A bone for the dagz

Listen, you fucking fringe, when I throw a dog a bone, I don’t want to know whether it tastes good or not; you stop me again whilst I’m walking and I’ll cut your fucking balls off.
(Brick Top, Snatch)

The intention of this entry is to bring events a little closer to the present and provide some background for a few of the photos on Flickr. Other and more general (the way I prefer them) entries will be forthcoming. Now; it's really not on anymore, but who knows, might still be worth recounting. After four weeks in Todos Santos my head was full of Spanish and 'twas time for some serious relaxation. A holiday, one might say. And for this wonderful occasion, the last ten days of May spent away from home, my eyes were set on Xela; as some readers may recall this was where I spent my first night in Guatemala; a night of unparalleled hunger and terror. I was set on redeeming myself by going back there and having a great time in this city renowned for several things; it's the second largest in Guatemala (250,000 people); it's surrounded by several volcanoes, one of which blew up in 1902, or was it 1903, who cares, leaving the city in ruins, ashes as far as California, and darkness in Guatemala for several days; excellent days for the religious, I imagine: "DOOMSDAY IS UPON US! TURN TO GOD NOW OR PERISH!", and then a few days later "PRAISE THE LORD! OUR PRAYERS HAVE BEEN HEARD, SATAN IS CONQUER'D!", the same two-faced pastors, of course, recruiting fresh lamb to the herd by the second; back to Xela, it's also known for being not quite as gringified as Antigua (also in Guatemala) while definitely entertaining a gringo scene, as I was soon to find out. I settled in at the dormitory (3 bunk beds, just like being back in the army)at Hostal Don Diego for 35Q a night, including a small breakfast. Now, the good thing about the Quetzal - the currency, the national bird, and the name of numberless things in this country, in this case the dough - is that it's very similar in value to the Norwegian krone, slightly cheaper, in fact, rendering everything 20% off on an already ridiculous price.

Xela soon proved to be a place of gringos indeed, which in my mind's eye converts Antigua to the current avatar of Pandemonium; makes me want to go check it out, for some reason. In Xela, there was more Dutch to be heard than Spanish in the hostel, also some Scandinavian; I am yet to meet a Norwegian, though, but found a few Danes, some Norwegian-proficient, some not. English: a blanket cast down on former gems of Central America by Lonely Planet and other evil gods, leaving the search for Spanish immersion dead and then trampled, or at least pending the sobering up and moving to a remote village of the daring souls that crave other things than drinking, smoking, dancing and all such sinfulness. That being said, I did try out gringo life while I was there; what else was there to do? Two foul Dutch temptresses made me drink and smoke and go out on the town, oh, and they thought I was nineteen. That night I had seven units of alcohol, which is the most I've had in one sitting here; one to two is normal, if anything at all. And, my friends, your humble narrator got good and tipsy off those few seven. As the score thus stands, your drinkalizer droog is dead, or at least dormant, and happy too with his newfound piety.

I soon turned to healthier activities, that is: hiking with the Quetzaltrekkers - volunteers guiding fairly healthy tourists to beautiful views and nature for the benefit of street children. First to the previously mentioned Santa María, which blew up; not vanishing, just producing Santiaguito on the side about a 1000m below the summit. Santiaguito is still active and can be seen from Santa María, spewing out dust and smoke every 15 minutes and sometimes a little extra on the side. Going to up there is hard, because it is very steep and high up (3772m), especially so when the trek was a garbage collecting trek to which they didn't bring "extra baggage" - people not fit - the pace quickened, as did my heartbeat. Lung capacity is a chapter of its own, it feels like half of the lungs are already filled up, making oxygen a scarce commodity until you've been hiking steadily for at least a month. You got to hate those fit Quetzaltrekkers a little bit, especially that Marcello, the friendly German gentleman jogging merrily along without breathing problems, taking a smoke or two during breaks just to rub it in there while you're hands-on-knees, all sweating and panting. Anyway, a couple of hours of intense hiking elevates you at least 1200m and it sure is a beautiful mountain with lovely views, as well as tons of garbage left by locals performing sacred rituals on the top, the rituals a lovely blend of Maya and Catholic tradition. For some reason "sacred" and "let's keep it clean, then" aren't even distant relatives, leaving it to the idiot ecotourists to tidy up the mess; the locals sniggering at us while we're carrying trashbags down the mountain, possibly wondering if we'd found a way to make money off it, which would be the only feasible reason for most of them to detrashify an area.

Many people back at the hostel inspired feelings of indifference or even irritation, having uninteresting conversations all day long that sometimes lasted loudly into the night; for instance the Englishman under the influence, stupidly - that is, shallowly and without looking to his own nation's history, past and present - pounding American politics and their overseas engagement, the American audience being too ignorant to retort. That being said, this was a unique experience that just pissed me off because I was sick in bed and had to listen to that drunken rant and "uuuh, I don't know, I'm sorry" replies while I was supposed to sleep; in general, though, my prejudice against Americans (mainly that they're morons) has been firmly corrected, both in Atlanta and on the road they've been upstanding and intelligent members of the community, among them Will at 60, quitting his job as a ecoadviser (forestry, primarily) to the US Air Force protesting the (quote): "cavalier attitude toward nature of the current administration". These cultured people make me wonder how the republicans get any votes, then again, it could be because all the greens and democrats are out travelling. Also, you get an impression that a lot of the Americans feel a little ashamed of their country's policies, because they agree with the anger and criticism that other travelers often demonstrate towards their nation. Damn right, too.

Furthermore, every once in a while, one stumbles upon characters that for unknown reasons soothe one's existence; Trevor from Cornwall is such a man, a man capable of running miles and miles again while providing more efficient infrastructures whereupon user-interfaces are built. Cultured, well-grounded, suitably humble in spite of copious amounts of working braincells, but not meek. A wonderful guy. Also, he revived my (preferred) British, which has taken a hell of a beating in the face of the majority, the American opposition. Trevor would converse about proper things while eating proper French food with me at the Royal Paris in Xela; certainly not a local place for local people, and also situated one floor above ground level, which meant suitingly looking down at the common people whilst drinking coffee-flavoured coffee and eating your 35Q omelette. Typical local breakfast in other places: eggs, hot, brown water (coffee), tortillas and black beans for about 10Q. I think I'll see Trev again.

The second trip was an overnight trip, camping a few hundred metres below the summit of Tajumulco, another volcano a few hours away from Xela towards Mexico by bus, and then many more hours by foot. The rainy season had not yet started and caught us by surprise, keeping us cold and wet, everybody in bed by seven or eight in the end, not saying a word. So much for carrying five beers up there. Oh, and I had severe problems with my health as well; a stomach pain getting worse and worse, leaving me lying around in agony when others were making camp - they must have thought I was tired and lazy - had me thinking I had some serious shit, like appendicitis, but lo: 'twas but a fucking severe case of flatulence, unbelievably painful, not unlike Idi Amin for those who saw "The last king of Scotland"; yes, it CAN be that painful, not only in Hollywood. After I hung over a log for some time, I got a little better but felt the diarrhea sneaking up on me, and then it started pouring. Also, a little later, after gathering wood to a fire we couldn't get going, I proceeded to divert the flow of the newly-born river by building a magnificent trench around our abode; my tool a miniscule shovel of the planting-leeks-in-the-garden type, on this trip meant for digging small holes wherein one would compartmentalise one's excrement. Thus I saved my fellow tenters from certain evencolderandwetterification, and there was moderate rejoicing.

My Mario spiritual that kept me going:

I ain't calling me a trenchdiggah
but I ain't messin' with no dry niggahz

I fell "asleep" at eight in our six-person tent, being unable to move, in need of a piss; worse: an insistent diarrhea harassing my anal muscular system with increasingly ridiculous demands; there was absolutely no way I was going out of the sleeping bag again and into the freezing rain to let Mrs. D have her wicked way with me; also I was trying Torsten's - my German friend in the neighbouring sleeping bag - recipe for drying wet clothes, namely sticking my wet (and only) pants down in my sleeping bag as a means of magically drying and warming them overnight, ostensibly aided by my already freezing body. Folks, it don't work.

After a night of torment and insomnia, I let the diarrhea and pee flow freely at fiveish in the morning, ushering in an era of dehydration, lack of apetite, drinking of saltwater, weakness, fever, pain and ass-spewing to come the following days back in Xela; let me just say it's no fun being sick and not knowing exactly what's wrong in a foreign country, and moreso the first time, I gather; however, for the time being I was still at Tajumulco and it wasn't all that bad yet: there I got some of the best photos so far, of the sunrise and morning clouds, AND I had the stomach for a celebratory drink atop the highest point in Central America, 4220 metres above sea level; none of the other sissies and health freaks joined in in spite of me bringing two beers from camp. Oh, and at 4000m you DO feel even one beer.

Intermission, or: a brush with volunteering.

In a few days I got better, without the use of a doctor, which I had heard would only stuff me full of too-strong antibiotics anyway. After visiting the wonderful Quetzaltrekkers for the last time, having a near-joining-experience (three months minimum) and sneaking my way into the legendary piñapictures, I left Xela by chicken bus one lovely morning at five thirty, to become coordinator - that is, a substitute for two weeks - of my language school in Todos Santos, hispanomaya.org. Kelsey, the supercoordinadora, was going on a spree of sloth with her friend Monica, leaving her trusted Mario to put his feet up while watching the self-perpetuation of the well-oiled school. This was May 31st. Coordinating, in short, is answering e-mails, receiving new students or customers, allocating them with teachers and local families, taking the clients hiking, showing them movies, arranging lectures on topics of interest, and being their poor excuse for a social life while they're in Todos Santos. Also, being responsible in the cases where teachers or families might not be, and explaining shit in plain English to our customers, as the teachers only speak Spanish. I, of course, had only limited knowledge of Spanish, but communicated with teachers, families and non-English speaking customers in an adequate fashion. In short, being a coordinator is running the school; it's just that the school is a cooperative and thus there is no hierarchy, which makes everybody's mandate unclear and complicates decision-making. Not unlike a certain all-men-are-created-equal, some-just-have-to-work-more- and-take-responsibility-without-officially- having-full-decision-making-authority television I once devoted my time to. And no, I'm not bitter, just irritated at the lack of decent structure so prevalent in organization-building around the globe, at least in the non-professional sphere; I suspect many of the pros as well.

For some of the same reasons I wouldn't join the Quetzaltrekkers - namely a search for a certain degree of solitude and, more importantly, setting my own agenda and not catering to others 24-7 at this point - I wasn't superhappy as a coordinator but still had an all-right time, did a decent job, and altogether enjoyed the experience. I still help out a little bit, among other things taking the students hiking; also I have two projects that I started but don't know if I'll finish, the new webpage and the database, the latter to replace a myriad of half-complete word-documents and open up for proper booking, clarity and even some interesting statistics, in time.

June 15th Kelsey returned to alleviate my pain just in time, as I was getting really sick again, whatever in my stomach before obviously sleeping or replaced by something new. That, however, is a different tale.