00.004-04:00

Sorry about the angry, sleep deprived, mass transit induced rant last time. After about fourteen beautiful hours of sleep, I developed a much better attitude. I spent most of the day exploring the town of San Cristobal de las Casas and had a great time. I ate some wonderful food and climbed hills to some beautiful colonial era churches, but the highlight had to be el Centro Desarollo de la Medicina Maya or the Maya Medicine Development Center, a museum of Mayan culture and medicine.

The main thing I took from the museum was a peculiar aspect of communication in Mayan culture. There is praying yes, but also the blood reader communicates with a patients blood to determine illness. The herbalist communicates with the plants he is administering to assure their cooperation. Given this solidarity with the natural world it is not surprising that a large part of the museum was dedicated to the many ways the land is, in the museums view, stolen from the people who it is connected to and exploited by the wealthy here and abroad.

Some of the most famous fighters for indigenous land rights were and are the Zapatistas who immediately captured my overwhelming interest for all things subversive. They also appealed to my love for non-violence during their take-over of this town during the nineties where their leader, in speaking to the American tourists stranded by their occupation, delivered a line I can’t help but love; ¨I’m sorry but this is a revolution. ¨

I’m headed to bed for now. Then I plan on waking up whenever I feel like it, checking out and catching a second class bus to the town of Palenque to see what I hear are some pretty interesting Mayan Ruins. From there… maybe Guatemala? I don’t know yet, but I’ll let you know as soon as I do.

My Hero Garrison Keiller

2009-07-09T20:46:00.003-04:00

Howdy from San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico. How did get here you ask? I’m so glad you did. I flew out of Atlanta Tuesday morning, and we only left two hours late because of weather in Houston where I was consequently stranded for the night without my luggage (only twenty bucks on me. Luckily I was able to hang out with an old friend of mine who lives in the city and was entirely too good to me.

Then came Wednesday. The flight to Acapulco went well enough. I paid far too much for a shared cab into the city to catch a bus. I expected Acapulco to be big, noisy and expensive. It was. I did not however expect it to be set in the middle of such a beautiful natural landscape. I can see now why so many people spend so much to visit. That being said I caught the first bus out of town.

I loaded up for the nine-hour bus trip to Puerto Escondido and said hello to the children who would decide for the next six or seven of those hours to use me as a jungle gym. Hour eight or so I fell asleep, and about hour fourteen of that nine-hour trip I woke up in Salina Cruz. Puerto Escondido was long gone. Some people pop Dramamine to deal with the problems of mass transit. So far I’ve been using Garrison Keiller and the News from Lake Wobegone. If not for that dear sweet man, I surely would’ve said and done things that would have ended me in a Mexican jail, or maybe even one back in Estados Unidos.

After catching the sunrise in Salina Cruz I jumped back on a bus bound for Tuxtla Guitierrez and one more for San Cristobal de las Casas. Of the places I’ve been so far, it is my favorite. It’s a mountain town in the state of Chiapas, that moves at a slower pace than Acapulco and Tuxtla. I still haven’t found a single person who speaks English yet, so I’m still relying on my wits and hand motions. At least the people here seem to be willing to put up with that sort of thing, and after a few days of sweating myself silly on the coast, I am digging the cool rainy mountains.

Well I had better free up the computer here at my hostel. I’m going to go sew up my favorite pair of shorts, head to bed and maybe even dream of Lake Wobegon, where the men are good looking, the women are strong, the children are above average... and they speak English.

Packing

2009-07-06T22:50:00.005-04:00

My pack is now ready... I think. So far I have:
Sleeping bag
Sleeping bag liner
Clothing (three changes)
Sleeping pad
Bivy shelter
Water filter
Toiletries
First aid kit
Spot locater and ipod
Camera
Water bottle
Guidebook, Civil Disobedience and notepad
My homemade money/passport belt
And of course, my towel

Not pictured are my sandals, fleece, rain jacket, 2 flashlights and extreme self-satisfaction over having made this fit in a 3000 cubic inch pack. Look ma, no stuff!

We'll see just how well prepared I am. I assume there will be some boy scout jokes coming. If there's one thing I took from that organization, it is that "being prepared" has little to do with the items that you carry and much more to do with the mental preparedness to deal with being without. I like to think that I have the latter pretty well sorted out. If not, I'll find out soon.

Tomorrow morning I'm hopping on a jet and heading to Acapulco, Guerrero, Mexico. I probably won't stay there long enough to blog, but I'll try to check in soon, maybe in Puerto Escondido. I really have no idea, and I'm very excited about that.

Look Out World

2009-07-04T21:52:00.005-04:00

Hey everybody, I'm leaving for Acapulco on Tuesday. From there I'll be headed overland to see as much of Central America as possible. Hopefully I'll have some interesting experiences to share. Don't worry. I won't be pretending any kind of great importance in this thing. This is a blog, not Blue Highways the Sequel. I know that.

I can't really give an outline of what I'll be doing or where I'll be going, because I don't have one. And if you think my plans are vague you should see my expectations. Since I decided to take this trip, I have received more advice than I thought was possible from family, friends and Warren Zevon songs. Sometimes it was about great places, or exciting experiences. More often the advice I received was cautionary. It ran from "Be careful down there." to "You're going to die you stupid gringo!" I'm hoping the later isn't true.

As much as this advice makes me want to stay home tucked into my bed watching daytime TV and eating a fast food, my plane tickets are non-refundable. Damn. I hope I'll come back with a better understanding, or at least more defined questions and most of my appendages.

As I contemplate the upcoming trip I'll say good-bye for now. I'm uncertain and I'm anxious, but I'm here, I'm free and I'm alive. Look out world.