Upon reflection, I realized that my previous post might be to some rather boring. After all, nobody reads a blog for some awkward traveler´s painful account of his border experience. People read a blog for pictures, after all, it is the pictures that can strike jealousy into the hearts of all the people back home hard at work in their office chairs making tons of money so that they can do the same thing I am doing now but in the future when they are richer and smarter. Well, with apologies for my run on sentence (Tauchman has volunteered herself as official editor of the Joel post, which, is a full time job),here is my moment of glory.
Hmm, apparently my camera has zero pictures on it. Keep what I have said in mind until I can remedy this situation.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Everybody should thank Ayana for making me feel guilty about my lack of posting
Admittedly, some of my past posts have been rather corny, often concluding with a line like ¨but I will jump at the chance to return to Tulum¨ or the ¨Mexican people are intoxicating.¨ This post will end in no such way (don´t celebrate just yet, I haven´t explained the story!)
I am writing this story from Rio Dulce, a midsize town on Guatemala´s Lago Izabel. A beautiful town located on a gorgeous lake, and most people would declare that I am most lucky to stay here on two seperate occasions. In actuality, this place gets boring rather quickly, especially if you are not some yuppy gringo with leathered skin and an expensive yacht who likes to talk about the ¨perkiness¨of the young Guatemalan senoritas. That is precisely why I decided to leave two days ago for Honduras.
The day started off well. An early start facilitated by two cups of caffeinated water, (aka Nescafe) put me on the road at quarter to eight in the morning. It was raining hard, and within minutes I was already tired from concentrating hard on the road and the creeping semi two feet behind me with archaic air brakes. I got to the border at around 11am, just in time to get terrible exchange rate from Guatemalan Quetzales to Honduran Lempiras by one of the pimply teens waving large stacks of money. Formalities at the border started off nicely, immigration welcomed me to Honduras. Now comes the difficult part, declaring the vehicle and applying for a temporary import permit. At the Aduana (customs) I put on my most pleasant face, knowing full well I was traveling with a car that wasn´t entirely legally mine. The customs officer, another pimply teen, returned my greeting and then informed me that he did not have the authority to grant me an import permit, he only had that ability on Saturdays and Sundays (it was a Monday). Oh, of course, my mistake, would you please tell me where I might be able to find an import permit. Just then a Honduran man with British teeth ambled over to the counter right next to me (privacy doesnt translate to Spanish sometimes), and grabbed my vehicle title and driver´s license. He then informed me that all was not lost, that I could to go to Puerto Cortes (1 hr away) to obtain my permit, accompanied by a custodio, a chaperone to escort me there. This service would only cost me about $30!
His name was Jonathan and he was nineteen years old and no matter how many times I said ¨eh¨or ¨repite¨he continued to slur and mumble. Conversation was pulling teeth, and I succumbed to listening to staticy banda music on the radio. On our way there we were flagged down by the Honduran police. I pulled over and proceeded to stammer and grunt in what I was hoping would be comprehendable Spanish to convey that I in fact did not yet have my papers, but was on my way to get them. Jonathan, being the stellar custodio that he is, looked down at his feet and simultaneously found a more pertinent task inside of his left nostril than helping me with the police. The policeman made me get out of the car, Jonathan got out as well, but still mesmerized by his very interesting shoes. I was able to get across that I was on my way to get my papers, and the police moved on to a new, more important law, the one that states a driver must have adequate precautionary signs in the vehicle at all times, you know the ones people use when they are broken down on the side of the highway. I opened the back trunk and pulled out two signal flairs, and one of those triangles made with reflective tape. Not enough warning equipment, apparently. Meanwhile, while I dug in the back of my car, two pickup trucks sped past the police checkpoint exceeding the speed limit with headlights falling off and bumpers going every which way and while a passenger van came by without tail lights and a ten year old behind the wheel. But of course, they all must have had adequate precautionary signs. The policeman told me they would hold my license until I paid the ¨fine¨, which they said was 600 Lempiras ($30). I did not have any Honduran money left, having paid the custodio for his helpfulness. When I said I had only two hundred Quetzales left, about $26, the officer said that would be sufficient and I could go on my way. He shook my hand and smiled before we left, suggesting that the whole interaction was like one between people in a good relationship.
The drive took about an hour, and we rolled into the port about half past twelve. My talkative friend in the passenger seat got out and collected my documents while I followed behind like a rejected puppy yipping at his heels about how unethical and stupid those policemen were. I followed him into a room with a short, curly haired woman plopped down behind a desk in the center. She looked over my papers with a frown that could have been seen from space and asked me where my registration was. This was a first, I joked, and said I would go to the car to get it, secretly hoping that it was in there. I had a registration card, but of course it had expired in February. Awesome. Sweat began to form little rivers running vertically from head to toe. I brought the registration back upstairs, and with a sigh that could have been heard from space the woman announced that the registration was useless. Luckily, she would do me a favor and infer my car was registered legally because the tags on my license plate were active. I thought I was in the clear, and the world was becoming a more wonderful place by the second. Then the thunderclouds rolled in but in the form of a pimply teenage woman, whose job it was to inspect the vehicle. We walked outside and I opened the door, joking about the dirtiness of the vehicle and trying to lighten the mood. A little background on the vehicle. There are two identification numbers (called VINs) on my vehicle; one is found on the dashboard, and the other is found on the certification label on the inside of the driver´s door. My car is old, and at some point the little plaque located on the dashboard that has one VIN fell off and was lost forever. The pimply woman went straight for that one. Where is it? She inquired. I dont know, I said, but I have another one that says the same damn thing right here on the door. Shen then told me a great little lesson about car engineering, telling me that car doors can be removed and changed, but that little teeny plaques on dashboards held on by mere screws could not be changed. Touche, I said, now what. I was SOL at that point, but had I had some money left in my wallet I would have tried the old greenback salve trick. Alas, I did not, and she sent me on my way after first making me wait another forty minutes in her office while she did absolutely nothing except gossip with her fellow employees. Wonderful. She finally informed me that I would have to return to Guatemala and try again at some other border, and that I would have to pay another $30 for another custodio to escort me back to the border. Luckily, Jonathan came through in a brilliant move, and declared that he had to go back there anyway and that he would go back with me, for free!
My custodio and I drove back in silence, myself because I was out of money and rejected, and Jonathan because he never talked and when he did I had no clue as to what he was saying. I practically shoved him out of my car, turned off the headache-enducing banda music, and drove back to Rio Dulce, my favorite place in the world.
I am sorry if this story was too sarcastic for you, my parents often remind me that ¨sarcasm is the lowest form of humor.¨nevertheless, I felt it was appropriate in describing this day. Moral of the story, don´t enter Honduras with a beater car, insufficient paperwork, and high hopes. However, tomorrow is another day, and I feel that a new border, a fresh tank of gas, and a crisp American twenty will be the difference.
I am writing this story from Rio Dulce, a midsize town on Guatemala´s Lago Izabel. A beautiful town located on a gorgeous lake, and most people would declare that I am most lucky to stay here on two seperate occasions. In actuality, this place gets boring rather quickly, especially if you are not some yuppy gringo with leathered skin and an expensive yacht who likes to talk about the ¨perkiness¨of the young Guatemalan senoritas. That is precisely why I decided to leave two days ago for Honduras.
The day started off well. An early start facilitated by two cups of caffeinated water, (aka Nescafe) put me on the road at quarter to eight in the morning. It was raining hard, and within minutes I was already tired from concentrating hard on the road and the creeping semi two feet behind me with archaic air brakes. I got to the border at around 11am, just in time to get terrible exchange rate from Guatemalan Quetzales to Honduran Lempiras by one of the pimply teens waving large stacks of money. Formalities at the border started off nicely, immigration welcomed me to Honduras. Now comes the difficult part, declaring the vehicle and applying for a temporary import permit. At the Aduana (customs) I put on my most pleasant face, knowing full well I was traveling with a car that wasn´t entirely legally mine. The customs officer, another pimply teen, returned my greeting and then informed me that he did not have the authority to grant me an import permit, he only had that ability on Saturdays and Sundays (it was a Monday). Oh, of course, my mistake, would you please tell me where I might be able to find an import permit. Just then a Honduran man with British teeth ambled over to the counter right next to me (privacy doesnt translate to Spanish sometimes), and grabbed my vehicle title and driver´s license. He then informed me that all was not lost, that I could to go to Puerto Cortes (1 hr away) to obtain my permit, accompanied by a custodio, a chaperone to escort me there. This service would only cost me about $30!
His name was Jonathan and he was nineteen years old and no matter how many times I said ¨eh¨or ¨repite¨he continued to slur and mumble. Conversation was pulling teeth, and I succumbed to listening to staticy banda music on the radio. On our way there we were flagged down by the Honduran police. I pulled over and proceeded to stammer and grunt in what I was hoping would be comprehendable Spanish to convey that I in fact did not yet have my papers, but was on my way to get them. Jonathan, being the stellar custodio that he is, looked down at his feet and simultaneously found a more pertinent task inside of his left nostril than helping me with the police. The policeman made me get out of the car, Jonathan got out as well, but still mesmerized by his very interesting shoes. I was able to get across that I was on my way to get my papers, and the police moved on to a new, more important law, the one that states a driver must have adequate precautionary signs in the vehicle at all times, you know the ones people use when they are broken down on the side of the highway. I opened the back trunk and pulled out two signal flairs, and one of those triangles made with reflective tape. Not enough warning equipment, apparently. Meanwhile, while I dug in the back of my car, two pickup trucks sped past the police checkpoint exceeding the speed limit with headlights falling off and bumpers going every which way and while a passenger van came by without tail lights and a ten year old behind the wheel. But of course, they all must have had adequate precautionary signs. The policeman told me they would hold my license until I paid the ¨fine¨, which they said was 600 Lempiras ($30). I did not have any Honduran money left, having paid the custodio for his helpfulness. When I said I had only two hundred Quetzales left, about $26, the officer said that would be sufficient and I could go on my way. He shook my hand and smiled before we left, suggesting that the whole interaction was like one between people in a good relationship.
The drive took about an hour, and we rolled into the port about half past twelve. My talkative friend in the passenger seat got out and collected my documents while I followed behind like a rejected puppy yipping at his heels about how unethical and stupid those policemen were. I followed him into a room with a short, curly haired woman plopped down behind a desk in the center. She looked over my papers with a frown that could have been seen from space and asked me where my registration was. This was a first, I joked, and said I would go to the car to get it, secretly hoping that it was in there. I had a registration card, but of course it had expired in February. Awesome. Sweat began to form little rivers running vertically from head to toe. I brought the registration back upstairs, and with a sigh that could have been heard from space the woman announced that the registration was useless. Luckily, she would do me a favor and infer my car was registered legally because the tags on my license plate were active. I thought I was in the clear, and the world was becoming a more wonderful place by the second. Then the thunderclouds rolled in but in the form of a pimply teenage woman, whose job it was to inspect the vehicle. We walked outside and I opened the door, joking about the dirtiness of the vehicle and trying to lighten the mood. A little background on the vehicle. There are two identification numbers (called VINs) on my vehicle; one is found on the dashboard, and the other is found on the certification label on the inside of the driver´s door. My car is old, and at some point the little plaque located on the dashboard that has one VIN fell off and was lost forever. The pimply woman went straight for that one. Where is it? She inquired. I dont know, I said, but I have another one that says the same damn thing right here on the door. Shen then told me a great little lesson about car engineering, telling me that car doors can be removed and changed, but that little teeny plaques on dashboards held on by mere screws could not be changed. Touche, I said, now what. I was SOL at that point, but had I had some money left in my wallet I would have tried the old greenback salve trick. Alas, I did not, and she sent me on my way after first making me wait another forty minutes in her office while she did absolutely nothing except gossip with her fellow employees. Wonderful. She finally informed me that I would have to return to Guatemala and try again at some other border, and that I would have to pay another $30 for another custodio to escort me back to the border. Luckily, Jonathan came through in a brilliant move, and declared that he had to go back there anyway and that he would go back with me, for free!
My custodio and I drove back in silence, myself because I was out of money and rejected, and Jonathan because he never talked and when he did I had no clue as to what he was saying. I practically shoved him out of my car, turned off the headache-enducing banda music, and drove back to Rio Dulce, my favorite place in the world.
I am sorry if this story was too sarcastic for you, my parents often remind me that ¨sarcasm is the lowest form of humor.¨nevertheless, I felt it was appropriate in describing this day. Moral of the story, don´t enter Honduras with a beater car, insufficient paperwork, and high hopes. However, tomorrow is another day, and I feel that a new border, a fresh tank of gas, and a crisp American twenty will be the difference.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Shittin' in High Cotton
Presently I am in Tulum, Mexico, where I have been for the last week ago. It's a beautiful area, with white sand beaches and warm, impossibly blue Carribbean waters. While only two hours south of Cancun, Tulum's proximity to the resort-giantess has surprisingly not had much of an impact. Well, there are no Mcdonalds here anyway. Apparently the place gets very busy later on in the winter, but right now the only tourists walking around are of the sturdier breed who prefer a backpack over a suitcase.
Anyway, just because they are a backpacker doesn't mean they cannot be cute and undeserving of my (often pitiful) efforts to impress. On the first day at the beach I noticed simultaneously two things, first that there were a number of palm trees with great looking coconuts hanging from there fronds merely feet away, and second that a number of the attractive girls sharing the beach with me all wanted to drink coconut milk and eat coconut meat on the beach. I slowly put the two together and realized what I had to do. If I had a superman cape I would have donned it, and maybe announced that I, Joel Hedges, was there to save the day. I, of course, decided to climb. However, after a manly huddle, myself and the other dudes on the beach decided that the best coconuts just so happened to be on the tallest tree, probably ten meters high as the coconut drops. Fueled by more than one cerveza, I began my ascension by being flung onto the tree by Mark, fellow beachgoer and admitted Tennessee redneck. Too many greasy Mexican tacos meant I no longer have the slender figure I one had, and I made it halfway up the tree. Nevertheless, I sensed the watchful eyes of pretty women and could feel adrenaline in my veins, and I climbed up. I made it, looked down, and swore loudly, partly because I wanted to embellish the extremeness and danger of my feat, and partly because I really was pretty damn scared. I managed to twist off a couple of coconuts and began my descent. I slid down (ouch!) about halfway on the sandpaper like bark before jumping the rest of the way into the warm sand, victorious and definitely deserved of everyone's eternal praise. It was a majestic feat.
The adrenaline returning to normal levels, I became suddenly aware of the large scrapes that now covered my arms and the silver-dollar sized chunk of skin now missing from the bottom of my left foot. "Nah, it doesn't hurt," I assured the inquisitors (a big lie) trying one last time to impress. Nobody heard, however, and they were too enveloped in eating their coconuts to notice me hobbling off to the water to wash out my wounds.
There is more to this story, which touches even more on my own foolishness so I think I will become even more brief. I went back to the hostel and cleaned my wounds myself for the next two days with the first aid kit Scotty and I bought at the Army surplus store in Claremont, CA. Unknowingly, I cleaned the wound on my foot multiple times with a chloride wipe and then applied fresh bandages, which in reality cleaned the wound nicely but at the same time gave me a rather serious and painful chemical burn to boot. I am no doctor, but now that I look back at it I probably could have interpreted the directions on the back of the packet just fine, had I bothered to read them. Now, one week later, I am still hobbling around and beginning antibiotics for the cellulitis that is now beginning to spread around the edges.
I will never touch another coconut tree again in my life, but I will jump at the chance to return to Tulum.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
More Photo Stuff
My favorite photos from the trip are all now edited, captioned, and have locations on a map - check it out here.
P.S. Joel you're killin' me, here.
P.S. Joel you're killin' me, here.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Tulum and Prior
the beach in Tulum. Its pretty nice.
The large pyramid at Chichen Itza. Jesse and I came here on our way to Tulum as the result of a last second decision. We decided it would be wise not to miss a place that was recently named one of the new Seven Wonders of the World. It was large and impressive, but we got caught in the middle of an even larger and more impressive rainstorm towards the end of our visit and had to sprint back to the car. Once we were safely inside the car, the weather immediately cleared up.
Scene from the balcony of our hostel in Campeche. A very quiet town that went to sleep very early, Campeche was as a result peaceful and quiet and a perfect location for Jesse and I to rest up after Palenque and before Chichen Itza.
The Mayan artist must have been thinking of me when he painted this picture, which now hangs in the main plaza in San Cristobal de las Casas.
The mother of all turtles crawled up to the sand right in front of where we were eating dinner at Rio Nexpa. She proceeded to lay her eggs, with took an excruciatingly long time, by the way, and I was relieved for her and for me when she finally flippered off back towards the water. The girls quickly covered up her tracks so that locals wouldnt see them and steal the eggs for food. But thayt probably wasnt enough, the restaurant owner was telling me, because even if in the off chance that the locals dont find them, some dog will likely come by and dig them up.
Mexican transport. I am sure he offered her the helmet, too. Judging by the large number of insects that splatted upon our windshield, I would be willing to bet that had she been facing us, we would see an entire colony of (dead) dragonflies.
At the waterfalls in Tapalpa. Scotty and I met up with a school group from a town outside of Oaxaca by sheer coincidence. It was great because, although they were on a field trip, they invited us to their fiesta, which involved drinking lots of beer...and tequila. Scotty made the mistake of telling them that it was my birthday the preceding week, and they FORCED me to take a ten second pull of tequila. Before I finished my pull, Scotty had a bottle thrown into his face for good measure, while their one and only chaparone cheered us on. It was the craziest school trip I have ever seen. The picture above is one of the partiers. All the girls, undoubtably noticing that Scotty and I are extremely handsome dudes, wanted to take photos with us, and this is one of, I'm not kidding you, like 25 photos that we posed in with various girls.
The Surfing Group at Zapote. From left to right: Garreth and Julia, both from Australia. Tash, also from Australia. Adventure Man Kyle, who could kill you or make you a birthday cake with two sticks and a roll of duct tape. And Glenn, Tash's boyfriend and fellow countryman. That fish on the table was caught by Kyle and was delicious.
View from Scott and Sid's roof at their apartment in Oaxaca. Both teaching English there, poor work environment and uncoordinated work schedules led them to quit their jobs early and do something different, travel around Mexico and Latin America.
El Palenque: Jesse, a guy I met at my San Cristobal hostel, and I made it to the Mayan ruins at El Palenque this morning. They were magnificent, and we spent three hours exploring all the different buildings and palaces, some overgrown by the relentless push of the Chiapan jungle.Saturday, October 18, 2008
Photos from Scott's last week in Mexico
Check out the album with new pictures from my last week (and one of the best ones) in Mexico. They're edited with captions and everything, so I hope you enjoy.
Keep the updates coming, Joel, and put up some pictures when you can.
Keep the updates coming, Joel, and put up some pictures when you can.
Refresher
Just a heads up on what I am up to
Scotty left! Now I truly am blind, deaf, and dumb, and wondering around Mexico to boot! Good luck with the maintenance, Scotty, you are already sorely missed.
Currently in San Cristobal de las Casas, in Chiapas state. Its beautiful, and cold, and everyone is a good foot shorter than me. My hostel has hot water, and yesterday I shaved the three week old growth from my face, and I feel like a new, albeit poor, man.
Stopped off in Oaxaca to see Sid and Scott (a different Scott) which was great, as they are resident experts at the city after teaching English there for the past two months. My car was broken into, and you´ll get the lowdown on that later--though I'll let you know now that it involved your's truly fending off hundred if not thousands of armed and deadly Oaxacan gang bangers.
Keep checking the blog, I'll get something on here soon. This laid back Mexican atmosphere is beginning to rub off on my, despite my (I admit, weak) efforts.
Scotty left! Now I truly am blind, deaf, and dumb, and wondering around Mexico to boot! Good luck with the maintenance, Scotty, you are already sorely missed.
Currently in San Cristobal de las Casas, in Chiapas state. Its beautiful, and cold, and everyone is a good foot shorter than me. My hostel has hot water, and yesterday I shaved the three week old growth from my face, and I feel like a new, albeit poor, man.
Stopped off in Oaxaca to see Sid and Scott (a different Scott) which was great, as they are resident experts at the city after teaching English there for the past two months. My car was broken into, and you´ll get the lowdown on that later--though I'll let you know now that it involved your's truly fending off hundred if not thousands of armed and deadly Oaxacan gang bangers.
Keep checking the blog, I'll get something on here soon. This laid back Mexican atmosphere is beginning to rub off on my, despite my (I admit, weak) efforts.
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