Unannounced visitors – namely, us.

The reason for coming to this part of Guatemala was to visit a jungle eco lodge on the Rio Dulce. But contacting one to set up arrangements was proving to be a little more difficult than we had hoped – the wireless at the hostel didn’t work so sending out emails relied on getting online for the public (free) computers. I’d found a couple of places in my research during the last year. One was a big established one and the other a smaller place that looked pretty fancy on their website yet completely reasonable in price. I found some pretty awesome reviews on trip advisor for the small one and not so good ones for the big one which helped make up my mind. However, my email inquiry to the small one, Hotelito Perdido, was immediately replied to with an automatic “we only check email once a week. You should phone with any urgent inquiries” but I hate the telephone and using a phone in a country where you don’t speak the language was a challenge I wasn’t up for. I decided we’d chance it and just show up on the dock of the lodge.

We booked the boat at the desk of the hostel and the boat would pick us up from the hostel dock which meant no need to go into town or over the bridge. The boat even arrived early and we were the only people on it (picture above). I was hopeful but when I asked the captain just laughed and shook his head and then headed to the dock on the other side of the river where dozens of people were waiting so many that the group was split into two half full boats. But all the space was filled up as the boat pulled into other hotels, guest houses and lodges to fill out the empty spaces. Soon the boat was full and the luggage was piled high. We continued with the trip getting a tour of the Lago de Izabel and Rio Dulce, including the old fort, small creeks. It was a tour we hadn’t really wanted when the water got really rough once we pulled out of the city. The captain pulled out tarps for us to sit under, too late for some of the passengers – the guys behind us were sopping wet.

We traveled from the Rio to the Golfete passing indigenous folks fishing from small boats. They were Mayans who don’t like getting their picture. Unfortunately, the French couple in front of us didn’t get the message even when every Mayan kept shielding their faces when they pulled the camera out. Thankfully, the French women was soon distracted by the numerous birds in the trees. She was trying to use a super zoom on the very bumpy boat ride while her husband kept pointing out other ones. I’m sure their shots consisted of a lot of waves and sky maybe even a few thumbs but few birds.

We were only on the boat for an hour but it already felt like a full day. Thankfully, the Hotelito Perdido was halfway along the boat route (leaving the rest of the folks having to sit for another hour to Livingstone). And we pulled up to small dock where a Captain Jack lookalike and bearded tall man sat. As Adrian got out two dogs appeared to happily licked my face as I got off the boat. The dogs were followed by a petite woman who greeted us.

“Hi, we hope you have room because we’d like to stay here tonight. Surprise.” I announced once I was on the dock.

Luckily they did. They were Captain Jack, I mean, Chris, a guy from East London. And the woman, Aska his girfriend from Poland. The dogs – Bernie and Bali. Together they ran Hotelito Perdido. And it really was a Hotelito. Only 4 rooms/cabins. And two were already taken – one by Douglas, the tall man from the dock. I know realized that I should have phoned ahead. Gulp. But Chris and Aska were super nice and accommodating. And the accommodations were as great as the pictures. Unfortunately, they had people coming in a few days so our stay would be limited to two nights. Oh well. Some time better than no time.

The Hotelito was more like Chris and Aska’s cottage and dinner was not at in a restaurant but at a big communal table served and made by Aska. Joining us at dinner were Douglas, and two Spanish girls, Belen and Elena, that I recognized from our shuttle to and from Tikal, and volunteers from the clinic across the river, Jessie from the US, and Anna and Brem from belgium. Dinner was delicious and vegetarian but so good that Adrian said “I don’t even miss the meat.” (his ultimate culinary compliment) I’m surprised our systems didn’t go into shock or at least cry from the blessed sight of vegetables.

Dinner was awesome not just because of the food but because of the company. Despite arriving unannounced, we immediately felt welcome and part of the small group. We learned a lot about politics in the country. Basically, the war has never ended in Guatemala. Only 14 families still own all of Guatemala (including the government, the banks, and business) and run it like the mafia. These 14 families are proud of their Spanish blood and don’t mix with the largely indigenous population of the country. In fact they are still actively working to repress the Mayan population. There are still some revolutionary forces in action. Recently some agitators nearby burnt some villages in protest and so we were advised to stay away from the manatee reserve until Chris and Aska could figure out if it was safe for tourists or at least arrange for a local guide. They assured us we were never in danger (both the government and the revolutionaries want tourism in the country – for different reasons) but they didn’t want us to stumble into the middle of any local trouble if they could avoid it. As I’d been beginning to suspect, my images of shiny happy Guatemala was a bit of an illusion.

Bye-bye Mexico. Hello Oaxaca.

I wish I could tell you what the roads, scenery, or landscape were like for the 6 and a half hour bus ride but we slept for most of the trip. I did wake up when we passed over some speed bumps and was face to face with a sign of a man in uniform with his hand held out in gimme mode. It wasn’t a demand for a bribe. Well, not quite anyway, it was the sign for toll booth and the sign over head announced we were now entering Oaxaca the state. The scenery immediately seemed more lush and the soil more red but it was all in my head. Because pulling into Oaxaca, the city, seemed like more of the same.

It was bigger than I expected which did not bode well for my mood. After claiming our luggage, I looked up the number for the hostal which promised free pick up from the bus station. But how to make a phone call? The pay phone didn’t take coins and I didn’t know how to buy one of the cards it wanted. I approached the tourist desk and pulled out my emergency trump card.

“¿Habla ingles? “
The two people behind the desk looked at each other and then looked at me shaking their heads. Perhaps I’d ask differently.
“¿Un poco ingles?
Nope. Just more shaking. Foiled. Time to muster up all my learning.
“um, Necesitio llamar mi hotel. Pero, ah, como llamar?
I held out a handful of coins, mimed a telephone with my hand and shrugged like they had.
It worked. The girl understood and replied in lightening fast Spanish which I am learning is the only speed that Spanish come in. She pointed across the street. Thankfully, I recognized the picture of the phone on the storefront.
“Gracias” I replied dragging mono-lingual Adrian in the direction she had pointed.

The store was a I repeated my Spanish request to the guy sitting in the store this time holding up the telephone number and the change. He pointed at phone booth number and patched me through.

The phone rang a couple of times and was picked up by a female. Having exhausted my daily Spanish allowance (it gets worse as the day goes on), I once again tried my emergency trump card.

“¿Habla ingles?”
“Un momentito”
Success?
A male voice came on the line and with a Mexican-American accent answered.
“Hello?”
Success! Relieved, I spoke in what was probably a run-on sentence.
“Hi It’s Elizabeth. I have a reservation. We’re at the ADO bus station in Oaxaca can you come pick us up?” I realized I wasn’t even sure I had the right number.
“Oh ya Elizabeth. No problem. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes like 10 or 15. Bye

And indeed he was. He was Chay (rhymes with thigh), Oaxacan born but American educated baseball player who along with his brother Xavier, parents and young kids ran La Villada Inn where we were booked for the next three nights. Set up in the hills on the outskirts of the city, the view was as amazing, the family was amazing, and the place was, wait for it, amazing (have I used that word enough). They upgraded us to a room with a private bath, a king size bed and a view over the city. See? I told you it was amazing.

We immediately down graded the accommodations by doing laundry in the sink (bar of laundry soap – another great piece of gear I recommend) and hanging it out to dry on our porch. Then we jumped into the pool. Yup, this hostal had a pool. And when it got too chilly with the setting sun we feasted on homemade quesadillas and helped ourselves to beer from the fridge (they worked on the honour system). Ah yes good food, good setting and good drinks - there's no need to translate any of that. Oaxaca I think I’m gonna like you after all.

Moving on up to the east side to a deluxe apartment in the sky

That's right folks for the first time in our lives, we are moving east of Yonge Street. For you non-locals, let me explain. Ask any Torontonian; this is a big deal. If you grow up on one side of Yonge Street chances are, baring any extenuating circumstances, you stay on that side of Yonge Street. No idea why but it's the truth. But after 35 years, west of Yonge I'm making the move east. Sure it's only for 17 days but it's still a pretty big deal.

In order to get here, we had to purge our apartment of 1024 cds, 843 books, 165 dvds, 42 playstation games, and all our furniture. We did it. But through a combination of craigslist, donations to goodwill and the furniturebank.org we did it. And all our remaining worldy possessions now reside in a 5x10 storage unit. We made almost $3000 from our sales. And there were a few tears shed as we packed up.

But that means that tomorrow when we check into our temporary far east deluxe apartment in the sky, we'll truly be starting over with just the packs on our back.

So where are we now?

location: Toronto
departure: March 17, 2009
savings: $49,540
return fund: £7,455

The Storm Watch

To keep people in the loop while we were in New Orleans I posted some updates on facebook. This entry is a reposting of these entries with a few more details and pictures. 

Friday, August 29, 2008 - New Orleans:

After a way too early flight via Philadelphia, we've arrived safe and sound in New Orleans on the 3rd anniversary of Katrina and our 10th. It's sunny and about a bazillion degrees outside even before the 90% humidity. You'd never guess that a Hurricane is on it's way. Except for the convoy of army and national guard we passed on the highway. 

Our cadillac-driving cab owner told us that they are expecting the evacuation orders tomorrow. Great. But other folks are a little more laissez-faire following any talk of mandatory evacuations with a "we'll just wait and see" or occasionally a "f*ck that shit"

The W Hotel is great. Our room has a balony that overlooks the Court House. To celebrate our anniversary they gave us a free dinner at their restaurant. Good thing since, a handful of the businesses and museums have closed or started boarding up their windows, but there are a lot less people than I remember from 10 years ago. 

We walked around taking in the sights of the French Quarter, making a stop at St. Louis Cathedral to pray for no hurricane - but being a non-believer I don't count on it having much of an effect. So we decided to drown our sorrows at the Napoleon House instead. 

The French Quarter feels a little less seedy and a bit more well scrubbed than our last visit here - even Bourbon Street seems almost civilized. Bourbon Street is still filling up with sweaty half naked-men celebrating gay mardi gras. We'll stay as long as they do. 

But I have started looking into a contingency plan.

Saturday, August 30, 2008 - New Orleans: 

Woke up this morning to an official hotel notice slipped under the door of our room. It brings back fond memories of our trip to Tunisia at the start of the Gulf War. The hotel has given us a heads up that a mandatory evacuation is expected sometime in the next 24 hours. 

Time for plan b. 

I spent 2 hours on the phone last night organizing our contingency plan. Being part of an Expedia package, our tickets are non-refundable or changeable even in a natural disaster, and the insurance I thought we had on our visa has to be applied for before a trip. Grr. Lessons learned. So since our original flight home has us changing planes in Charlotte NC, I purchased new tickets to Charlotte for Sunday. 

The only hiccups will be if the flight on Sunday is cancelled or if the hotel has to evacuate us today. Which all seems so surreal since it's 96 degrees with 86 percent humidity and not a cloud in the sky. 

However, from our balcony we can see a line-up of emergency vehicles around the Court House and the pink building across from us has closed its shutters, padlocked its doors and lined sandbags up in front of the door. 

Rather than countdown to evacuation in the hotel, we took another walk around the French Quarter over to Canal Street. It's really empty now with even more closures, boarded up windows as well as empty bank machines and palm trees tethered down. As much as I wish we didn't have to leave, if we stayed we wouldn't have much to do in the city (with or without a hurricane). People are taking this hurricane seriously. 

By the time we got back to the hotel, the evacuation order had been issued. While Adrian headed to the store to buy some food and water for our planned overnight camp out in the airport, I headed upstairs to finish our packing. 

The awesome staff who all knew us by our names and had been checking in with us hourly gave us all the info we needed to get out safely. We got the last tourist shuttle to the airport. And we weren't the only ones getting out. The highway was miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic of cars piled high with everything people could take with them. Our shuttle also passed the bus and train station where thousands of poor folks carrying garbage bags and suitcases were lined up for their free evacuation shuttles. And the airport was surrounded by heavily armed police. They were only letting in folks with tickets. 

The airport itself was fairly dead. Just as the hotel staff predicted, the airline changed our (new) tickets to Charlotte for free having added a special evacuation flight for 9 pm that night. 

Inside the terminal, there were at least 5 emergency personel to every passenger. Many of the passengers were coming back from the big college football game and had coolers of food and beer that they shared with those of us who had none. The mood was more party than emergency except that everyone with a laptop was using the free airport wifi to follow Gustav on the National Hurricane Service homepage. 

We boarded the full flight and landed in Charlotte ready for part two of our anniversary trip. 

Monday, September 1, 2008 - Charlotte: 

After a day in North Carolina, I have only one thing to say.

Charlotte is lame. 

It's a ghost town just like evacuated New Orleans. Except there's no hurricane warning. New Orleans at least still had soul. Charlotte? None. We saw about 4 other people on the streets today. 

We walked from one end of the city to the other (excluding the vast suburbs) in about 30 minutes. It's all sparkly new skyscrapers with bank names on them. The hotel looks exactly like an office building from the outside and only markedly better on the inside. 

Finding something to do has been a challenge. After we spent a couple of hours in one of the few museums and then at a small gallery, one of the fewer other open places, there wasn't much left. 

Since we were staying downtown where everything was closed, I scoured chowhound to find a place to eat that was close but open. We still had to take a cab to get there. It was okay; our server at least appeared to be human and not another cookie cutter pageant queen. The tv over the bar was tuned into Gustav reminding us why we were in Charlotte in the first place. 

Tuesday, September 2, 2008 - Charlotte: 

Glad Gustav didn't kill New Orleans, I really would like to get back there so we can fully experience that city someday. 

Charlotte however, well, let's just leave it there. Because if you can't say anything nice, don't say it anything. 

We walked the length of the city again, looking for open stuff. Here are some highlights. 

• The Afro-American Cultural Centre was closed on Monday. And shocked we wanted to take a tour there on Tuesday.
  
• The McColl Center for the Art was closed on Monday. And then changing displays on Tuesday (i.e. essentially closed). Although they did allow us to poke around the stuff they were setting up and pointed us to us to another tiny gallery.
  
• The free tourist trolley was empty of any tourists save us. 
  
• All museums were closed on Monday. Almost all were closed on Sunday and then on Tuesday too. 
  
• The tourist information office was closed all long weekend. 
  

So I spent 3 hours online researching the city and marking up a free hotel map to create our own walking tour which lasted only 30 minutes due to Charlotte's tradition of knocking down anything old. 

Thanks to a homeless guy who befriended us and joined us on our walking tour of the city, we found out why Charlotte was as devoid of life as it was. 

About 20 years ago, the downtown was rundown and "the hood" (his word not mine). Some banks decided to rejuvenate the city by building their headquarters there. And by rejuvenation they meant kick out all the black people and levelling the city. And yes, they literally levelled the city. 

So now it looks like a giant shopping mall, with public art pieces that reference the proud heritage of Charlotte but without any of that proud heritage left standing. 

He also confirmed the very quiet but very clear racist undercurrent that we were feeling in the city. Ick ick ick ick. 

As we parted ways with "Baltimore", he told us "they can flush the rats down the tunnel, but the rats will swim right back up it. I guess that means he and many others weren't leaving Charlotte just yet. 

Rain, rain go away, please! i'm begging you.

It's been 3 months since I returned from Vancouver and I still don't know what to say about it. Disappointed? Confused? Sad? Maybe all of the above. And then some. My lack of enthusiasm about the city could be the reason that I've not hurried to finish this post. 

I can't blame Vancouver wholy. I was there for work. I came straight from London - a city I love. And the weather was crap.

I left London at 3:30pm. I arrived in Toronto at 5:30pm. Adrian met me at the airport so I could hand over my dirty laundry, dry cleaning and trinkets that I wouldn't need in Vancouver. And so I could give him the black bin bag full of proper British goodies that had caused me so much grief to and at Gatwick. We had dinner at the Swiss Pigeon at the airport - ah romance. Then I boarded my 8:30pm WestJet flight to Vancouver com - 5 hours of a baby that didn't just cry it wailed, something seatback television can't fix. 

By the time I got to the Opus Hotel and checked in it was midnight and I had been awake for 24 hours. The room was lovely. The bathroom however was not for the faint of heart. It ran the width of the room overlooking the street and I do mean overlooking the street. One wall was floor to ceiling windows. Needless to say, I kept the shades down the entire stay. That wasn't the only odd thing about the Opus. On weekends, the lobby turned into a nightclub complete with bouncers who made us show our room keys to get into the hotel. But it wasn't a cool nightclub - instead it seemed full of suburbanites with too much money and not a lot of sense. And gang members. In fact one night while having a drink, my co-workers and I found ourselves surrounded by 7 police officers in windbreakers with "gang task force" written on the back. Soon they zeroed in on two guys and removed them from the bar. Weird, very weird.

Vancouver was full of oddities like that. Despite being surrounded by beautiful mountains and the sea, the city itself is downright ugly. Most of it seems to have popped up in the last 20 years. All concrete and glass condos devoid of any personality or redeeming features. When combined with the constant drizzle this did not make for a happy trip. 

I did some Lonely Planet walking tours that took me from Yaletown where I was staying to Chinatown and Gastown. Most of the downtown was more of the concrete and glass condos except for Granville with it's numerous neon theatre signs. And then I noticed that the streets went from retro to rundown. Dear old LP neglected to mention that they were taking me to Main & Hastings until I was at Main & Hastings. This is the poorest postal code in Canada and the New York City of heroin addicts. Although it was the weekend, the streets were heaving with junkies wandering aimlessly. Occasionally, men in a reflective vests would weave through the crowds sweeping up syringes from the sidewalk. I wish I could say I was exaggerating. Once I realized where I was I put the camera away - this wasn't a zoo and these people weren't attractions. 

I escaped from the blight in the Dr. Sun Yat Sen Chinese Garden  - a quiet classic garden and oasis downtown. I checked out Chinatown that seemed too orderly and not stinky enough to be real. I walked across Gastown in about two seconds and saw the steam clock that doesn't run on steam. 

Between the constant drizzle and the various disappointments on the tour, I was about to write Vancouver off when a co-worker texted me to meet up. When we met at the old train station, my sightseeing had put me in a foul mood leading the ever-cheerful Cheryl to dub me the crusty traveller. She'd spent the day driving around Stanley Park with a friend. She'd actually seen the mountains and some of the super-natural stuff that makes people think Vancouver is beautiful. When I told her where I'd been, she made it her mission to improve my impression of the city by taking me to Robson via the business district. Sure it was nicer than the boarded up east side but not enough to change my first impression. We walked to the Burrard Street Bridge and along the sea wall back to the hotel at which point our feet were numb. 

Unfortunately, the weather never improved while I was in Vancouver. Unfortunate not just because we were trying to shoot some sunny summer ads in the middle of daily downpours but also unfortunate because it thwarted Cheryl and I's plans to bike out around Stanley Park or go whale watching. Instead we settled for quick trips to Granville Market (meh, probably much cooler if you like shopping and aren't trying to save your money for The Big Trip™) and the Vancouver Art Gallery or what Cheryl insists I call the Vag. The Vag was actually my favourite site in the city. It's the perfect size for an afternoon and the exhibitions were really well thought out. Finally, something I could give thumbs up to in Vancouver.

Actually, there was something else I enjoyed about Vancouver. Thanks to an expense account and my production company, I did get to have some fantastic dinners. Vancouver is known for it's food. And while I wouldn't say it's a worth the flight, it was definitely a highlight.

One night we were taken to Zen - a chichi Chinese nouvelle cuisine restaurant in Richmond. It is supposedly the best Chinese restaurant outside of China. And our dinner consisted of a 9 course tasting menu - foie gras, curried whelk, shark's fin soup, lobster, shredded chicken, sea bass, pork cheek. Interesting and decadent but a little over the top. 

Another night we went to Glowbal. The food was good but the best part was the trick we played on our producer, Meghan, with the help of the great staff there. Producers are the accountants of a shoot (as well as den mothers, nurses, travel agents and all round asskickers) and this job was on a budget. And Meghan was feeling a bit of pressure to keep the spending low. When she called us just after we'd ordered to tell us she'd meet up with us, we decided to test her. With the help of a couple of waiters and a bus boy, we littered the table with empty champagne bottles, and carefully decorated the table cloth with wine glasses and water marks. So by the time we were done, it looked like Mel Gibson, Lindsay Lohan and the rest of Hollywood AA had just relapsed at our table.  When Meghan walked in, she eyed the debris took a deep breath but said nothing. The waiter handed her a wine list and we suggested more champagne. She cautiously said "okay" while she started counting the bottles and the bill. When she asked how much, the waiter casually threw out "It's just a buck fifty a bottle". It was about then that her mental tally finished totalling and the normally calm cool and collected and sweet Meghan lost it. The colour drained from her face before switching to a deep crimson. Screaming at the top of her lungs she let loose on us. "What the f*ck have you guys done?!? I told you, you had a budget! $100 per diem - that's it. What the f*ck have you done!?! Are you serious?!?!" She didn't notice the entire wait staff standing behind her doubled over in laughter and mistook the tears of laughter on our faces for drunkenness. It took a few minutes and a stiff drink to convince her it was a joke. The good sport even picked up the tab leaving a lovely tip for the awesome staff.

We had the biggest plates of Italian food ever at Cafe Luxy.

We had too much sangria at Lolita's. 

We enjoyed super service and japanese tapas at Guu. 

We went fancy for sea food at the Blue Water Cafe. 

We enjoyed doughnuts from Deep Cove.

And many other meals I didn't mean to forget. 

This almost made up for getting soaked to the bone while shooting in Lynn Valley - a park that quickly transitioned from beautiful to horror film when dense fog rolled in. The cast and crew were real troopers and made sure we got what we needed. But I wasn't sad when it was all over. Finally after 2.5 weeks, 8 time zones, 17,000 km, 10 days straight of rain and one lost umbrella, I was back home. 

Staging an intervention

Hi my name is Liz and I am a travel addict.

Adrian and I have had a moratorium in place on travel while we save for our planned round the world adventure (from this point forward known as the Big One). However, we are addicts and we had a relapse. 

It's been 6 months since we've been anywhere and over 13 months since we've been on a real trip and it's another 9 months until we leave on the Big One. So we looked at some prices did some math and chose Cuba. I know, I know, what's a melanin-challenged girl doing chasing the sun? Well, sunburns are my childbirth - the hurt like hell but as time passes I forget the pain and just remember the good times. Plus, it's minus one bazillion in Toronto so a sunburn seems more desirable than frostbite. 

We checked the usual suspects on the net - itravel2000, redtag, selloffvacations, exit - finally finding a $600 all inclusive just outside of Havana, far away from the tourist hell, i mean mecca of Varadero. 

So on January 22 we left for a week. Yes, that also happens to be Adrian's birthday. Good thing, since I'd forgotten to buy a card but could tell him that this trip was my present to him. (phew, that was quick thinking). Here's our day-by-day. Oh and this is going to take forever, so be patient. 

January 22, 2008 - Toronto to Playas del Este

I haven't flown on a charter in probably 10 years. And the last time I stayed at a resort was 5 years ago in West Africa. Not because I'm a snob but because I'm cheap. I've found regular airlines to be just as cheap and with better flight times than charters and resorts often more expensive than going on your own. However time was also a factor so here we were about to fly a charter to an all-inclusive resort. 

I'm not sure what I was expecting in Cuba. Bread line-ups, miserable people, poverty, pushy folks who'd do anything for a bit of money. Guess what, it wasn't like I expected, except of course for our hotel. After 7 hours of travel time (1 hour to the airport, 3.5 hour uneventful flight, 1.5 hours on a bus), we arrived at the Concrete Monstrocity™, known in tourist brochures as Hotel Tropicoco. 

In the unflattering midnight light, it was less tropical paradise and more soviet hospital (most fitting since it was used as a convalescent centre for Venezuelan eye surgery patients last year) - completely devoid of all personality. I wish I could say it looked better in the daylight but that would be a lie - we weren't surprised by it's lack of style. But who cares - we were only 20 minutes outside of Havana which was what we came for not the resort. 

And when you're trying to cure a travel addiction, it helps if the relapse isn't comfortable.