Closure

You have just dined, and however scrupulously the slaughterhouse is concealed in the graceful distance of miles, there is complicity.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

In the jungles of Mexico, there was a change of plan after the surf plunge. Weary and weathered I realized I had to go back to Todos Santos for the legendary horse races November 1st, and that there was insufficient time for Havana and back without considerable stress - on this trip the latter is an object of shunning to the greatest extent possible. Anyway, it was the beginning of October, and there was then a month to fill before these races. The grand result of all this was a decision to fulfil an old dream, namely diving; I thus undertook an odyssey across Guatemala to the Honduran Bay Islands, to the isle of Utíla, the cheaper and lesser developed of the two major choices available. On diving, it was the otherworldly revelation one might imagine beforehand, perhaps worthy of its own entry, but not so today. Three days after the events that spurred me now to write again, I am still filled with the awe the festival of Todos Santos so violently bestowed upon me; thus, this must be my theme.

A short time-space sweep to provide the reader with perhaps unnecessary coherence: from ten moistened days of moray- and turtle-spotting highs on Utila, I found myself in Southeastern Guatemala, near El Progresso, Jutiapa, in the home of Jayson and his younger sister Jazz, the two of them living the good life in a default small-ass Guatemalan town, spreading the word as Jehovah's witnesses, a strain of Christianity that has recently gained considerable respect with your humble narrator. There for three days, I also attended, as far as I can say, my first religious meeting in a non-particular (Christmas, confirmation, baptism, marriage, funeral) context since childhood, and although skeptical, I was neither appalled or adversely affected as I thought I would be. People were very friendly in an apparently genuine and definitely in a non-imposing way. JWs are from now on welcome on my porch, in fact I might even invite them in for a coffee and a chat.

Unfortunately I couldn't stay long, as I had already planned a four-day Nebaj-Todos Santos trek with the aforementioned Quetzaltrekkers out of Xela. A lovely gang, it must be added; every time I return to Xela I find that I now only know one of the trekkers - they have a heavy circulation - then I swiftly befriend the rest, finding it always to be good folk. Anyway, we had a challenging and beautiful hike, in many ways completing my experience of the awesome Guatemalan highlands. The fifth day we came to Todos Santos on the eve before the great horse races - there was much fatigue, rejoicing and an incredible drunken spree shared by most of the trekking group, which totally killed me after hours of great fun in the local cantinas - shitholes made for blind drunkenness. At dinner, which was after the first spree and held at my teacher Nora's house - Hispanomaya Language School is Quetzaltrekkers' contact in Todos Santos - I did my best to avoid talking too much to the several family members that were there helping out, including my former host mum Elena, who had not seen me for a while and obviously never in such an animated condition. She minded less than me, though, she sees worse on the streets of Todos Santos every day. Her family is one out of three Ladino - non-indigenous - families that live in Todos Santos, and they drink little to nothing, wisely so. Talking about alcoholism, there are always people drunk in the streets of Todos Santos, just moreso in times of the festival. The festiuval, as it was, started over a week before and the locals had been going at it just as long with no signs of slowing down. Early sights as we got there included much more tourists, many of them of some age, lots more people in general and more stalls and drunk people than usual; there were marimba (wooden xylophone) music in the streets, with drunk women with children on their backs dancing and stumbling about. There were even ferris wheels on the town square - a strange sight in a small, poor indigenous mountain town in Guatemala. Anyway, the night in question I was, after ten beers or so, unable to evaluate what would be a healthy intake - that is, none - of the rum that suddenly manifested itself on the table by which I was seated - not too many dim hours later it all added up to a nice pile of vomit on the bedroom floor that brought the thoughts back to the good ol' days with my russefriends, that nevertheless provided me with ample sleeping space in the tiny room that was meant for ten people. The pile was really beautiful, like the perfect spew pyramid with evenly distributed chunks and all, almost fake-looking; unfortunately it was destroyed by the trampling naked feet of uncareful companions seeking to find a sleeping-place in the dark.

Come the break of day. Still drunk I got up surprisingly early, superficially cleaned up the vomit after logically concluding it had to be mine, and manoevered myself over to the much needed breakfast and then the horse races. Let me tell you about the horse races; ostensibly originating in the sight of the impressive convoy of conquistadors that long ago showed up in Todos Santos on never before seen animals, the locals initiated a tradition of dressing up in colourful costumes and riding horses back and forth on a 200m dirt lane that is actually part of the road, most provisionally fenced in for the occasion. In one end there is a horse depot where horses are changed and also riders come and go, the other end is just a thin fence where guys with sticks try and help the horses understand that they should stop if the rider does not convince the horse of this first. Not a job I would volunteer for. It is not really a race in the traditional sense, as it is not about being first but staying on the horse; this may sound stupid but can prove difficult enough after a week of drinking as well as the serving of refreshing beverages underway. Anyone who races long and fast and drinks hard is a winner, anyone who falls off is a loser. Racers race 200m, stop their horse, wait for stragglers, have a drink, perhaps; then turn around and race back. Ad infinitum, or rather, from about 08-12 and then 14-17. It has not been uncommon for people to die, from nasty falls, trampling, bystanding and so on. Bystanding, you say? The fence consists of relatively thin poles every three metres with ridiculously thin planks in two rows. People are leaning against this, kids are allowed to sit on them. Have you ever had 15 horses gallop a metre from you? They're not exactly mathematically prone to straightness, I can tell you that. It's like a lion cage made of carboard, an accident waiting to happen. And apparently any death related to the race means good luck for a year. For whom, I don't know, but possibly the guy being put out of his miserable drunken existence. However, the lion was apparently asleep this day, and the fence did well.

Regarding existences, it must be said that mine was fairly miserable that day as well; after a glance at the morning session down at the tracks and then the slow descent from uneasy drunkenness into the oblivion of post-megaspree hangover, it became increasingly clear that the drinking had to recommence in order to get through the day; heaps of other people had already come to this conclusion and thus I found myself in the company of friends when I had four beers and a pizza for lunch; I then felt pretty good and was ready to fetch my camera and do some serious shooting.

On the air surrounding the races, a comment must be made about the nature of the locals. They are distinctly unenthusiastic inn all they do. Friendly and smiling, yes, often, it takes very little, but happy-go-luckiness is not to be found among the Mayan today, along with go-getterness, a quality found only in Rigoberta Menchú, who is unpopular among her own. Standing around the race tracks, there is no cheering or much sound at all apart from talking, just the impassive observation of events. The most sound is made by the horses and the riders, sometimes crying out the superiority of them or their horse; sometimes just crying. On the worn-out ferris wheel, Mayans sit in pairs in small metal swings going at speeds far in excess of the recommendations that came with the kit, so to speak. I took the ride later that night. Even used to theme park rides, as the familiar surge in the stomach region occured when going sharply down, I felt a little like screaming myself, at least with exhilaration. The little Mayan girls do not. No Mayan does. It is a peculiar phenomenon. Of words suited to describe this, I can only come up with pacification. They have been mollified for centuries, and there is no enthusiasm left, only a stubborn will to go on, surprised by little and expecting defeat, oppression and doom.

Doom. For some reason, as a group of about ten horses were returning from the end of the lane, a rider was let loose/rode away from the depot side, thus a lone rider was galloping towards a cavalry that likewise was at full speed and covered the whole lane two times over. I stood about 15 metres from where they met, camera ready. There is something, though, humanity perhaps, left in me that prohibited the lifting of the camera as time slowed down and revealed the possible atrocity that was about to transpire. I remember, during the few seconds leading up to the ensuing scene, not being completely sure about how horses would 'blend' in such a situation; I was silently praying for something like two schools of fish meeting one another, seamlessly sliding off and continuing unscathed...

OR WAS I? There is no denying the attraction of horror, the inability to look away; perhaps, in coming to see this particular ill-reputed event, even the lustful anticipation of something awful, a lust that could have ended in many a disappointed tourist if nothing had occured. That day, however, us voyeurs were in luck. The sound of two horses doing a full frontal collision at gallop lingers with me still, and will return every time I think of that day. It can best be described as a thump; an awful, loud, animate thump. Only a pair were affected, the rest came clear off. I almost puked, and my heart fell and stayed down. It was such an ugly sight, riders and horses in a pile of four lying on the ground, all still, as well as the crowd, only a few muffled screams and sighs, perhaps from tourist girls, I don't clearly remember; as far as I was concerned, all was silent, like in a film, when the sound reflects the silence inside the subject followed, in this case me. Then the volume brutally is turned up, back to the reality of what's transpiring around. People ran onto the lane, although in a controlled fashion; curiosity, mostly, but also helpfulness. One rider got up after a short time, the other after five minutes or so, both of them relatively unscathed, bleeding a little from the head, perhaps a fracture in some joint but nothing too serious.

Both of the horses got up in the end, but none could walk straight or hold their head in a natural pose; there was blood flowing from giant nostrils; although standing, they were defeated, destroyed, yearning for the mercy of a swift death, which I am sure they recieved after being led away. I was melancholy for most of the day, although I had an all right time in the evening, drinking a few more beers with my equally spent friends; I am melancholy still, thinking of what went down. I don't know why, I seemed to take it harder than many; I overheard a group of American youth fooling around as if nothing had passed, or even worse, something of pure entertainment value; then they expected more, cheering everytime a rider nearly or completely fell off the horse as the races went on for a few more hours; they enraged me in their incompassion and their ignorance, as I slid around the area looking for good shots. Nothing else but a few innocent falls went down. I keep wondering if the guy crashing into the others planned it, wanted it. A suicide misson on a horse. He only succeded in killing the horse, and as the keen reader may have noted it is with the horses my feelings lie, innocent beasts maimed and slaughtered by drunken ignorant fools as if it was the way things were supposed to be. Well, it is not. I decided a few days after to become a vegetarian. Although I didn't see why at first; I had a sensation that it was relatetd to the incident at the races, but I couldn't quite figure out the clear connection. Then I saw it, how one sentiment of disgust could provide food for an other, lingering in me: I've been thinking of vegetarianism a while but not quite felt it. Now I did, and now I do; the industrial breeding and killing of beasts that feel pain cannot stand. Although I have not yet seen anything bigger than a chicken slaughtered, I now believe I've seen enough to infer the ugliness of breeding and killing animals for eating, an unworthy existence for creatures so close to our own level of sophistication. How close is of course an issue to be discussed, but for me, close enough. With this vision of proximitiy in mind, I'm starting with mammals and hopefully quitting fish and fowl after a transitional period. The hunter I still respect far more than the slaughter, although I don't think I could kill a larger animal myself unless forced. Hunting seems fun though, and so does stuffing my face full of stickmeat and obscenely fat pigparts for Christmas. Feelings and ideology must come first though, and as the craving for meat hopefully recedes, it will feel even more right.

I am very happy to have come to a conclusion on a moral issue; the absence of relativism is liberating. I pray for a continuation along these lines, and that my convictions continue to grow rather than uncertainties, of which our postmodern world is quite full enough as it is.

As for closure, it goes for Todos Santos as well as the connection of ideological dots. The dissipation seemingly has no end and it is sad. Even so, it was nice to see the family again, I staid there for an extra day after the trekker group left and spent the night at Elena's, finally sober enough to present myself but very tired. I strolled down to the cemetery where the Day of the Dead was being celebrated, drunken bastards fighting, drunken bastards playing music, drunken bastards dancing and drunken fools wailing. Although a better and safer tradition than the day before, there was now nothing for me there.

That being said, I may be back to visit sober friends and hike legendary hills in the future.

A brush with dead languages

The other day, in Puerto Escondido, I was talking to this random guy arriving in the hostel, and as we introduced ourself he asked me where I was from; I said Norway and he then proceeded to talk uncomprehensibly for about ten seconds, me finding no clues as to what the fuck he was on about until he, seeing my blank face and my eyes searching the emtpty air, said: 'forstaar du norsk, eller?' [do you understand Norwegian?]. I had met my first paysano in five months, and with that, I had to seriously blow some dust off certain parts of the brain. I switched to his akward tongue and responded that I was no longer sure, having only been speaking Norwegian for half an hour every second week for five months now, reporting educational days of joy and health to my parents.

I soon got into it but found myself stripped of an interesting vocabulary, to the extent that I ever had one in Norwegian. Speaking to this guy I couldn't help feel that everything was more boring in my language, the conversations more predictable and dull - and that was not due to topics, which were interesting enough, shamanism and Guatemala. The next day I met a Norwegian girl out on the board while waiting for waves, and the feeling repeated itself. I was beginning to wonder what the fuck was wrong here; the language is obviously less rich than English or Spanish, but is that the thing? Is it the predictability of people, and the quicker categorisation of them? The common cultural ballast that offers less as to interest and communication? Was it an unfortunate combination of people? Was it, God forbid, me? Am I myself a more dull, uninteresting, and in the opposite direction of communication, skeptical and arrogant person when I am speaking Norwegian?

I believe it to be a combination of all of the above, with perhaps an emphasis on meeting people that I didn't really feel a great need to have a conversation with. To conclude, I find myself having less tolerance with Norwegians: 19-year old girl, upon hearing my response in Spanish to another guy asking where I was from: 'aah, er du fra Noorge!' [oh, you're from Norway!] '(indre sukk, deretter falsk entuiasme) joa, stemmer det, aassen henger'em?' [(inner sigh, then false enthusiasm) yeah, that's right, how're they hangin'?]; anyway, I didn't say the hanging part, but I should've to have finished off the conversation quicker, or, conversely, find that she had a sense of humour and was worth talking to. To give her credit, though, she did make me laugh when I told her she could make more money off a writing job or something based in Norway that could be done on the road, rather than working for next to nothing in bars in fuckin' Honduras while travelling for South America, which she planned to do after her ex.phil/ex.fac (Norwegian mandatory philosophy course, first-year college or university) that she was infact doing there through her college with a group of 30 other toddlers; anyway, she replied 'ka fan sku ae skriv? ka fan veit ae? ae e bare 19 aar!' [what would I write? what the fuck do I know, I'm only 19]. Indeed she was. I'm drifting off the trail here, though; my point was that speaking to me in this uneducational tongue they better damn well have something substantial to offer or it's not worth the time. But a good laugh is always worth always it, I suppose is the corollary or whatever.

There it is. I'm an arrogant bastard, officially, at last. They'll never know, though; I'm not usually very rude to people's faces unless they're unlucky enough to be in my inner family. God help those future wives and children.

PS: It should be interesting to learn if others have had similar experiences of disenchantment with their native tongue or countrymen; the comments section is now open to all, I believe, after a change in the blogger configuration.

PPS: I want it to be noted that I like people. Even if I haven't been too sociable, or at least selectively so on this trip, when I have I've very often found myself in the company of interesting and/or laidback people. I believe the frequency of lovely people in general to be higher among the travelling tribe, but it doesn't hurt at all to be somewhat choosy there, either.

PPPS: There is a little Sveinung Mikkelsen seed in all of us, watered every day by the morons of the world.

A taste of the surf

Me gusta el mar, me gustas tu
Manu Chao

This morning was hard. I woke up pretty hungover, and with a frickin' cold, can you believe it, in this sauna of a place. Might be dengue, but who cares at this point. A flap-flapping sound preceded my cognition of time and space and being alive, and as I opened my eyes, there was the fan doing its thing in this crappy little room I somehow voluntarily had boxed myself into. At a distance, I may have heard Jim Morrison chanting gently, as my semi-concious mind formed the words;

Puerto Escondido... shit; I'm still only in Puerto Escondido... getting softer; every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker, and every minute Mr. Muscle squats on the beach, he gets stronger... ...each time I looked around, the walls moved in a little tighter...

It all started two weeks ago, when I arrived on the overnight coach from San Cristóbal, all trashed from a good night's sleep in what is, no matter what class you travel, undeniably a seat and not a bed. It was about seven thirty in the morning and I hadn't really done my mandatory guidebook research with regards to where to stay, and furthermore I was a little bit sceptical towards staying in Puerto Escondido at all, as it was known for being touristy and haphazardly developed; my idea was to have a look around and after a night or to go east to Mazunte or Zipolite, where the beaches apparently are just as beautiful, the surf just as good, and the people not so omnipresent. Anyway, there I was in the terminal, and this little girl approached me with an offer to stay at the hostal Shalom, which apparently was a little outside the town centre and close to a more quiet-type beach well suited for surfing apprentices; in other words, pretty perfect. Even though I get defensive most of the time when facing these off-the-transportation peddlers of accomodation, I went for a look, and although it appeared pretty crappy and the free surfing teacher was sick and they no longer, like the poster said, spoke Hebrew in the reception - the previous owner was long gone - I was glad to dump my stuff, of which I have way too much, and then head down to the beach to hang out in a chair, watch the never-tiring waves do their work, and finish off Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse.

The beach. Finally, after five months of mountainous existence I was there, and boy did it look good. Protected by cliffs and hills on all sides; there was a fifty-meter descent down stony stairs to get down to the sand; the beach about 150m wide, there was at this point in time plenty of space for the handful - let's say about 20-30 on an average day - of foreigners, plus some locals, all scattered around in the flawless sand, or in the chairs of the little food stalls, their huts, chairs and roofs lining the back of the beach. Hardly any people down at the beach right then though, as it was still relatively early in the morning. Then I saw the sign, and it opened up my mind; Clases de surf - at the far left end of the beach, me having come down the steps in the middle. And I'll be damned if the sign isn't accompanied by this Mexican surfer chick, not so much the model type as just incredibly radiant, healthy and happy-looking, up and about already and waving me over to her domain and offering surfing classes. And the widest goddamned mouth you ever saw, sporting full lips and pearly whites. Speaking of which, I was later to learn her well-fitting name: Perla. I knew instantaneously that I would look no further; that this was to be my surfing teacher, price-shopping be damned. I remember suddenly being conscious of my appearance, all pale from bad sleep and not too much sun, as I told her that I was in no shape to commence surfing classes that day, body devoid of energy and all. Thus I spent that day in a chair not to far from the surf/food shop of the girl's family, finishing off the beautiful little Siddhartha, which is well accompanied by waves (see review under Books Afoot).

A couple of days later I'd basically been doing the same routine, hanging around, enjoying the odd swim and the sight of beauty frolicking about on the waterfront, as well as my first surfing lessons, which went half-well. Exchanging a few words more with the Pearl every day was a pleasant pasttime, and hopes were a little bit up as she asked me if I was going out monday (I came here friday). I realised, of course, that this was not exactly a date-type of question, and that I might quickly find myself in a position where I would regret not bringing friends; as it turned out though, there we were, the two of us playing pool and drinking drinks and then we went out to a party-type place called the Cabo Blanco - the place where legends are born, according to the
sign out front, and why not, I thought, as I was getting fairly tipsy at that point, having already drunk a little with some guys in the hostel upfront to fortify my self-esteem. Knowing every person in town, the girl ambulated a little but stuck to me; after a little while I threw some kisses in there; and there was much rejoicing. About that night it shall further be noted that Oh My God and that drunkenness does not necessarily impede a good night's 'sleep' whatsoever. The next day my mattress was completely drenched in sweat and I was feeling, in the midst of joy, as bad as I have ever felt the day after, probably because of additional exertion and loss of liquid on top of the excessive consumption. To further enhance my temporary grief, I also got diarrhoea that day, but I killed it off with a pill - or at least there was correlation between the taking of pill and receding of symptoms, to be all scientific about it.

Anyway, that was really a day of absolute nothingness, and the only one during this two-week period that I didn't hang out in the same place on the beach. Thus I was very happy to see that day pass and get to the next, which felt like a regular hangover, a vast improvement. Here it may be worth noting that the awkwardness of seeing oneanother again after a night of passion is not exactly alleviated by the fact that there are mothers and fathers and sisters and their husbands and their flocks of children, as well as the four-year-old daughter of the girl in question, all of them frolicking about by the seaside all day. It must be said before returning to the theme of akwardness that it does look like the good life, the one they're having, they're playing and fooling about all of them, doing a little bit of cooking and surfing and relaxing and living off it, still apparently having genuine fun after doing this for a very long time. Anyway, as the dreaded first eye contact goes, I'm not too easily startled by that or even the prospects of knowing family members, a cold shoulder from a girl realising her awful mistake of fooling around with beardy Norwegians, or whatever other perils might face me. And so it was, back on the beach, that my girl asked me for a walk on a remote beach the day after that, an inclination of hers I was only too pleased to indulge. Then came that day, the day when you find yourself with an amazing lady in a place where there is beach enough for thousands but none to be seen but her; a day where interest was confirmed and joy was drunk in the big gulps of a dehydrated Northerner at the beach. After such a perfect day - I believe I was even humming the tune - on the remote beach I was sort of thinking that this girl is very good and I'm not afraid to get to know her better, to whatever end or probable demise it may take us. Thus I hung around further, my chairs creeping up from the water and in under the family roof, closer every day until I was almost a part of it, exchanging insults with Perla's sisters, playing with all of their children and donating the odd cigarette to the dad. All of this family business was of course - at least, traditionally speaking - premature, as there was just the two mentioned careless days of joy with the mum - she's 23, by the way - before doing the friendly boyfriend thing with the daughter and all, even though I wasn't really a boyfriend, just almost.

The days went by, and even though there was a short period of holding hands and even kissing in front of the family, all of a sudden I found myself in lack 0f mum's attention, of which I got some but not the fair share I believed was due to me after deducting family and business engagements; thus, patient but active as I am, I tried finding out what the fuck was going on; as it was more than clear from before that it was not a question of liking, I asked her whether she was afraid to get involved; and indeed she was, afraid of falling in love and being left soon after, which I am sure she has experienced - or at least seen around her - previously with my touristy kind. I, being more the romantic and relatively unscathed, didn't appreciate that line of thought at all, it should be fair to say, as I still prefer the possibility of a little burn mark over a lightless life; I told her she should relax and that people don't fall in a day, let's at least get to know eachother a little bit more while the whole frickin' family isn't listening; but apparently I was special, and if I understood her correctly she was already finding herself enchanted by my wizardry and reluctant or afraid or whatever towards further involvement. Thus, from that compliment on I was banned from happyland and receiving ever-decreasing attention. Although there was now no extracurricular activity - I'm talking about hanging out the two of us alone here, nothing more - she didn't really want me to leave; I asked a few days ago if that was what she was waiting for now, but no she said; also, irritatingly enough, she would still let me kiss her if preyed upon in those very evasive moments of seclusion. I should have liked to be more decisively sent off, though, as I kept talking to her and letting her know that I would fancy staying on a bit if she would only let me closer, and I dind't get a firm enough no - or maybe I'm just a bad listener and a wishful thinker. Most of the time it's a little bit of everything, I suppose. Be that as it may, her treatment of me, it must be said, has been less than perfectly courteous.

Which brings us to the rub. Last week, as things were still looking possible, Perla, the sisters and some other young and healthy people working on the beach were starting a lifeguard training programme for an examination; in comes this stereotypical fitness-looking type with his fancy short-sleeved wet suit, sunglasses and his bloody flute. He's taking the group running and swimming and whatnot on the beach, and I do notice his apparent special attention in particular directions, but who could possibly blame him and all that. Anyway, I'm pretty confident and not too much bothered by girls to whom I feel attached being hit on or flirting - or not flirting, sometimes, it's hard to tell - anyway, I was still sitting fairly comfortable in my chair, convinced of my own magic abilities. At some point, she asked me if I was jealous, and I said, as true was, sure, a little bit, and we laughed about it, and she went on to explain more than was necessary with regard to him carrying her (she hurt her feet) and them eloping somewhere for a little while. On top of that, he was, according to well-informed sources, according to her, that is, gay. A fruitcake. A pufter. Using the outlet as an inlet, and all that. Well, that's all good, now, isn't it? Not that I needed all of that information to stay comfortable, actually it made me the tiniest bit more suspicious, but I still thought this guy basically had nothing to add to the equation exept for some platonic gymnastics, and with that, I was content.

Enter previously described period of increasing frustration and small talks initiated by me to see if there was some hope to be dug up - we never seemed to finish those conversations, though. Anyway, as relationships go, and this one with lightning speed, I was feeling more ice and distance by the day. I began to realise that this was indeed going nowhere very fast. So, with this in my slightly frustrated mind, yesterday morning I was looking forward to a nine o'clock coffee on the beach as agreed, perhaps only with her or at least usually with few enough family members around to have a chat, and to give it to her very clearly that I was leaving but preferring not to, and perhaps give her a last chance of opening the door, or otherwise, be done with it, the air again clear in my lungs. It's not so much love, you see, but rather an infatuation whose importance perhaps was amplified by the confusing situation of happiness one day and the then slow, hesitant, agonising, but nevertheless irrevocable withdrawal of the opposing army off the battlefield, leaving the officer in charge of my army with his gun waving aimlessly at the empty air in front of him.

So there he was, general Mangseth, descending the stairs for the final time to make a bid for the reinitiation of war rather than this squatting in the woods-business of the opposing army. And lo! and behold! - what does his squinting eyes spy down at the strand? Nothing much at all but Mr. Muscle frolicking about in the fuckin' hammock of the family, alone there with the Pearl before I got there. And then there were three. She hardly spoke to me. She went to sit with him, a little away from me. I was totally blown away, frustrated already by the situation without this bloody Posterboy for Baywatch en Español entering into the bleeding picture. And where was my bloody catharsis-inducing conversation gonna come from when she was over there with Dopey, not even looking at me? Jesus, it was a nightmare. I hung around, and was trying to quell my anger over this insolence while working up the energy to pull her away from his side and tell her good-bye. But I couldn't. I was sick as well, as I am today, not seriously ill - but having a cold in this heat can be taxing enough for a Viking, I'm telling ya. My usually decisive (in these matters, when knowing what to do) self was crippled by disbelief over what was obviously something that had been going on for maybe a few days with this fool behind by back, which was fair enough, but the bringing of him to the coffee date was what really took the cake. Talk about communication without speaking. Childish and slightly evil were my thoughts at the time, and I stand by it even today after a round of self-critical light. You have to hand it to her, though: she sure cleared me and the problem of falling for a foreigner, if there was indeed still such a problem, out of there in the flap of a hummingbird's wing.

Anyway, I'd just like you to picture it. I'm lying there in the hammock under the roof in front of the shop, the two newfound friends just outside hearing distance, situated in the waterfront chairs with their backs to me. I'm feeling very angry, sad, and exhausted, in brief, I was stabbed in the pride. I'm working on the pulling her aside thing in my head, but I can't see it not getting a little bit ugly as I am in too bad of a mood not to give her some lip, which she deserved but which would not have been constructive. As this goes on inside me, Mr.Muscle suddenly raises himself from sitting position by the arms alone, his body then curled up under him and swaying above the chair a little bit, before somehow his face is down and his arse is up and he's doing the fucking handstand off the armrests of the chair, then flipping over and landing on his feet in the sand, laughin' and flexin' and all. It's like a fucking cartoon, unbelievable, and I can't help myself but to cough up a sort of sardonic, disbelieving loser's laugh at the whole situation. Then I left the beach and had a really shitty day, this was yesterday, but I came back today to say goodbye, which passed relatively impassionately and uneventfully, as no questions were asked or accusations made. I'm fairly happy with myself, though, if not the situation itself. Now it's off to greener pastures in Cuba, with a few ruins and shit on the way. Right now, though, I just want my mum. Or a hooker. Or something.

I know the Guatemala blog is not yet published; so it is when there's stuff keeping you on the beach all day and there is analogue life to be led; due to reasons of remaining passion this had to be written today and the other will come in a few days, me being alone, and hopefully less sour, in Tuxtla Gutierrez.

Books afoot

Great artists fancy that they have taken full possession of a soul. In reality, and often to their painful disappointment, that soul has only been made more capacious and insatiable, so that a dozen greater artists could plunge into its depths without filling it up.
(Nietzsche, in Human, All-Too-Human)

Old Fred describes them well enough, the feelings I experience with regard to books these days. Being a bum with lots of spare time, there is room, and also, luckily, ample inspiration for reading a lot. Sharing is caring, and thus I will try and recommend or warn against the books I read, for the benefit of my fellow women (and men) back home.

I have, quite naturally, devised a rating system so ingenious as to cover everything that can be said of a book in four simple parameters:

1. Charlie Chaplins: Entertainment value
2. Vidkun Quislings: Treachery and doom
3. Virginia Woolfs: Beauty, poetic value
4. Martin Heideggers: Food for further thought

Books will rated from one to ten in these four respects, as well as a final verdict not necessarily the mean of these but more indicative of my general, subjective impression. Five is meant to be the average book, but this does not include books by idiots. Thus I imagine three and a half to four as the mean of all books written, and six to be a good score. Such are the values ascribed, if anybody needs a guideline:

0 Utterly Worthless
1 Horrible
2 Awful
3 Half-Assed
4 Flawed
5 Fair Enough
6 Good
7 Very Good
8 Outstanding
9 Flawless
10 The Stuff of Legend

In general, I am happy to recieve suggestions as to further reading, especially within my priorities at the moment, which in addition to leisure, are transcendentalism and ethics.

Books featured below (and counting):
1. Tom Wolfe: A Man in Full
2. Phillip Roth: The Plot Against America
3. Ken Wilber: A Brief History About Everything
4. Inga Clendinnen: Ambivalent Conquests: Spanish and Maya in the Yucatán 1517-70
5. Thomas Merton: Thoughts in solitude
6. Jim Handy: Gift of the Devil: A History of Guatemala
7. Virginia Woolf: To the Lighthouse
8. Virginia Woolf: The Waves
9. Che Guevara: The Motorcycle Diaries
10. Granta Magazine of New Writing, volume #71: Shrinks
11. Jamie O'Neill: At Swim, Two Boys
12. H.D. Thoreau: Walden, or: Life in the Woods
13. Hermann Hesse: Siddhartha
14. J.D. Salinger: The Catcher in the Rye

Books read, not yet reviewed:

Books carried:
Spinoza: Ethics
Mark Twain short story collection
The portable Emerson
F.W. Nietzsche: Human, All-Too-Human
Thomas Merton: New Seeds of Contemplation
GG Marquez: El coronel no tiene quien le escriba
Virginia Woolf: The Years

Books in demand:
The Bible, pocket version, alternatively the New Testament
Leo Tolstoy: War & Peace (found it, but discarded because of weight)
Thomas Hylland Eriksen: Small Places, Large Issues
Anything by Ken Wilber
Evolutionary theory, both scientific and intelligent design authors


1. Tom Wolfe: A man in full
Fiction, ca 700pp

I was gifted this book by my friendly host Adam in Atlanta. Having been there added to the experience of reading it at it is set in Georgia and Atlanta, but regardless of knowing this place it’s no waste of time. A man in full is a witty story of different men (they’re all men) and their struggle for power, survival and identity in a state where ethnicity is a question never far from the surface. A little too long, but still a fairly light read, the book is accessible, entertaining and provides a better, although superficial, understanding of black and white in modern US, at least for a foreign novice.

Charlie says: 6
Vidkun says: 4
Virginia says: 7
Martin says: 4

Verdict: 5 - Decent

2. Philip Roth: The plot against America
Fiction, ca 350pp

Without revealing too much, at least no more than on the cover, this book fictionally explores a United States wherein the right-wingers take power in the crucial ’41 elections and the slide towards US fascism, seemingly never too far away in the first place. The prominent historical characters are real, and thus this is an alternative history as described by an author who was a young Jew in America at that point, seen from his own eyes as the young Philip. Although initially a somewhat disappointing affair because of high expectations, this keeps growing on me in retrospect and the ‘what really happened’ section in the back is great. The reflection upon and the urge to learn more about US history is better than the book itself, but the book inspires these urges.

Charlie says: 6
Vidkun says: 6
Virginia says: 6
Martin says: 6

Verdict: 6 - Good


3. Ken Wilber: A brief history of everything
Philosophy, ca 300pp

This relatively small book serves as an introduction to Wilber’s thoughts and heavier works for the general public. Among the most interesting books I’ve ever read, this one is possibly for people already occupied with – although not necessarily experts on - psychological, philosophical and spiritual questions. It is highly accessible for dealing with such deep matters.

Wilber outlines his all-level, all-quadrant theory intent on integrating different schools of thought regarding evolution and development in the physical, internal and cultural spheres (quadrants). He thus makes a stab at including both science and subject, a problem that has caused much confusion of theory since the enlightenment and the death of subjectivity. Highly interesting are also his descriptions of the higher stages of consciousness, the first of which provides the best explanation I’ve found so far of peak experiences I’ve had myself.

On the negative side, I don't immediately buy all the claims of Wilber, and some of it seems thinly argued for. This may be better in the more 'serious works' of his. Also, the book is poorly written and I hate the dialogue-form and the humour, as well as some of the attempts at eloquence and poetry. Hopefully this will not be as prevalent in more academic books by Wilber, and surely not in the scores of other writers he has inspired me to read up on.

Charlie says: 5
Vidkun says: N/A
Virginia says: 3
Martin says: 9

Verdict: 8.5 - Though flawed, intensely inspiring and bethinking


4. Inga Clendinnen: Ambivalent conquests: Maya and Spaniard in the Yucatán 1517-1570
History/Anthropology, ca 250pp

Focusing on the early years of the conquest and the changes it brought for the indigenous population, this book is much more than that. It is a work of beauty and interpretation, offering insights into the workings of both the minds and actions of conquistadors and the fransiscan monks trying to convert the population, as well as the power struggles (ecclestiastical vs secular power, bishop vs monk as well as indigenous vs the white man). Perhaps due to her anthropological background, Clendinnen, an Australian, by the way, goes further with regard to (qualified) guessing as to the thoughts and actions of the indigenous population than most historians would; the book is actually divided into different sections according to the two groups in the title. Much time is spent delving into the missionaries, their power, their mind and their work, especially explaining what would lead to the inquisitious proceedings that took place. It is an eerie and believable account of the evil actions of men with the best - although stupid and dogmatically religious - intent.

The book is eloquently written, as well as inspiring; I love its somewhat informal tone, allowing for a language less boring and academic; also, among its sinews is its assiduity concerning the employment of locutions intent on assuaging even the most recalcitrant adversary of plain English. I imagine her editor; instead of emending the book in order to extirpate the apposite verbalisations and bridle her facundious penchant, he (or she) silently acquiesced. That being said, it's not so much about the inaccessibility of her language as a whole, rather about the infatuation with - and frequent use of - some unnecessary expressions which, once you know them, will be pleasing to you. By the way, here are the words I looked up, which will have you well on your way to understanding both the book and the previous sentences:

attrition - the wearing down over time by constant pressure
exigency - urgency
intrepid - bold, as in a person or undertaking
jealous - wary of losing position
assuage - relieve
deference - obedience/yielding/respect
extirpate - root out
the assiduity of their mortification - the insistency of their self-denial
sinew - source of strength (possibly one of many, from muscle fibres)
imputation - attribution
concupiscence - lust/desire
apposite - relevant/in question
recalcitrant - stubbornly defiant
emend - improve by critical editing
punning - light ramming
accretion - contribution to growth
acquiesce - agree/comply without question

Charlie says: 6
Vidkun says: 8
Virginia says: 7
Heidegger says: 6

Verdict: 7 - Recommended

Highly enjoyable for anyone remotely interested in the questions discussed.


5.Thomas Merton: Thoughts in solitude
Religion/Philosophy, short and handy (pocket-size)

Thomas Merton was a 20th-century Catholic monk writing scores of spiritual books and engaging in dialogue with such heretics as Dalai Lama, my wikipedia tells me. I came across this little book sitting alone, sick and miserable, missing the recently departed Loren; surprisingly, in this mix there was room for a contemplative mood as well: I was eating at the horrendously named D'Noz in beautiful San Pedro de la Laguna, Guatemala, as I realized that 'Noz carried a wide selection of interesting books, most of them novels; my eyes, however, fell on the very small religious section - I was actually looking up something in the Bible, wondering what the hell Jesus meant about the birds and the flowers in the sermon on the mount - when I spied this alluring title, apparently the literary manifestation of what I was, and to a wide extent, am on about these days. Part of its attraction was also its small size, to be swallowed over no more than a couple o' hours when drinking coffee and smoking and whatnot. The book, then; initially general, wise and inspirational, with regard to meditation and the benefits of occasional solitude, it soon turns too specifically religious for my tastes and thus is not the best choice for people not heavily into Christianity. This being said, I was sufficiently enchanted by parts of this book to give brother Merton a second chance when I saw a larger work, "New Seeds of Contemplation" in a used book store. I like liberal Christians and am interested in all approaches to spirituality; I look forward to reporting on the second book. As for this little baby:

Charlie says: 3
Vidkun says: 2
Virginia says: 5
Martin says: 6

Verdict: 4 - Hardly worth the time

For the especially interested, ie Catholic monks or students of theology.


6. Jim Handy: Gift of the Devil: A history of Guatemala
History, ca. 300pp

A Canadian and thus, presumably, a relatively trustworthy historian, Jim Handy has written an interesting and accessible introduction to the Guatemalan past, seen from different perspectives, repeatedly critical towards the US influence, both business and political (not that there is a difference in the case of the US) as well as the Guatemalan military regimes and the land-owning elite all the way up from the conquistadors. Of few weaknesses were the tendency to repeat oneself somewhat when discussing things from different angles, and that my version was published in '84 during the civil war and does not recount the post-war development - to the extent that the last word can be employed. As I know Clendinnens work to be, I believe this is a textbook in various university courses for some - lucky, I would say - students.

Charlie: 5
Vidkun: 6
Virginia: 5
Martin: 6

Verdict: 6 - Good


7. Virginia Woolf: To the Lighthouse
Fiction, ca 300pp

Now, to the eloquent lady herself. How to pay the respects due? Near-impossible. Actually, I was starting here on the review of 'The Waves', but found that I had to break my circle of chronologically reviewing the works I have read on my journey in order to insert this magnificent book, read this spring before my departure.

'To the lighthouse' is, among several things, a triumph of the use of the English language. Myself, I am far from being an expert in English literature; even so, as the keen reader of my blog may have noted, I have leanings towards both English in general and little-used, often archaic expressions in particular. Thus it is worth commenting right away that while some readers may find Mrs. Woolf's style excessive and complicated, inacessible even, I take pleasure in having to look up the odd word and having to read some sentences twice to decipher their meaning. For adamant haters of any pretentious or ostentatious or whatever you would call such a use of English, I recommend Hemingway, rather; more stripped-down and to the point language-wise, his prose is still decidedly inspired and beautiful.

The difficulty of tapping into the flow of words in 'To the Lighthouse' is twofold: not only does Woolf employ a large vocabulary, she also uses the stream-of-conciousness style allowing for the descripion of the constant, imperfect and impermanent ebbs and flows of our faculties, of our perception both external and internal. This all leads to long and flighty sentences, which in spite of themselves seem lighter because of the talent that went into their composition. The style also alters traditional narration, as we jump from one character to another, acquainting ourselfs with their interpretations of their world without and within. For readers in search of a plot and tangible transactions in general, they may have to look elsewhere.

Enough with the style. The book is, in addition to being a beautiful work of poetic prose, more than anything else a supremely insightful dive into the workings of our minds, the impermanence of memory, the subjectivity of perception and the ephemeral quality of life and experience in general. It is not without a certain melancholy air that this is described.

The shorter and middle of the three sections of the book, called 'the passing of time', breaks with the general narration (there is here a more obvious narrator) and describing just what the title suggests, it emphasises the impermanence of our existence and the changes a ten-year lapse can make, thus conveying the distance back to where one once was once the last section commences.

As Lily finally cries out for (the previously eminently described) Mrs. Ramsey long after her death I, the reader, am spurred to cry because of the beauty of it all, and because of the void that is transmitted. These are tears not of sadness, well, a tad melancholy it is, but foremost they are symbols of an aesthetic appreciation. Not the only time, I might add, that I've felt tears in my eyes when reading Virginia Woolf, as has not yet been the case with any other author.

Charlie says: 5
Vidkun says: 5
Leo Tolstoi, on the aesthetics panel in Virginia's absence, says: 10
Martin says: 8

Verdict: 9 - Classic

Although open to the possibility of a book being better, I wouldn't need one to be, at least not aesthetically speaking. It might be added that this is my favourite book.


8. Virginia Woolf: The Waves
Fiction, ca 300pp

My only book before this by Virginia Woolf was the more famous 'To the Lighthouse'; that book, as even readers with anterograde amnesia may recall, blew me away. It made me swear that I would read all that she has written, and then cry because there is no more to be had. That is why I was happy to find several works by VW in a Xela bookstore - a short digression: you can't say touristiness is good for nothin' when used bookstores pop up in Latin America that sell great works in English for next to nothing, even giving you half the ridiculous price back when changing it in again. Not being too familiar with the authorship of Virginia, I just settled on two books relatively light to carry, 'The Years' (yet to be read) and 'The Waves', the latter described as among her most experimental works. Knowing that a challenge lay before me, I nevertheless dug in undaunted and found that there was much beauty to be found. Even so, after a 100 pp I stagnated somewhat, due to sickness I believe, and the rest of the experience was a broken-up affair, never quite re-entering my Virginial space but reading a few pages here and there with other books in-between, finally finishing it off in Todos Santos before I went to Mexico, not because I really refound inspiration but because I didn't want to carry it forever.

Let me comment on the book's form and theme; the waves of the title are the lives of men, growing from calm waters to their steady pounding of the shores midday to their ultimate recession come nightfall. Thus the book is divided into sections, numbering about nine I'm guessing, each of them introduced by a description of the passing of a day, with light, waves, birds and trees going about their business as the time of day commands, in beautiful, poetic passages of about two pages. The story itself is about six people, three men and three women, followed throughout their lives; they grow up in, as far as can be told, Virginia Woolf's contemporary England, but this is relatively unimportant. The narration consists of their voices taking turns to relate passages; although the form '..., said Bernard' is used, he far from said much at all, it is rather his own inner voice observing subjectively on feelings and events taking place, although brilliantly doing so, as if they were supremely self-insightful. The characters thus become everyday sages interpreting their lives perfectly and beautifully; despite their realizing the workings of their nature, to the extent that they themselves are 'speaking' and not a parallel self, they do not do much to alter the course of their lives, it seems untouchable, predestined even. But this, again, could be from themselves not realizing 'their' thoughts that we are privy to, as it seems more of a peek into their brain, their unconcious, even.

Struggling this book I realised one needs a certain amount of energy surplus when reading Virginia Woolf, and also that it can be very hard to - in the words used in the previous review - tap into the flow. This means this book is completely different depending on the reader being able to find the energy, the sentiment and the solitude, preferably, to connect with the flow of words and thoughts and sentiments conveyed in the book. Detached from this, it is boring and difficult, and suddenly Virginia seems more ostentatious (showy) and worthless, as I suspect 'To the Lighthouse' would if the reading conditions were not met. Obviously this goes for the reading of any book, but moreso with Virginia Woolf than other authors I've read, you must be in the zone to appreciate her fully, or possibly, at all. Drifting in and out of this zone it occured to me that the book's latter half was less inspired than the first, but this could just as well have been me. Again, Virginia Woolf offers beautifully written prose and provides ample evidence for her understanding of man. But no distractions are essential to a successful read, and thus to what might have been a review more in favour of this definitely interesting book. Even so, keen to exuse my beloved Virginia as I am, it is hard to disregard the possibility that the qualities inherent to the book, and not just me, were at least part of my problems. Such it reflects on the scoreboard, with the possibility of this book growing vastly on the next encounter; I imagine myself ploughing through the collected works of Virginia Woolf in 40 years time, pipe-in-mouth, feet clad in ridiculous but comfy checkered slippers, my deteriorating body lodged in my Chesterfield chair, the fireplace lit in the library of my castle somewhere on the British isles.

Charlie says: 4
Vidkun says: 4
Leo says: 8
Martin says: 6

Verdict: 6 - Good

9. Che Guevara: The Motorcycle Diaries
Sporadic Diary, ca. 5 hrs

Instead of the ludicrous number of pages, which says absolutely nothing due to differences in fonts and also the understandability and flow of the material at hand, I am now giving an estimate as to how long it took me to read the book. This, my friends, is short, and is read in an afternoon. It is the own words of the revolutionary hero we see, in a somewhat, to this reader, surprisingly poetic and intelligent pen, describing his and his friend's classic motorcycle journey from Argentina up to Venezuela, where some the bones of sympathy were shaped - from which the full-fledged revolutionary was later to be fleshed out. Not too original or too interesting for non-fans, but still a light and enjoyable read.

Charlie mimes a 6
Vidkun betrays a 3
Virginia eloquently conjures a 5
Martin doubts the genuineness of his 5

Verdict: 5 - Decent


10. Granta Magazine of New Writing, volume #71: Shrinks
- THIS REVIEW WILL BE SLIGHTLY DELAYED DUE TO NOTES IN REMOTE PLACES -
Short stories and articles, ca. 10 hrs

The Granta Magazine is, as the name indicates, a collection of new or just lesser-known interesting writers and writings, each edition loosely connected by a theme. Not all the entries in this issue stuck to the theme, though, without that mattering to me. Even so, I was hoping for some profound insight into psychiatry, but there was not too much of a serious approach to be found, just shrinks being parts of several of the stories in different ways.


11. Jamie O'Neill: At Swim, Two Boys
Fiction, ca. 25 hrs

It's a relatively huge book, and it's tough to get into; we're in Ireland in 1915, following events up to the Easter revolution in 1916 through some young Dublin boys. The boys are gay but when you're living in this place at that time most young gays would hardly even have the vocabulary to describe or understand what they are. It's a nice enough plot; there's growing up, there's the Irish history and being gay in a Catholic community that regards even sex for reproductional purposes with a wary eye. The thing is, though, that at least for this reader it's a rough ride in the beginning because the language, it seems, is very well kept in line with the times, and it's not so much it being advanced as it being different that puts me off, words meaning other things than they usually do and combinations of perfectly normal words being hard to interpret, or at least, hard to follow the flow of. For any connoisseur of the classic Irish literature, though, I doubt they would feel the same way, and also, I got better after a while. Actually, come to think of it, I am sure it would be helpful reading a novel like this before, for instance, Ulysses, making the latter easier to get through; I wouldn't know, but they say that classic's heavy, and the language issue discussed here could be part of it. Anyway, to round off, it's a fairly entertaining and interesting novel; well-written in its difficult way, to the extent that I can tell; a touch of Ireland and gayness it is indeed, but it's probably not going to change your life, as they say.

Charlie: 5
Vidkun: 4
Virginia: 6
Martin: 4

Verdict: 5 - Readworthy


12. H.D. Thoreau: Walden, or: Life in the Woods
Nonfiction/Philosophy, ca. 10 hrs

Now this time the expectations were way up. Thoreau builds this hut in the woods, living delivberately, sucking the marrow out of life, and not wanting to die having discovered that he had not lived and all that. Having said that much, I'm not about to slaughter this little American classic of the so-called New England transcendentalism, where the belief in the possibility of spiritual evolution and the importance of harmony with nature were central, the latter particularily the object of the book in question. The reason for my disappointment was rather that I thought it could be one of those few life-changers, when indeed it was not, just an interesting book. There are many ideas worth considering, among them about the necessity of a simple life and the stripping away of all that is superflous to pure living. There is also lengthy descriptions of nature and the communion with the same; this description of unity can also be said to reflect the next stage of consciousness described by Ken Wilber, as well as Arne Naess' foundation for deep ecology. 'What is good for the grass, is good for me', Thoreau says, words echoed by Arne Naess elsewhere. The endless descriptions of animals and trees and the depth of ponds, though, I could very well do without, perhaps partly because I know Virginia Woolf and how she can describe things in an infinitely more readworthy way. Anyhow, for those with romantic/philosophical/ecological leanings, this is time well spent.

Charlie: 4
Vidkun: 3
Virginia: 5
Martin: 8

Verdict: 6 - Good


13. Hermann Hesse: Siddhartha
Fiction, 5 hrs

Or even less! This beautiful little baby is read in a second, and I'm going to read it again. It is the story of Siddhartha and his search for enlightenment, very much like the one pursued by the Buddha himself and probably based on his story. Even so, it is not ment to be THE Buddha, which also figures in the book. What can I say? It is a lovely, inspiring little book that serves any Westerner well as an introduction to Eastern thinking, and is fairly entertaining in itself.

Charlie: 6
Vidkun: 4
Virginia: 7
Martin: 9

Verdict: 8 - Highly Recommended


14. J.D. Salinger: The Catcher in the Rye
Fiction, 5 hrs

Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's another classic, so they say. This one 'highly controversial to this day' one internet article claims. Let me tell you something, gramps: a disillusioned sixteen year-old boy using profane langue, dropping out of a couple of private schools and having drunken brushes with prostitution is no longer shocking to anyone, in fact, to the parents of inner-city school kids, this is the BEST they can hope for, as long as their kids are off crack they're happy. Jizz. Yeah, I'm sure it was shocking in the States in the fifties. This is Europe, 2007. It's a kid's book and a fairly boring American classic, but, I'll tell you what's good about it. It does put into words the disillusionment that many, especially young people, feel with the fakeness of most people and the apparent random conventions we blindly adhere to. It also has a peculiar style, a very simple, oral-sounding language that is interesting to come across and at the same time very easy for readers not too fond of, or used to, reading English. Unfortunately, there is no reason to believe this particular recommendation will ever reach any in the latter group.

Chaplin: 5
Quisling: 5
Woolf: 5
Heidegger: 6

Verdict: 5 - Decent

Fútbol, parasites and other insults to long-standing conceptions of right and wrong

Not too long ago, Los Estados Unidos beat Mexico 2-1 in the finals of the Copa de Oro - the Gold Cup of Central and North America - playing well but undeservingly getting one of the goals off a ridiculous penalty decision. Such are the ways of football, or any other sport; every once in a while you get shagged in the ass by the ref. And that's fine. The referee's a human being and makes half-honest mistakes from time to time, you get pissed off but you also get over it; let's just hope the right side won.

Now, something completely different is the referee first strapping on his five-feet polished mahogany dildo enhanced with a blade at the point, not unlike the one seen in Se7en, then firmly telling you a) to remove those cute little footie shorts and b) that your shoelaces need to be tied. These were my sentiments as I was playing football for the first time with a local team of Todos Santos. ‘Twas an away game in Mash, a caserío (hamlet) half an hour away by truck. Impressively, no matter how small the place there will be a football team and a campo (field); not all the players suck, either, but the technical skill is generally lowish, and team coordination and strategy nonexistent. The campo was made up of hard mud, loose mud and a few playable areas, needless to say distributed much like the continents of the Earth: big, connecting patches with irregular shapes. Even so, the game started well, me dribbling my way forward into the centre from my left midfield position, then flicking it up to a meeting forward who headed it back to me as I was rushing forward; I hit the ball on the volley, and the hard but imperfect shot went in from about twenty metres thanks to an uneven field and inept keeper. The goal was still very decent; in my Swiss (neutral) eyes, the goal of the match.

The adventure began when it started raining heavily and the hard mud turned into ice, extremely slippery and bone hard to fall on; the loose mud, on the other hand, turned into the type of mud pit that some readers will know I am only too familiar with. It was soon completely impossible to play with any sort of finesse. The pit, being the worst for playing, nevertheless provided the only opportunity for sliding tackles, a fact I was the only one to take advantage of. Thus, somewhere into the second half, in need of an frustration outlet, I spied an opportunity when some fool clumsed the ball way into the pit; a defender of the opposing team soon collected it and started dribbling it as best he could out of there. I slid in with great force, and while my underwear got filled with mud in no time at all, this was no cost whatsoever compared to the revenue: the infinite satisfaction of ploughing through this unsuspecting fool, him soon on his back beside me even more covered in mud than I was, me lying there smirking, too devilishly pleased with myself to collect the won ball; the local spectators laughing their asses off at the sight of the gringo and their buddy in the mud, glad they were under umbrellas and not playing this hellish day. Everybody who's played football knows this, but for y'others: many a time a splendid sliding tackle can be more satisfying than a not-too-important goal.

The built-up frustration was in part due to the horrible conditions of the field and the entailing randomness of the game, in part because there was no team cooperation or formation, and nobody who whipped the idiots back in line when defenders suddenly fancied themselves forwards; also there were 22 players on a field more suitable for 14. We were winning though, leading 6-3 or something, but not if the ref could help it, which is what was really pushing me off my rocker. Of course, the tradition around here of employing home team locals as refs does not alleviate the bad judgement situation that one would have either way at this level; in fact, as they changed refs at half time I realised that the new ref had been playing in the first half and the old one was playing now. Fair enough, but a series of obscene decisions soon awoke my slumbering sports rage, which I had not felt in years. Sports is such a great way to vent aggression, but then again, as long as it causes it as well, I don’t know whether the therapeutic value necessarily is positive in the end. Hmmm... Anyway, we were in a slump, leading 6-5 or whatever, when the ref first whistled against us for an offside that wasn't even remotely in progress. Not like the normal urge to shout 'referee!' that one feels whenever a decision, not necessarily wrong, is passed against you; this was more like when the military comes into your house, burns it, slits your fathers throat and rapes your mum, with neither of you being members of the communist party. Thus depriving us of a goal, Mash was shortly after on the offensive, before losing the ball to one of our defenders, who was seeing the ball safely out of play when an attacker came from behind and kicked him in the legs once ('hey!'), twice ('referee, Jesus'), three times ('...?'), the defender falling, everybody on our team ceasing play, the attacker seizing the ball, passing it to another who 'scored'; the goal, to most people's complete amazement, was allowed. Our guy was unhurt, which did not excuse the foul play or the idiocy of the ref, and at this point, I forgot all my principles that had guided me through Guatemala thus far; this must have been in June after about two months in Guatemala, two months of careful non-imposition, not even taking any photos of locals as not to offend because the culture was still being mapped. I screamed whatever obscenities I knew in bad Spanish at the ref, like '¿cual es tu problema, cabrón?' and '¡pinche puto!', while walking briskly towards him, which ended up with the ref somewhat scared, members of the other team going 'tranquilo, tranquilo', at which point I snapped out of it, never intending to hurt the ref or anything, just wanting to yell closer to his face as to hit him with flying spit I imagine.

In the end, we won the game 7-6. The aggression experience somehow released the final bit of the fear I’d had about behaviour in the culture, thus making me more confident and relaxed in my relatively new surroundings.

On a different note; someone told me, several times, in fact, that people are not to be trusted in this country - not as in criminal; unless you are stupid enough to go to Guatemala City or volcano-hike alone near touristy places, it seems pretty safe so far - no, untrustworthy rather because if you ask someone a question, the concept of 'I don't know' apparently is nonexistent. Even epitomes of trust, like cops, will tell you to go five blocks down to catch the bus you're searching for, then a mean of the crowd down there - you need to ask at least six people and figure out an average response - will tell your confused self that the bus stop is, in fact, exactly where the cop was standing five blocks back. In general, what they don't know, even about their home town or daily habitat is sometimes unbelievable. Ask a guy in a shop where to buy cheese and he'll say 'saber' - who knows - even if the shop next door is 4000 square metres of QuesoRama 2000 (tm). Yes, as you correctly observe, this is at odds with my previous statement; let us revise; only when there is no way they could NOT know, they say they don't. Anyway, this peculiar behaviour is all good and expected by now, just bring a map, a guide, and buckets of time, and you'll get where you want in the end.

A thought related to the lack of precision in all of this is the Germans; they came in some numbers to Guatemala in the early 20th century or before to start up businesses, and did so with some luck - establishing a few breweries that still live, among other things, and among many traces of their activity (or is it via the US, perhaps) is the name for preschool: kinder and prekinder. However, they didn't integrate to well with the local people; they remained an isolated industrious click with schools and language of their own - as is often the case in imperialist tradition. Even bearing this in mind, they were surprisingly segregated. What could the reason for this be? Dr. Mangseth explains: with the previous theme of impreciseness in mind, they of course tried to have as little to do with the locals as possible; in spite of their segregation efforts, this was to prove itself too great a task, as business demanded some interaction. Weiter, any fastidious character - that includes some of my own leanings, as well - would go nuts trying to get shit done around here. Thus, eventually, the sudden recession of German influence in Guatemalan economy does not concern itself with political change (like WWII); I firmly believe they imploded from aggression and frustration, much like the renowned lemmings of the animal world.

In current affairs, i.e. today, ask any Peacecore – a US government organization sending young and intelligent people to help out in many parts of the world, often the same parts they scrupulously exploit (guilty conscience or brilliant PR scheme, who knows) – anyway, ask a PC volunteer, most of them young idealists, many with skills, banging their heads against brick walls of inefficiency for two years before going home in blood and tears, maybe having changed the world just a tiny little bit, at the dire cost of any future benevolence toward the underprivileged - those corrupt and/or, poor ignorant bastards sure have themselves to thank for their state - and at the additional cost of their Peacecore lungs - if you didn't smoke before the Core, you will when you walk out the door (as they say); the remote areas and the impossible challenges help insure that; in other words, Peacecore is a devious machinery created by the government Hawks, funded by the Ku Klux Klan, here represented by the tobacco business, all in order to convert the young and hopeful Democrats (or worse, Greens!) of America to cynics more likely to vote the not-so-empoverished-friendly Republican Party. Well done, Hawks!

That last bit there will put the US government blog-flagging computers to the test, I'm sure.

Now, I enjoy the fact that I can go on at seemingly infinite length without ever reaching the typical blogness of 'I went there, I did that'. Or blow small events like soccer - er... football games out of proportion. That being said, and although that type of blog sure can be a drag, there are also certain taxing elements to people going on in abstract and plentiful terms on the general blahblahness of whatever; the conclusion is you must all be starving for some hands-on action. Here follows the rundown on the few weeks following the last entry.

As mentioned in the previous entry, a few weeks back in Xela I had a serious case of diarrhoea that left me bereft of power and liquid for days. I then got better and went on to coordinate Hispanomaya for two weeks; upon termination of the coordinator-job at the school (June 15th), I again experienced unwanted bowel movements, as well as a general feeling of inexplicable lowness that had to a varying extent gone on since I got 'better' in Xela. That night, as I proceeded to sacrifice my intestines at the holy altar of crap – a routine process by then – I also experienced a novelty: the need to vomit. Well, the urge an sich had been there two weeks before in Xela, but it didn't happen then. Now, there was no way out. And I was sitting on the toilet, emptying my other end. Quickly finishing off as best I could while holding back the vomit, I got off the stool and proceeded to flush down. Yes, we have a water closet - but it ain't exactly nuclear powered, now is it; so in order to purify the basin, there was the need to wait for the hellish-brown shake to settle before flushing anew. I had reached the limit of my vomito-suppressive ability, and there was no way I was going to toss my cookies into that mass of loose shite and thus befoul my gentle appearance (not the face! not the face!), that was for sure. Alas, where? Where? Shower? Sink? Floor? I opted at last for the bin: the omnipresent receptacle for toilet paper in this country of poor plumbing. And let me tell you, 'twas no picnic sticking my head down there either, but at least the shit there was dry and the paper does not backsplash as easily. A feeling of emptiness prevailed in the end.

After this horrible night, my keen instincts told me there might be a colony of illegal residents in the good ol' intestinal system. Reading up on amoebas and parasites, I learned that there are kinds who penetrate the intestinal walls and go on to settle in the blood system, liver, brain and so on if left unchecked for extended periods of time. Upon deliberation, I thus settled for the classical stool sample and doctor option; Kelsey, the wonderful coordinator, escorted my weak self to Huehuetenango, the regional city, and to a lab testing shit and piss and stuff. They found a couple of parasites in there, Endolimax Nana and the unfriendly-sounding Blastocystis Hominis, and I went on to see the doctor, a Cuban woman volunteering in the shittiest doctor's office I've ever seen. Take a ten square metre student residence from 1930s Albania, in operation ever since, divide it in two and you have the waiting room and the doctor's office. Let it be noted that I could have gone to a place where one pays and got higher-standard facilities, but that's no fun, now is it; it was wonderful sitting in line with the locals, some of them packing small babies with fevers, some poor-looking, others more like I felt myself, city-people who could've afforded to go somewhere else but enjoyed a free doctor's visit. The doctor was all about speed, five to ten minutes on each patient, it seemed. In an accent and a tempo new to me I barely understood that the parasites were present in just about every local and were mostly harmless, but that tourists could be affected more severely and there was no point in going for acclimatization. Thus, I bought two packs of the aptly-named Ex-Amoeb, with Secnidazol as a working-agent (for those with medicinal leanings). One now and one in 21 days, was the message, the latter dose yet to come. I felt a lot better taking the first, strength regained, but would sure like to see the second dose kill off the lingering flatulence and slight stomach pain I experience after meals.

That weekend, Friday 23rd, I started hiking again, maybe a little prematurely, still dizzy after my long period of being energy-drained, but what the heck; I explored the southern ridge without a map with Carlos, a Bostonian with some hiking skill, on a seven-hour hike that pushed me to the limit of my decent-but-recently-sick walking endurance, and provided one of the most beautiful hikes yet, with views on both sides of the ridge before the fog and clouds closed in, as they always do this time of year, and which is why it is no walk in the park exploring new paths. However, we found a viable route through the fog and down to Todos Santos and were very pleased with ourselves.

The day after Carlos was gone but I went on a five-hour, medium-demanding hike to San Juan Atitán, the town centre of the neighbouring municipality of the same name, with Carly and Diana. You can see them getting friendly with the insanely drunk local with the flat hat in some of my pictures, the guy whispering in bad Spanish and a not-too-low voice in Diana's ear that he'd been searching for some gringa sex but that it'd been hard to come across up there in the middle of nowhere; so why don't ya come home with me ferr some action? I'll let the rest be up to the reader's imagination. Anyway; this was my second time in San Juan, the first one being with Huge (Hugh) Harkin of Ireland upon my arrival in Guatemala and Todos Santos. Me and Huge stayed for the night and walked back the next day, but since there was the fiesta of John the Baptist (San Juan), this time me and the girls were counting on taking the bus back the same day since there probably wouldn't be room in the hostels during the fiesta. And so we did.

A couple of weeks went by without, as far as I can recall, much incident, until lovely Loren of California showed up and caught my slumbering fancy. It was a very good feeling to be interested in someone again; that was something I sincerely thought wouldn't happen during my travels, for reasons of old age as well as shallow encounters losing (I thought) their charm at some point during previous years of semi-debauchery, sort of a marriage-or-nothing being my MO. That obviously ridiculous sentiment soon cast aside, I was happy to learn that I seemed to have some effect on her as well, possibly amplified by my supremely fortunate position as only man in the school, as well as hiking guide, at that particular, star-blessed point in time. And so we acted on our interest after only five days or so, becoming holiday sweethearts for her tiempo restante in Guatemala, which was three weeks. What can I say; a sweet and lovely girl with more depth than my shallow, infatuated self initially spied; thus later a girl who I would have liked to know better, had the situation not been adverse to such exploration. She has now resumed real life in California, getting a good job in public health, I believe. And with that being that, this entry ends.

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.

Fragments I

Yes, folks!

To your enthrallment, we're back with yet another edition of Merryus-sits-on-his-ass-doin-fuck-all. But, then again, that's not all he's doing. He's doing some thinking, and he's doing some looking, and who knows what other senses he might be using - they're all there for your exclusive benefit, that's for sure. Anyway, I'm telling ya, this town put the cult intah culture, then avidly - or, rather, procrastinatingly - exchanged the c with a not-so-popular v; which reminds me, I'm gonna get a picture out here of those bastards, the bastards being, as some readers with academic leanings may already have noticed, the vultures of Todos Santos. Or, on second thought, firstly, picture publishing; internet lines seem to be not-so-bad-as-I-thought, the machines around here being the bottleneck - a word, which in spite of what my provisional English teacher Kelsey - the (female) coordinator of my language school and the greater part of my social life, as I am still not able to have a decent conversation in Spanish - anyway, the bottleneck, in spite of what Kelsey (God bless her) said, does in fact have the same metaphorical implications in English as it does in Norwegian. Hah. That being out of the way, I will commence publishing a few photos, as it is a time-consuming, but not impossible task. The photos will be published at http://www.flickr.com/photos/mangseth/ , as the blogspot interface is less than impressive. Not to worry; before publishing too many pictures, I shall employ an excessive amount of uneccessarily complex words an sentence structures to convey next-to-nothing with eloquence. First, I proceed to reveal the implied vultures: There are, in fact, relatives of vultures flying around the garbage dump here, the dump basically being she side of the road on a spot were it's really steep. Although not very official in appearance, there is a sign: Basurero Municipal, basurero funnily meaning both wastebasket and garbage dump. The whole of Guatemala is basically a wastebasket; the windows of the buses are wastebaskets (ie the entire road/ditch), and you'll find garbage lying along even the most remote mountain paths. Anyway, the garbage is slightly more concentrated in the Basurero Municipal of Todos Santos, as well as the scavenger in his different avatars: vultures (at least, black lookalikes); dogs; children. A little farther downhill, naturally, is the town river, the Rio Limón, ostensibly named after a lemon tree that grows or grew - my Spanish tenses still require some repetition - somewhere in the area, by the river. The raw sewage is also disposed of in this area; bathe above this point. Come to think of it, there are people living upriver as well. Stay dirty, that's my motto. For real. Which brings me to my current project; no washy-washy. Not as in, I'm not taking showers, rather; I'm off the soap. This idea popped into my head upon encountering the lively Dutchman Jan, who is forty-something, looks pretty good and claims he hasn't been using soap for twenty years; strangely, I believe him. Soap is basically bad for your skin, he says, which basically everybody knows, because it removes your natural protection coating, leaving your skin dry, old and in need of moisturizer. The question here is not the negative effects of the soap, but rather: is it possible to get off the soap without getting on the stink? I gathered I'd never have the guts to try out this shit anywhere else, and thus, I find myself on day nine of nonesoapness, the only problem areas being; predictably perhaps, armpits and scalp. According to Jan, things improve given time for natural restoration, the question is; do I have the faith necessary? Do I have the patience necessary? My hair is beyond greasy, it's a bleedin' oil well; wearing a cap alleviates some of the unpleasantries by way of the ostrich-strategy. I need to change shirts daily because of the fear of old sweat, and I don't have a lot of shirts, which is why one of the muchachas (housemaids, we have two girls between 15 and 18), by request, is teaching me washing by hand tomorrow. All this about filth being said, the dirtyness seems to stabilize, or recede even; my hair is not quite as filthy as it was three days ago, and my armpits are not really a problem even though my own stink is new to me, it's not that bad as long as I keep washing with water regularily. The real test will be when, or rather, if I should encounter female company; that's gonna put the soap theory and the pheromone theory and, I'm sure, lots of other theories, to the ultimate test. The observant reader is sure to be wondering about the hands by now; and yes, they're getting their soap, their sanitizer, their everything. What puzzles me is Jan's claim that he washes them (as well) with water alone, without getting sick in Asia, in Central America, nothing. Who knows, I ain't going there, Hand City, that is. About the rest of the body, I'm giving it another week before I snap unless radical improvement occurs hairwise. My skin is real smooth, though.