I’ve been in Haiti for about 2 weeks now. I don’t really know because time becomes meaningless in a place like this. I haven’t updated the blog because I’ve just been too busy or tired but due to circumstances unforeseen I now have some time to catch up on things. Joe, who owns the local bar, has been plying me with cold beer this afternoon and it has settled nicely into my brain, like a tonic for this teeming humidity. So I’ll write, hiding in the shade in front of a coconut tree, with a pleasant buzz inside my head an annoying one (the bloody flies) on the outside.
You can describe Haiti much like the ingredients of a cake. You need a layer of apocalyptic catastrophe, a good part of failed-state/controlled-chaos and a base of underlying poverty to form the main ingredients. Spread through it like chocolate chips are things like the generous, patient perseverance of the Haitian women, the wide eyed enthusiasm and endurance of Haitian children, and the general ambivalence, laziness and aversion to labour of Haitian males of working age. This is set amid a Caribbean paradise of distant hazy hills, palm and coconut trees, humid sun drenched days and tropical beaches lined with coral reefs, where you can buy bottles of rum and cold beer on Sunday after a week of demolishing fatally damaged houses, sweating in the equatorial sun.
Haiti is beyond anything the vast majority of us will have any ability to reference with our normal lives so you will need a vivid imagination for the next few paragraphs while I describe the place. If you lack a vivid imagination I suppose not understanding this blog is probably the least of your problems!
I flew in from Miami via San Juan, in a twin engine Vietnam era prop plane at about 250 knots. Flying over the country in this fashion affords you an amazing view of the jagged mountains splitting the island that forms Haiti on the West and Dominican Republic on the East. The view is so good because the plane can’t fly above 18,000 feet which is less than half as high as a jet airliner.
As you descend into Port au Prince you can see the formations of tents near the airport that foretell of the devastation on the ground. For those of you who have played Sim City, especially early versions of the game, it actually looks like a city after a disaster, when all the tiles are rubble, so in that respect the developers of that game deserve some real credit. The Haitian lady next to me looked like a busty US citizen with a white suit, fake nails and big permed hair, but tears were streaming down her face as we flew over the ruined capital of her country. Personally I was just fired up to be going somewhere a bit edgier than a suit job in a skyscraper.
The plane circled in over the single runway airport and I noticed a river that had had it’s course changed by the earthquake, a brown stain on a green land, one branch dried and cracked, the other forming a swampy impasse as the water worked out the most efficient new route to the sea. It was full of garbage. I got closer view of a sight that was to become commonplace in the next couple of days: a smashed cinder block building, roofless with jagged, fallen walls, with a derelict old Mack dump truck parked out the front. In the space behind the building tents were set up accommodating the inhabitants of the ruins. There were United Nations semi-trailers and armoured personnel carriers parked in rows and four US Army Blackhawk helicopters spinning up as glided in.
We landed and I got through a thoroughly lacklustre examination by customs before walking into the sunlight to discover that Hands On Disaster Response had forgotten I was coming and didn’t send me a driver to Leogane, which is two hours away from the airport. I don’t speak a word of Creole and having come from Central America immediately assumed that all the men offering assistance at the exit to the airport where trying to rob me, or rip me off. If you’re a Latin male, I’m sure you understand what I mean…unless you’re in denial!
As an aside, if you are a drug dealer, peadophile, murderer or any type of criminal on a wanted list and don’t mind (massively) sacrificing your living standards for freedom from investigation I suggest you migrate to Haiti.
The earthquake that rocked the country in January crushed the soul of a society already staggering with corruption, poverty and a lack of infrastructure, rule of law, and hope. This is the first time I have volunteered for anything (other than surf life saving in Australia but that was mainly so I could row surf boats www.asrl.com.au look it up it‘s excellent). People I’ve spoken to who have been to Sudan, Afghanistan, Iraq and a variety of other places say conditions in Haiti are worse. I got a taxi with a guy called Joa from PaP to Leogane (30kms and two hours away) and by the end of the drive we were in a state emotional flatline. Neither of us were upset as such but we had ran out of reactions to the destruction and squalor we saw around us. You end up staring out the window as your senses are overwhelmed by glare from the relentless burning sun, thick swirling grey dust, plumes of black exhaust smoke, the roar of truck and bus engines and their horns, mountains of rubble, mounds of garbage lining the streets, youths washing in filthy water pooled in the gutter, dogs, chickens, goats and humans climbing on and sifting through piles of wreckage, hawkers selling everything from fried green banana’s to genuine “Rey Bans” in chaotic traffic composed of rusting, bashed cars and trucks driving though dirt, gravel or cracked roads, traversing blocks of a city that has been utterly pulverised. If you have ever seen footage of the Allied bombing of German cities at the end of WWII you will understand the streetscape, but there are more people here.
It really hit me when I saw the national palace, a once majestic white building in a colonial style, the seat of Haitian parliament and the centre of national government, cracked and crumbling, the dome collapsed onto its supports and split in half. It made me think of how I would feel if something did that to Parliament House in Australia. I am not particularly patriotic but politicians and parliament house represents who we are and to see it turned to dust would be traumatic. The block that held the judicial district just isn’t there anymore and the fact that Haiti lost half of all its government employees including half it’s judges and parliament, means that a nation already struggling with problems beyond the comprehension of us in the West, has been decapitated as well as decimated.
I do not believe conditions could be any worse in this country unless they were actively shooting at each other or they were starving to death.
I don’t want anyone to think this is a bleeding heart sob story write up on Haiti. If you care you’ll do something about it, if not then hopefully you’ll at least find the story an interesting one. Personally I wasn’t entirely overwhelmed with concern about the plight of the Haitian people but also rather excited about the chance I had to experience something out of the ordinary, so I admit my motivations for coming here were somewhat selfish. It gets interesting for me because of the work I have been doing here and the people I have met.
Hands On Disaster Response is an organisation based in Boston. They were formed during the response to the tsunami in Indonesia. The basic role of the organisation is to remove destroyed or damaged houses and to facilitate the rebuilding of homes so that people can move into buildings again, from the tents they have been living in since the earthquake.
What this involves in practise is getting a sledgehammer and demolishing houses that are still standing but too dangerous to live in, especially with the risk of aftershocks. You reinforce the beams with wooden supports, then stand on the roof and blow it out, leaving the beams. Next you weaken or remove the walls which are usually for partition purposes only and not structural, then fault the remaining columns, and pull the house over with a hand winch, or “come along”. Once the house is in pieces on the ground another team comes in breaks it up further and carts the mess out into the street where teams of government employees pick up the rocks, by hand, and throw them into dump trucks. We work from 7.30am to 11.30, have lunch for two hours and work again from 1.30pm to 4.30 pm. This doesn’t sound so hard but in practise I don’t think I’ve worked so hard in my life.
Haitians are deeply traumatised by the earthquake because it killed between one quarter and half a million of them, out of a population of about 10m people. This means most of them live in tents next to buildings that look otherwise intact, so they don’t get crushed by any further tremors that occur.
Port au Prince is the most chaotic, dirty, polluted, loud, hot, oppressive environment I’ve been in and I’m glad the site of the HODR project is in Leogane. About 90% of the buildings here in Leogane are either wrecked or slated for demolition but the city only had 90,000 inhabitants and as such the problems seem a lot more manageable here.
I joined a rubble clearing team on my first half day, and got pulled of it in the afternoon to help on a demolition. The guy running it was a hairy American guy called Bear and he wouldn’t look or speak to me so I didn’t look or speak to anyone and just did as I was told. That meant standing on a roof in 110 degree (Fahrenheit) heat hitting the 8 inches of concrete I was standing on with an 8 pound sledgehammer, for 4 hours. That afternoon I drank 5 litres of water. The next day I went back with the demolition team and we swung away at the roof till it was down. By 8am the sun is searing and it’s impossible to keep a shirt on because even if you want the sun protection the sweat makes it chafe your skin. The sun, while hot, isn’t as harsh as it is in Australia so it’s easy to prevent burning if you use plenty of cream. Bear left today with his girlfriend, Katie, to go back to New York and in the intervening two weeks we became great mates. He led the demo team and always got houses down fast and safely.
The thing about coming to Haiti is that you can’t have any illusions about the amount of good you are doing. You certainly aren’t saving the country and a lot of people will resent the fact you are there just because they think you’re getting paid to do the work! So you tell yourself that possibly you are making life a tiny bit easier for a small number of people, for a little while. If you’re happy with that, you can get on with making friends with some fantastic, interesting young people, mostly between 24 and 34 years of age.
I didn’t say much at all the first week I was here because I got the impression I was getting sized up by people who wondered how long it would take until I cracked. I suppose you could say I look fit and strong, which meant they were waiting for me to fail because it really is fucking hot here and the work is debilitating. It’s not unusual for five or ten people to drop from dehydration and heat exhaustion in a day. At any rate it turns out I can work reasonably hard when I have to and became great friends with the people I was working on demolition with first.
By and large the people her are from the USA, a few Canadians, with one or two other Aussies, a Scot and maybe some other nationalities. By and large they have been some of the most interesting, hard working, hard partying, intelligent and committed people I’ve ever met. Sledging a roof in the hot sun for no payment other than a meal (of dubious quality) at knock off time is a test of character but the people on the team always put in 100%, and often more, hence the handy location of the hospital next to our base. I’ll admit that breaking concrete is a pretty satisfying way to spend your day, and I’d say that any guy who claims to be too sophisticated to enjoy something as mundane as swinging a sledgehammer, is probably just too weak and soft to actually do it properly!
The base itself is in a derelict concrete building, two levels high around a central, tennis court sized open area, with no roof. There are bunks on the ground floor undercover but I set my tent up on cinder blocks, on level two. The use of bricks is to prevent flooding when it rains, which, unusually, it hasn‘t done since I got here. People tie their tents to columns of concrete sticking up out of the roof with rebar spiking out the top (rebar is the metal wire that reinforces concrete). From a distance it looks like rows of small skyscrapers with their tops smashed off and their windows blown out, like the remnants of a bombing campaign over Sydney or New York. Cast your eyes further down and the tents make it look like a small colourful slum. The heat is stifling, there is never any wind, always an abundance of mosquitos, an increasing number of flies and you have to pour a bucket of water into the toilets to get them to flush. When you get cut, no matter how small, it gets red, angry and infected (like an Irish backpacker!) and takes weeks to heal. The food is monotonously predictable (rice, beans, onions, chicken and fish head soup if we’re unlucky) but apart from the fish head soup (which is just a rancid as it sounds) it always tastes delicious. There is no seasoning like hunger! You shower in a stall with a bucket of water and a scooper to ladle the water onto yourself with. The water is cold from the tank on the roof but you wouldn’t want a warm shower anyway.
When the sun rises at 6am the temperature in the tent ($32 from Walmart you beauty) rises about 10 Celsius straight away so you have no option but to get out of bed. I’ve been getting two beer hangovers, I suppose from not being properly hydrated and sweating so much at night. Another clue to this is the fact that I didn’t urinate for the first week I was here, I suppose because everything I drank just disappeared out of my sweat glands. Maybe I was lucky not to end up in hospital too! I actually sleep directly on the cinder bricks adjacent to my air mattress most nights, because they are a bit cooler than the soft bed. And I’ve been sleeping like a baby! Sleeping on concrete is mundane now and doesn’t phase me at all. I’m fortunate in that the mozzies here aren’t huge fans of mine-some of the girls do it really tough, and look like they’ve got chicken pox every morning form being bitten so much.. I reckon being hairy makes it harder for the bugs to get to your skin although I’m keeping that to myself in case the girls all stop shaving. Horrible concept.
Anyway breakfast is oats or a (flyblown, from a garbage bag) breadroll with peanut butter out of a 5 gallon tub. If you want milk you put milk powder on the oats and add (room temperature) water. It’s important to force something down or you’ll pass out before lunch. Breakfast is the worst meal of the day, the other two are generally very satisfying.
The base is an alcohol free zone so it’s fortunate that right next to it is Joe’s Bar. You can buy any beer you want as long as it’s a Prestige or a Guinness. Down the road is a chap who sells beer out of a large esky, next to a latrine pit that funnels into the drainage ditch on the side of the road. There really is nothing more satisfying than sinking an icy cold one at Guttermans, drenched in sweat, filthy with dirt and concrete dust and aching from head to toe, chatting to your mates about the day, sitting on a rock next to a pool of polluted, septic water. Marypec (Gutternmans real name) likes us because we demolished his house for him and carted the mess away. The bar is at a t-junction in the road and conversation is accompanied by the growl of motorcycles and trucks, exhaust fumes and dust. The free market came to our rescue when Marypec’s daughter started cooking what I will expansively call sausages on a second hand, plastic coated shower rack. I have no idea what is in those tubular sections of pale meat or what the carcinogenic effects of the plastic being cooked with the snags is, but she puts just the right amount of tomato and chilli sauce on them, and at 5pm in the sun, I don’t care (or want to know!) what they’re composed of! At night you can go to bed around 10pm but you can’t sleep till about midnight due to the heat. You always know the time though. At about 11pm the dogs start barking, within 20 minutes every time. What is really happening is a pack of six or ten males are stalking a female and once they’ve cornered her in a back alley or against a rubble pile, they fight amongst themselves to see who gets to spend some romantic time with her. Dogs get stuck together after they shag, and they don’t know what is going on and look really embarrassed until they can separate their asses from each other and run away. I got a great photo of two dogs sheepishly avoiding eye contact, standing back to back on a crowded road in PaP, but can’t upload it due to bandwidth problems. I suppose we're lucky the same thing doesn’t happen to humans as well. Anyway at 2.30 or so the stupid turkeys start cockadoodledooing. Or is it chickens that do that. Whatever animal it is that’s responsible, I will eat it one day. I have actually had dreams about sniping them through a night vision site form the roof of the HODR building.
I found out that a 330 pound American ex NFL lineman is better at sledging concrete than a skinny surfboat rower from Australia. “O” came with his mate Scott form Dallas Texas and the two are the most unlikely pair of mates I’ve seen. O is a massive, African American force of nature whose predatory looks bely his humility and intelligence. His mate Scott is a skinny white businessman who, as I was to go on to discover, is about the most generous person I’ve met. Anyway working with O made me realise that these 8 pound hammers just aren’t big enough so yesterday I went to PaP and got a 10 pounder.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
San Pedro Part II
I've decided that I can't be bothered writing about San Pedro again as I think the vibe of the place was sufficiently communicated in the last blog.
I will say I met some fantastic people there, like Marie, Gersh, Cecilia and Erick Cortez, and that it was interesting going to a house party where I ran into the drug dealer who, with five of his buddies, had tried to rob me a few nights before with Gersh. Only Marie's calming influence prevented interesting things occuring in the back alleys of San Pedro. He was by himself at the party. Anyway it all turned out to be a big misunderstanding and in fact he was a charming chap-my fault probably. The next dealer you turn down after he's offered you coke on the street, who then says, "if you're scared, go to church you gringo pussy" is probably offering salvation as well as drugs. Either way don't take it too personally.
Not all dealers are so obnoxious. I was walking up the street to put my guitar away late one night and this harassed looking guy popped out of the darkness into the street light. He was really agitated and his eyes were spinning like reels on a poker machine. They were black but really bright, like there was a sheen of wetness on them. I've heard most conversations with dealers occur in English because they need it to communiate with their clients better. Anyway this guy was nice enough to offer me some time with his Japanese wife if I wanted to wait around for a bit while he went and scored some gear which I hadn't actually asked for. She seemed really nice apart from the sores and scabs all over her body, the missing teeth, slack sallow skin and weird cheesy smell, although that might have been him. He was 18, she was 28. Romance!
Gersh and I found two other Japanese in San Pedro. They were selling burgers from a cart on the side of the road. Japanese people are strange.
Another interesting aspect of San Pedro is the alcoholism. When you look through the superficial layers of San Pedros' touristic charms you can see some severe social problems. It doesn't take a lot of insight: I walked past a man, face down on the road, passed out drunk at about 9pm one night. The gradient was about 1 in 6 so it was very steep and he was sleeping head down the hill. The next day at midday he was still there, although someone had moved him to the gutter so the tuk tuks could pass. This was not uncommon. Many women walk around with bruises on their faces and arms.
I have engaged in a number of challenges to test or prove my manhood in the last few weeks.
They were:
-A burger eating contest
-A chilli eating contest
-An arm wrestle
I lost all three.
The first was at an all you can eat burger buffet in San Pedro, on Sunday near the lake. An ex US Navy Seal ran it and made an assortment of the most delicious sauces I've ever tasted. The burgers were half pound patties, and in fact there was a fat American guy telling everyone loudly how he was going to smash six of them. The existing record was 3.
This guy started getting on my nerves, and he was a cheat as he smoked a joint before and during the session to enhance his hunger. The first burger was delicious, with cheese, lettuce, tomato, onion and fantastic steak sauce. Between burger one and two was time for some psychological games-so I ordered a plate of chips. I think that rattled his team a bit. The second burger was also tasty but by the end I was starting to feel pretty stuffed, as I'd washed it all down with a litre of beer and loaded it with salad, whereas oldmate was just doing the patties. I believed this to be not in the spirit of the competition but as I hadn't actually told him we were oin battle I can't really compain. At this point I admitted the chips were an error of judgment.
Anyway burger three was the biggest test of endurance, commitment and character of my 26 years. Gersh was there to remind me I was being "tapped out" by a chubby loudmouth American and took a photo of the tiny peice of pattie left that I sat on for half an hour, for posterity.
Long story short, oldmate knocked back four, and then won the Boccia contest, first prize a bottle of rum. Every dog has his day. Without doubt the gut probems I've had recently have shrunk my stomach and ruined any chance I had of victory.
On the bus up from Guatemala to Mexico I slept for about 30 hours straight as a result of a rather large night courtesy of Crane and Dario at the Restaurant of Rock (no hippies allowed). When I woke up a Mexican lady, who had two daughters, very generously offered to let me stay with her in Cancun. I'm not sure why as I had pants ripped to the knee, a bloody ripped singlet from an incident involving a 9 foot fence and a clothes line (it was dark), and I hadn't showered for 3 days.
We travelled up to Playa del Carmen for her nieces 20th birthday. I met the nieces 3 year old daughter, and her 40 cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews etc.
A short fat brown drunk man with no neck and gold teeth choaded up to me with a habanero chilli in his stumpy, delicious looking sausage fingers. He held it out, offering me some. I politely declined, those things are fucking hot. He garbled something in Spanish and the cohort of male relatives behind him laughed loudly. The mans eyes were wild and droplets of spittle flecked his chin. "Argh argh Aussie argh gringo argh argh pussy harghhh," he spat and ripped the chillie in half with his teeth and started munching casually, with his mouth wide open so we could all see it getting pulverised. It seems I get called a pussy by a lot of men in this part of the world. Anyway he held out the chillie again and the crowd of drunk brown men behind him started laughing at me.
Bastards. Since I was never going to be able to resist such sophisticated psychological manipulation, I took the chilli from Marcus and chewed it with casual disdain. As soon as I felt the acid start to work on my mouth and face I swallowed the thing, and started crying. My nose was running, mouth watering, and eyes streaming. Throughout the ordeal I was smiling conscientiously pretending I was glad to be the butt of such a funny joke.
15 minutes later when I could pretend to laugh again without crying I think I had won some respect and credibility. So much so that I was offered another chilli.
No thanks.
In Miami Gersh picked me up from the airport. His mate Nick is probably about 15kg lighter than me but has been wrestling since he was 9 years old. We got out of the car and started wrestling, to prove what good mates we were going to become I suppose. Within 15 seconds he wrestled me to the ground and was choking me to death with his buttocks.
Then we went upstairs and armwrestled. I am usually quite good on the left arm and won pretty easily. I felt things going the same way with my right arm, but couldn't get traction to finish him off. Then my shoulder dislocated and I lost by forfeit anyway.
That night we went to a reggae bar where I was mistaken for a redneck, perhaps due to my moustache and mullet. I don't like being profiled, especially since I'm a white male from an affluent society and am not used to it. You don't know discrimination until you've been mistaken for a redneck, in a reggae bar.
Anyway we solved the tache problem the next day, at a barber who gave me a full cut throat shave, tache trim and three beers for $10. Much more respectable now.
If you're ever in Fort Lauderdale near Miami go to Beach Liqour-it's the only bottle shop on the beach-and ask for Gersh. He'll show you a good time.
Well that was pretty much what I've been up to, before arriving in Haiti 4 days ago.
So updates on Haiti next.
I will say I met some fantastic people there, like Marie, Gersh, Cecilia and Erick Cortez, and that it was interesting going to a house party where I ran into the drug dealer who, with five of his buddies, had tried to rob me a few nights before with Gersh. Only Marie's calming influence prevented interesting things occuring in the back alleys of San Pedro. He was by himself at the party. Anyway it all turned out to be a big misunderstanding and in fact he was a charming chap-my fault probably. The next dealer you turn down after he's offered you coke on the street, who then says, "if you're scared, go to church you gringo pussy" is probably offering salvation as well as drugs. Either way don't take it too personally.
Not all dealers are so obnoxious. I was walking up the street to put my guitar away late one night and this harassed looking guy popped out of the darkness into the street light. He was really agitated and his eyes were spinning like reels on a poker machine. They were black but really bright, like there was a sheen of wetness on them. I've heard most conversations with dealers occur in English because they need it to communiate with their clients better. Anyway this guy was nice enough to offer me some time with his Japanese wife if I wanted to wait around for a bit while he went and scored some gear which I hadn't actually asked for. She seemed really nice apart from the sores and scabs all over her body, the missing teeth, slack sallow skin and weird cheesy smell, although that might have been him. He was 18, she was 28. Romance!
Gersh and I found two other Japanese in San Pedro. They were selling burgers from a cart on the side of the road. Japanese people are strange.
Another interesting aspect of San Pedro is the alcoholism. When you look through the superficial layers of San Pedros' touristic charms you can see some severe social problems. It doesn't take a lot of insight: I walked past a man, face down on the road, passed out drunk at about 9pm one night. The gradient was about 1 in 6 so it was very steep and he was sleeping head down the hill. The next day at midday he was still there, although someone had moved him to the gutter so the tuk tuks could pass. This was not uncommon. Many women walk around with bruises on their faces and arms.
I have engaged in a number of challenges to test or prove my manhood in the last few weeks.
They were:
-A burger eating contest
-A chilli eating contest
-An arm wrestle
I lost all three.
The first was at an all you can eat burger buffet in San Pedro, on Sunday near the lake. An ex US Navy Seal ran it and made an assortment of the most delicious sauces I've ever tasted. The burgers were half pound patties, and in fact there was a fat American guy telling everyone loudly how he was going to smash six of them. The existing record was 3.
This guy started getting on my nerves, and he was a cheat as he smoked a joint before and during the session to enhance his hunger. The first burger was delicious, with cheese, lettuce, tomato, onion and fantastic steak sauce. Between burger one and two was time for some psychological games-so I ordered a plate of chips. I think that rattled his team a bit. The second burger was also tasty but by the end I was starting to feel pretty stuffed, as I'd washed it all down with a litre of beer and loaded it with salad, whereas oldmate was just doing the patties. I believed this to be not in the spirit of the competition but as I hadn't actually told him we were oin battle I can't really compain. At this point I admitted the chips were an error of judgment.
Anyway burger three was the biggest test of endurance, commitment and character of my 26 years. Gersh was there to remind me I was being "tapped out" by a chubby loudmouth American and took a photo of the tiny peice of pattie left that I sat on for half an hour, for posterity.
Long story short, oldmate knocked back four, and then won the Boccia contest, first prize a bottle of rum. Every dog has his day. Without doubt the gut probems I've had recently have shrunk my stomach and ruined any chance I had of victory.
On the bus up from Guatemala to Mexico I slept for about 30 hours straight as a result of a rather large night courtesy of Crane and Dario at the Restaurant of Rock (no hippies allowed). When I woke up a Mexican lady, who had two daughters, very generously offered to let me stay with her in Cancun. I'm not sure why as I had pants ripped to the knee, a bloody ripped singlet from an incident involving a 9 foot fence and a clothes line (it was dark), and I hadn't showered for 3 days.
We travelled up to Playa del Carmen for her nieces 20th birthday. I met the nieces 3 year old daughter, and her 40 cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews etc.
A short fat brown drunk man with no neck and gold teeth choaded up to me with a habanero chilli in his stumpy, delicious looking sausage fingers. He held it out, offering me some. I politely declined, those things are fucking hot. He garbled something in Spanish and the cohort of male relatives behind him laughed loudly. The mans eyes were wild and droplets of spittle flecked his chin. "Argh argh Aussie argh gringo argh argh pussy harghhh," he spat and ripped the chillie in half with his teeth and started munching casually, with his mouth wide open so we could all see it getting pulverised. It seems I get called a pussy by a lot of men in this part of the world. Anyway he held out the chillie again and the crowd of drunk brown men behind him started laughing at me.
Bastards. Since I was never going to be able to resist such sophisticated psychological manipulation, I took the chilli from Marcus and chewed it with casual disdain. As soon as I felt the acid start to work on my mouth and face I swallowed the thing, and started crying. My nose was running, mouth watering, and eyes streaming. Throughout the ordeal I was smiling conscientiously pretending I was glad to be the butt of such a funny joke.
15 minutes later when I could pretend to laugh again without crying I think I had won some respect and credibility. So much so that I was offered another chilli.
No thanks.
In Miami Gersh picked me up from the airport. His mate Nick is probably about 15kg lighter than me but has been wrestling since he was 9 years old. We got out of the car and started wrestling, to prove what good mates we were going to become I suppose. Within 15 seconds he wrestled me to the ground and was choking me to death with his buttocks.
Then we went upstairs and armwrestled. I am usually quite good on the left arm and won pretty easily. I felt things going the same way with my right arm, but couldn't get traction to finish him off. Then my shoulder dislocated and I lost by forfeit anyway.
That night we went to a reggae bar where I was mistaken for a redneck, perhaps due to my moustache and mullet. I don't like being profiled, especially since I'm a white male from an affluent society and am not used to it. You don't know discrimination until you've been mistaken for a redneck, in a reggae bar.
Anyway we solved the tache problem the next day, at a barber who gave me a full cut throat shave, tache trim and three beers for $10. Much more respectable now.
If you're ever in Fort Lauderdale near Miami go to Beach Liqour-it's the only bottle shop on the beach-and ask for Gersh. He'll show you a good time.
Well that was pretty much what I've been up to, before arriving in Haiti 4 days ago.
So updates on Haiti next.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
San Pedro-Guatemala
It's been a while since the last entry and I've been having trouble with internet access and my USB card so I'm going to put this entry up without photo's and add them later.
Additionally I'm splitting San Pedro into two parts because it's a very interesting place. The second bit will arrive in a week or so.
I met a crazy Canadian actor in Mexico City who liked cheap tacos and Thai prostitutes. So at least I knew why he was in Mexico, but anyway he told me over a few beers that if I wanted to learn Spanish that I had to go to a school in San Pedro, a small town at Lago de Atitlan in Guatemala.
So I got a bus to San Cristobal in Mexico and then made the border crossing.
If you ever meet a Canadian actor who likes tacos and hookers you should do what he says because San Pedro is by far the best decision I´ve made this trip.
Some backgropund about Guatemala first though, which I have lifted straight from Wikipedia:
-Guatemala has the fourth highest rate of chronic malnutrition in the world and the highest in the Western Hemisphere.
-Approximately 75% of Guatemalans live below the poverty level, which is defined as an income that is not sufficient to purchase a basic basket of goods and basic services.
-Approximately 58% of the population have incomes below the extreme poverty line, which is defined as the amount needed to purchase a basic basket of food.
-Approximately 50% of Guatemalan children under the age of 5 now suffer from chronic undernutrition.
-In the nation's highlands, where many indigenous people live, 70% of children under age 5 are malnourished
If you want more information on that the link is here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Economy_of_Guatemala
Mexico is great and I really like it but when you get to the border there is a slightly different vibe to Guatemala. It´s wilder, more basic and more raw. Fun time.
The first thing I did at the border was change some cash. The guy who approached me first had long oily black hair, black ray bans, a black waistcoat and alligator skin boots. He also had a whispy moustache, and a 9mm pistol in his belt, with an ivory handle engraved with a mosaic of the Virgin Mary and a clip that extended fully 6 inches past the grip, with a few spare in his belt as well. Of course he tried to rip me off and having no idea what the exchange rate between Mexican pesos and Guatemalan quetzales was, I faffed around for a bit but he was happy to bargain so in the end I think I got a reasonable price for my pesos.
The most common way to get to San Pedro is by boat from Panajachel. Pana is full of tourists and locals flogging the sort of junk that tourists purchase and while I´ve heard good things about it I got straight onto a boat for San Pedro. The captain of the ¨Dorcas¨ quoted me Q25 but I only had 14 on me so I told the guy I´d fix him up when we got to San Pedro from the cash machine.
A few minutes later he told us that they were waiting on two more gringos before we left and he was going to charge them Q35...please don´t tell them they were paying more! So I didn´t feel too bad when the cash machine at San Pedro was empty and I couldn´t pay him the rest of the fare!
Lago de Atitlan is probably one of the most beautiful places on earth. I´m not going to spend too much time writing about it because many people, with better writing skills than myself have already done so (e.g. Alduous Huxley). However it is worth a brief description for those who have never heard of it.
Lago de Atitlan is a large, mushroom shaped lake about 5km across, nestled between three dormant volcanoes in the highlands of Guatemala. The volcanoes themselves are covered in verdant green forests and are anchored majestically around the water. Their slopes plunge in a more or less linear fashion from the summits to the crystalline water of the lake. They are like monolithic sentinels, observing the mundane activities of the busy little humans existing on their slopes with temperant, timeless patience. Clouds attend to the peaks, obscuring the tops, even when the rest of the sky is a clear blue. When the moon rises from behind the peaks it is stained orange from the woodsmoke from the fires the locals still use for cooking, and its reflection shimmers off the lake with a wraith-like luminescence.
Situated at various points around the lake and nestled into the ravines between the mountains are small villages, many of which are only accessable by boat from the transit town of Panajachel.
I arrived at about 9pm and the town is a rabbit warren of cobblestone lanes, dirt alleyways and steep streets tracking straight up the mountainside. The main strip is barely wider than an armspan and tacks in and out of the bars, comedors (eateries), local shops, fruit and market vendors, and street dogs. Tuk tuks and men on ag bikes swerve through the human traffic, which wends back and forth through the buidings which are a prime example of what happens when there is no planning-no order at all. But, trust me, there is an abundance of atmosphere.
Walking through the main street of San Pedro for the first time at night is surreal. The bars loom closely in over the street in an almost life-like fashion, dimly lit from within as they are with strings of red, green and blue glowing bulbs strung from the trees. Bamboo fences line the street, obscuring, but not hiding the shadowy interiors of the establishments, which are decorated with colourful swirling artwork and thickets of vegetation. Music, from Guatemalan classics, Vietnam era rock and blues, soul, electronica and heavy metal wafts into the street, with the murmur of conversation, and the tang of tobacco, cooking, and marijuana. Occasionally through the bamboo poles you glimpse a worn face, matted hair wreathed in smoke, slumped over a meal and a bottle of beer. Old women sit on the side of the road selling chorizo tacos cooked on small portable barbecues, with dogs and children playing around the fires until the early morning, when drinkers stumble out of the bars searching for something to eat. You'll meet quite a few US Army veterans in this part of the world.
I was reminded of the sort of world that Alice might have found in Wonderland if it was R rated, an impression heightened when I passed the Mad Hatters, a bar with giant mushrooms decorating the exterior.
There are various types of tourists in locations like this. I call one group professional hippies because for them it's a lifestyle choice.
If you take away the rest of the tourists there is a smattering of Western men walking around who take their alternativeness pretty seriously. It seems they ignore the rest of us with an arrogant disdain, and tend not to socialise much at all. It´s comparable to the way you´d walk past a dog sleeping in the street. You´d look at it but not register anything other than the fact that it was there and to not walk on it. These chaps are all different heights and colours but they are always skinny with baggy clothes, slightly sunburnt faces and dull glassy eyes and that wizened look you get from squinting into the sun too much. You can often find one of these fellows standing, lonely and forlorne on a roof, facing the lake as the moon rises, a long silhouette caste by their emaciated bodies by the orange orb, playing a pan flute or other indigineous instrument. Without exception it sounds...fucking horrendous! It sounds like a doberman trying to make sexytime with a chihuaha. It definately isn't Enya.
These guys work in the local bars at night hopped up on gear and spend their days smoking grass and eating Valium which is $1 for 10, or something like that. The point is, they aren´t arrogantly ignoring me at all, they are too spaced out to notice my presence.
The women in this group have a bit more spark to them. Rather than dully ignoring me as I walk past they might emit a mildly scornful look, quickly supressed. They are confident in the fact that I will never embrace the local culture to the the extant they have, and am therefore a transient gringo selfishly raping the locals of their culture, as evidenced by the fact that I have not:
-Allowed my BMI to drop below 15
-Purchased and worn local, hand woven garments made from natural fibers
-Let my underarm hair grow to more than 3 inches (ok I have but that´s because I´m male, if I was female I would shave it every now and then for sure.)
-Thrown away, lost or burnt my bra, or canabalised it to mend my natural fiber pants
-Have not joined a co-operative to help local women make beaded jewellery from genuine local materials (like a rock for example) for the economic emancipation of local women.
Of course such efforts are genuinely praiseworthy, especially in a culture where womens rights probably aren´t they foremost issue but I´m not sure I understand the scorn for the tourists who spend their capitalist dollars on, oh, hand woven jewelery for example.
Or maybe they just don´t like me because I can´t help looking at their angry nips which poke through their bra-less hemp fibre tops, which probably aggravates them. It´s not attractive, but weird, like the mole on that guys face in Austin Powers.
Speaking of hippies, I met a guy at a restaurant who doesn´t like them much. The first night I went to this place he staggered over with a beer and a cigarette and told us that the fish was really good so we went in-I was with my two friends from the hostel, two girls from Sweden and Quebec who were travelling together.
Three nights later I was back at the restaurant, by myself (the food was really good). It was my last night in San Pedro. It was dark, with string lighting wending through the roof and there was some Black Sabbath or Motorhead playing through the speakers. Dario, from Gautemala City, was still drunk and decided to give me his point of view of hippies.
Me: So what do you think of hippies?
Dario: Fuck off hippies! Do you know what I do when I see a hippie come in here?
Me: What´s that?
Dario: I put on Slayer, and turn the volume right up. That scares all the hippies away!
Me: What about some Pantera?
Dario: You know what man, I wrote a song about hippies.
Me: Let´s hear it.
Dario: Ok man:
(at this point he leans back in his chair and dangles his cigarette in one hand and his beer can in the other. His eyes close and his mouth opens vacantly. He spreads his arms wide and the sweat patches under his arms dribble further down his singlet)
Ooh, ooh I´m a fuckin hippies
Let´s go and make some beads
Ooh and I hate to shower because I´m a dirty hippies
Let´s go and smoke some weeds
(Dario stops and leans forward intently, trying to focus and failing)
Dario: Hey man did you hear that, that rhymed!
Me: Yea it did actually, I really wasn´t expecting that!
Dario: It´s cos my brain isn´t useless from all those drugs man. I´m real man. You know those fuckin hippies pretend to want to help people but that isn´t real. You know something man? I´m not racist but I fucking hate hippies.
Me: Do you want some more rum and pineapple?
Dario: You know, I´m real man, I don´t want to help nobody like those damned hippies. I just want to listen to rock n roll and get drunk, that´s the truth you know? That´s fucking real!
Me: For sure mate you´re not alone in that one
Dario: And the worst hippies man...
(finally focussing on me intently)
...are Jewish hippies!
Anyway he had a mate called Byron who worked in the Guatemalan equivalent of CSI. This guy had two modes of communication. Silence, and a honking foghorn of a voice that couldn´t be modulated at all.
Byron locked me in his sights and honked at me about his job:
Byron: Hey Aussie, man I´ve seen some funny shit in my job man!
Me: What´s that?
Byron: You want to know what a .22 bullet hole looks like in a person?
Me: What´s it look like?
Byron holds up the pinkie of his right hand a waggles it in front of me.
Byron: And man guess what I can fit inside a man with a 7mm bullet hole in them, you know, from an AK-47?
He holds up the middle finger of his right hand and waggles it in my face
Me: That´s pretty loose
Byron: And man, guess what I can fit inside when you get shot by a Magnum?
This time, he puts both his thumbs together and waves them in front of me.
Byron: You don´t want to get shot by a magnum, man!
Bloody oath.
Byron himself would know as he had a huge scare on his arm from a shotgun wound he got while running away from some kidnappers.
I was actually in San Pedro to spend time at one of the Spanish schools they have there. I met a couple of girls at the hostel I was staying at who recommended the school they were at, the Mayan Spanish School. I signed on for two weeks, for four hours a day. A skinny little chap called Walter was my teacher. He seemed a bit nervous and was always saying things like, "Tim, that's perfect, well done, but..." Walter barely spoke any English so it's a good thing my Spanish wasn't all that bad to start with. One day he just didn't show up and I got another guy called Lorenzo.
Walter showed me where there was a free gym in the town. A really basic place run by a guy who happened to also work at the school. He was the bench press champion of Guatemala, called Erick Cortez. I started training there everyday. I had a great routine going. Get up and start classes, from 9-1pm, back to the hostel for a 3 hour siesta, then gym till about 7.30. After that a healthy feed and a bottle of El Compadre with the Cecilia, Marie (the girls form the hostel) and Gersh, a rasta from Miami. Cecilia was a cleaner at a hospital and Marie a psychologist at a mental institution, and Gersh worked at a bottle shop in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
Well I'll write about the rest of San Pedro in the next one and throw in some photo's too. Not to mention the last two days in Miami which have been interesting.
Because tomorrow I fly to Haiti where I expect it'll be down to business.
Additionally I'm splitting San Pedro into two parts because it's a very interesting place. The second bit will arrive in a week or so.
I met a crazy Canadian actor in Mexico City who liked cheap tacos and Thai prostitutes. So at least I knew why he was in Mexico, but anyway he told me over a few beers that if I wanted to learn Spanish that I had to go to a school in San Pedro, a small town at Lago de Atitlan in Guatemala.
So I got a bus to San Cristobal in Mexico and then made the border crossing.
If you ever meet a Canadian actor who likes tacos and hookers you should do what he says because San Pedro is by far the best decision I´ve made this trip.
Some backgropund about Guatemala first though, which I have lifted straight from Wikipedia:
-Guatemala has the fourth highest rate of chronic malnutrition in the world and the highest in the Western Hemisphere.
-Approximately 75% of Guatemalans live below the poverty level, which is defined as an income that is not sufficient to purchase a basic basket of goods and basic services.
-Approximately 58% of the population have incomes below the extreme poverty line, which is defined as the amount needed to purchase a basic basket of food.
-Approximately 50% of Guatemalan children under the age of 5 now suffer from chronic undernutrition.
-In the nation's highlands, where many indigenous people live, 70% of children under age 5 are malnourished
If you want more information on that the link is here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Economy_of_Guatemala
Mexico is great and I really like it but when you get to the border there is a slightly different vibe to Guatemala. It´s wilder, more basic and more raw. Fun time.
The first thing I did at the border was change some cash. The guy who approached me first had long oily black hair, black ray bans, a black waistcoat and alligator skin boots. He also had a whispy moustache, and a 9mm pistol in his belt, with an ivory handle engraved with a mosaic of the Virgin Mary and a clip that extended fully 6 inches past the grip, with a few spare in his belt as well. Of course he tried to rip me off and having no idea what the exchange rate between Mexican pesos and Guatemalan quetzales was, I faffed around for a bit but he was happy to bargain so in the end I think I got a reasonable price for my pesos.
The most common way to get to San Pedro is by boat from Panajachel. Pana is full of tourists and locals flogging the sort of junk that tourists purchase and while I´ve heard good things about it I got straight onto a boat for San Pedro. The captain of the ¨Dorcas¨ quoted me Q25 but I only had 14 on me so I told the guy I´d fix him up when we got to San Pedro from the cash machine.
A few minutes later he told us that they were waiting on two more gringos before we left and he was going to charge them Q35...please don´t tell them they were paying more! So I didn´t feel too bad when the cash machine at San Pedro was empty and I couldn´t pay him the rest of the fare!
Lago de Atitlan is probably one of the most beautiful places on earth. I´m not going to spend too much time writing about it because many people, with better writing skills than myself have already done so (e.g. Alduous Huxley). However it is worth a brief description for those who have never heard of it.
Lago de Atitlan is a large, mushroom shaped lake about 5km across, nestled between three dormant volcanoes in the highlands of Guatemala. The volcanoes themselves are covered in verdant green forests and are anchored majestically around the water. Their slopes plunge in a more or less linear fashion from the summits to the crystalline water of the lake. They are like monolithic sentinels, observing the mundane activities of the busy little humans existing on their slopes with temperant, timeless patience. Clouds attend to the peaks, obscuring the tops, even when the rest of the sky is a clear blue. When the moon rises from behind the peaks it is stained orange from the woodsmoke from the fires the locals still use for cooking, and its reflection shimmers off the lake with a wraith-like luminescence.
Situated at various points around the lake and nestled into the ravines between the mountains are small villages, many of which are only accessable by boat from the transit town of Panajachel.
I arrived at about 9pm and the town is a rabbit warren of cobblestone lanes, dirt alleyways and steep streets tracking straight up the mountainside. The main strip is barely wider than an armspan and tacks in and out of the bars, comedors (eateries), local shops, fruit and market vendors, and street dogs. Tuk tuks and men on ag bikes swerve through the human traffic, which wends back and forth through the buidings which are a prime example of what happens when there is no planning-no order at all. But, trust me, there is an abundance of atmosphere.
Walking through the main street of San Pedro for the first time at night is surreal. The bars loom closely in over the street in an almost life-like fashion, dimly lit from within as they are with strings of red, green and blue glowing bulbs strung from the trees. Bamboo fences line the street, obscuring, but not hiding the shadowy interiors of the establishments, which are decorated with colourful swirling artwork and thickets of vegetation. Music, from Guatemalan classics, Vietnam era rock and blues, soul, electronica and heavy metal wafts into the street, with the murmur of conversation, and the tang of tobacco, cooking, and marijuana. Occasionally through the bamboo poles you glimpse a worn face, matted hair wreathed in smoke, slumped over a meal and a bottle of beer. Old women sit on the side of the road selling chorizo tacos cooked on small portable barbecues, with dogs and children playing around the fires until the early morning, when drinkers stumble out of the bars searching for something to eat. You'll meet quite a few US Army veterans in this part of the world.
I was reminded of the sort of world that Alice might have found in Wonderland if it was R rated, an impression heightened when I passed the Mad Hatters, a bar with giant mushrooms decorating the exterior.
There are various types of tourists in locations like this. I call one group professional hippies because for them it's a lifestyle choice.
If you take away the rest of the tourists there is a smattering of Western men walking around who take their alternativeness pretty seriously. It seems they ignore the rest of us with an arrogant disdain, and tend not to socialise much at all. It´s comparable to the way you´d walk past a dog sleeping in the street. You´d look at it but not register anything other than the fact that it was there and to not walk on it. These chaps are all different heights and colours but they are always skinny with baggy clothes, slightly sunburnt faces and dull glassy eyes and that wizened look you get from squinting into the sun too much. You can often find one of these fellows standing, lonely and forlorne on a roof, facing the lake as the moon rises, a long silhouette caste by their emaciated bodies by the orange orb, playing a pan flute or other indigineous instrument. Without exception it sounds...fucking horrendous! It sounds like a doberman trying to make sexytime with a chihuaha. It definately isn't Enya.
These guys work in the local bars at night hopped up on gear and spend their days smoking grass and eating Valium which is $1 for 10, or something like that. The point is, they aren´t arrogantly ignoring me at all, they are too spaced out to notice my presence.
The women in this group have a bit more spark to them. Rather than dully ignoring me as I walk past they might emit a mildly scornful look, quickly supressed. They are confident in the fact that I will never embrace the local culture to the the extant they have, and am therefore a transient gringo selfishly raping the locals of their culture, as evidenced by the fact that I have not:
-Allowed my BMI to drop below 15
-Purchased and worn local, hand woven garments made from natural fibers
-Let my underarm hair grow to more than 3 inches (ok I have but that´s because I´m male, if I was female I would shave it every now and then for sure.)
-Thrown away, lost or burnt my bra, or canabalised it to mend my natural fiber pants
-Have not joined a co-operative to help local women make beaded jewellery from genuine local materials (like a rock for example) for the economic emancipation of local women.
Of course such efforts are genuinely praiseworthy, especially in a culture where womens rights probably aren´t they foremost issue but I´m not sure I understand the scorn for the tourists who spend their capitalist dollars on, oh, hand woven jewelery for example.
Or maybe they just don´t like me because I can´t help looking at their angry nips which poke through their bra-less hemp fibre tops, which probably aggravates them. It´s not attractive, but weird, like the mole on that guys face in Austin Powers.
Speaking of hippies, I met a guy at a restaurant who doesn´t like them much. The first night I went to this place he staggered over with a beer and a cigarette and told us that the fish was really good so we went in-I was with my two friends from the hostel, two girls from Sweden and Quebec who were travelling together.
Three nights later I was back at the restaurant, by myself (the food was really good). It was my last night in San Pedro. It was dark, with string lighting wending through the roof and there was some Black Sabbath or Motorhead playing through the speakers. Dario, from Gautemala City, was still drunk and decided to give me his point of view of hippies.
Me: So what do you think of hippies?
Dario: Fuck off hippies! Do you know what I do when I see a hippie come in here?
Me: What´s that?
Dario: I put on Slayer, and turn the volume right up. That scares all the hippies away!
Me: What about some Pantera?
Dario: You know what man, I wrote a song about hippies.
Me: Let´s hear it.
Dario: Ok man:
(at this point he leans back in his chair and dangles his cigarette in one hand and his beer can in the other. His eyes close and his mouth opens vacantly. He spreads his arms wide and the sweat patches under his arms dribble further down his singlet)
Ooh, ooh I´m a fuckin hippies
Let´s go and make some beads
Ooh and I hate to shower because I´m a dirty hippies
Let´s go and smoke some weeds
(Dario stops and leans forward intently, trying to focus and failing)
Dario: Hey man did you hear that, that rhymed!
Me: Yea it did actually, I really wasn´t expecting that!
Dario: It´s cos my brain isn´t useless from all those drugs man. I´m real man. You know those fuckin hippies pretend to want to help people but that isn´t real. You know something man? I´m not racist but I fucking hate hippies.
Me: Do you want some more rum and pineapple?
Dario: You know, I´m real man, I don´t want to help nobody like those damned hippies. I just want to listen to rock n roll and get drunk, that´s the truth you know? That´s fucking real!
Me: For sure mate you´re not alone in that one
Dario: And the worst hippies man...
(finally focussing on me intently)
...are Jewish hippies!
Anyway he had a mate called Byron who worked in the Guatemalan equivalent of CSI. This guy had two modes of communication. Silence, and a honking foghorn of a voice that couldn´t be modulated at all.
Byron locked me in his sights and honked at me about his job:
Byron: Hey Aussie, man I´ve seen some funny shit in my job man!
Me: What´s that?
Byron: You want to know what a .22 bullet hole looks like in a person?
Me: What´s it look like?
Byron holds up the pinkie of his right hand a waggles it in front of me.
Byron: And man guess what I can fit inside a man with a 7mm bullet hole in them, you know, from an AK-47?
He holds up the middle finger of his right hand and waggles it in my face
Me: That´s pretty loose
Byron: And man, guess what I can fit inside when you get shot by a Magnum?
This time, he puts both his thumbs together and waves them in front of me.
Byron: You don´t want to get shot by a magnum, man!
Bloody oath.
Byron himself would know as he had a huge scare on his arm from a shotgun wound he got while running away from some kidnappers.
I was actually in San Pedro to spend time at one of the Spanish schools they have there. I met a couple of girls at the hostel I was staying at who recommended the school they were at, the Mayan Spanish School. I signed on for two weeks, for four hours a day. A skinny little chap called Walter was my teacher. He seemed a bit nervous and was always saying things like, "Tim, that's perfect, well done, but..." Walter barely spoke any English so it's a good thing my Spanish wasn't all that bad to start with. One day he just didn't show up and I got another guy called Lorenzo.
Walter showed me where there was a free gym in the town. A really basic place run by a guy who happened to also work at the school. He was the bench press champion of Guatemala, called Erick Cortez. I started training there everyday. I had a great routine going. Get up and start classes, from 9-1pm, back to the hostel for a 3 hour siesta, then gym till about 7.30. After that a healthy feed and a bottle of El Compadre with the Cecilia, Marie (the girls form the hostel) and Gersh, a rasta from Miami. Cecilia was a cleaner at a hospital and Marie a psychologist at a mental institution, and Gersh worked at a bottle shop in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
Well I'll write about the rest of San Pedro in the next one and throw in some photo's too. Not to mention the last two days in Miami which have been interesting.
Because tomorrow I fly to Haiti where I expect it'll be down to business.
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