Updated Backlog

I just updated my blog; go down to check out the entries for February 23, 24 and 26 below. ;-)

Quick Update with More to Come

Hi, all. And a special hello to Tom Kedwell, who I know enjoys reading this blog with his dad, Leigh.

It's been a couple of weeks since my last blog entry, and that's because it's been such a whirlwind of activity that I've simply not had time to put fingers to keyboard for this.

Since my last entry, I've explored the many unique towns and villages on the shores of Lake Atitlan, returned to Antigua once more, endured several hot and bumpy bus rides, turned 40 in one of the most beautiful places I have ever encountered, been spelunking (Tom, help Dad with that big word), swung over a river, gone inner-tubing, jumped off a bridge, swam in limestone pools, explored a cave behind a waterfall, heard the worst bonfire stories ever, taken part in a chicken-bus rebellion, swam in a lake, and somehow ended up with a bunk in an apparently all-girls' dorm.

I've also helped get a rescued husky in Taiwan into a new home in Canada (thanks to the generosity of some wonderful people, we easily raised enough money for his flight), and part of the reason for me being so busy of late is that I've been helping with getting some of the other dogs at the Animals Taiwan holding centre into new homes - big thanks also to Brandy, who runs the holding centre and who has been juggling pressure and sticking to priorities so that more animals could be helped.

I am just creating some adoption flyers for four of the newest and youngest Animals Taiwan rescues, including one beautiful young girl with only three legs. If you would like to help distribute these flyers, please email me (my address is listed in my profile) and I will send you the posters and some advice on how to get them noticed. I have them in English or Chinese, and we will focus on rehoming them in Taiwan first. If enough of these posters go up all over the place, we will have four new adoptions in no time. You can join in to help make this happen. (We will happily and gratefully ship these beautiful animals to good homes abroad if need be, but we don't focus on finding homes overseas.)

For now, I have to finish working on those posters and writing up my blog entries, so keep checking in over the coming days. I'm heading into Mexico tomorrow, so expect a very different landscape from my blog for a couple of weeks.

Hasta luego!

Sean 

The Road to Semuc Champey

I stayed a few nights at the Iguana Perdido in Santa Cruz and would have stayed longer in this fun place but didn’t want to spend my 40th birthday attending their weekly, Saturday night cross-dressing party. I’d decided that perhaps it would be more fun to catch up with some friends in Antigua, and I headed that way, but then had second thoughts and finally settled for the natural and unique location of Semuc Champey, which was also on the way to my main destinations, the Mayan ruins of Tikal and the ARCAS wildlife rescue centre just across the lake from Flores.

The early-morning shuttle bus was 45 minutes late, but, thankfully, this time I was the last one to board. I could have had breakfast after all. The drive to Guatemala City was uneventful, though I was fascinated to find myself looking out the window at one of the most violent cities in the world. Every year, 6000 people are murdered here—that’s 200 of every 100,000. The big news in all the media recently has been the hijacking of public buses and killing of their drivers for the money they’re carrying. Thankfully, we experienced none of that.

In Guatemala (locals tend to drop the City when talking about the capital), I transferred to a local bus—not a chicken bus, thankfully, but a premier class bus that provided comfy, reclining seats and a strange cartoon movie. As we headed off, refreshments were offered for sale by a dirty looking vendor carrying a wooden tray of crisps and soft drinks up and down the aisle before alighting to race back and ply his trade on the next coach to leave the station.

The ride to Coban was uneventful, but the scenery, as always no matter where you go in Guatemala, ranged from strange to stunning, with many brief insights into local life speeding past my window. I was lucky enough to get a quick transfer in an overly crowded minibus that soon hit the bumpy gravel roads that signalled our forthcoming arrival at the tranquil village of Lanquin.

I had avoided touts’ suggestions for other accommodations because I had my sights set on a place that was fairly new but already the talk of the backpacker crowd: El Retiro, a riverside hostal comprised of stilt-top wooden huts that descended toward a fast-moving but pristine river and a thatched restaurant and bar that drew you in with the sight of hammocks and large friendly tables, the sound of cool, laid-back music, and the delicious smell of home cooking that wafted out the open sides as dinnertime approached.

I settled into my dorm then headed past a tidbit-scratching hen and her mimicking chicks to the bar, to make some new friends and meet up with recent ones from previous destinations whom I was certain would also be drawn to this beautiful locale. The people I bunked with in San Pedro were there, as well as some Israeli girls I had met there, and also a guy from Johnny’s bar in Monterrico. The place filled up as dinner was served, and word got around that I would turn 40 at midnight; I was made to feel like an old friend by everyone present and enjoyed a customary free shooter from the Dutch barmaid, Marloes, who also generously joined me in several more in a matter of minutes.

The evening ended around a bonfire, which was surprisingly quiet when I took my place on the relatively cold and damp grass that circled the glowing embers and flames. I suggested bonfire stories, and someone else elected Sam, a permanently smiling young guy from Oregon, I believe, who had already earned himself a name as a bit of an entertainer. But Sam’s mind had been dulled by something in the air, and he struggled to think of a bonfire story to tell.

“Well, there was this one time when a friend and I had lit a fire, and we somehow decided it would be a good idea to see if we could jump over, and when it came to my turn, I didn’t clear it and fell in and got burned.”

The audience eyed each other. It was suggested Sam tell another bonfire story.

“OK, well, there was also this time when my buddies and I were throwing things in a fire for fun, and someone accidentally threw in an aerosol, and it blew up, and nearly killed us all.”

We looked to each other again. No one else wanted to say it, so I did: “Sam, I don’t think it has to actually be about a bonfire, dude!”

Sam saw the funny side and went back to silently enjoying the amber lightshow, so I offered to tell an embarrassing teaching story about small teeth, and another that my friend Nat and I just call ‘the Anne story’, and both raised a few cringes and laughs. I thought I‘d trumped Sam, but that was my one and only victory, because we met up again several days later, and Sam would prove himself to be one of the funniest people I’ve ever met.

Anyway, I eventually hit the sack about 1.00 am, happy in the knowledge that I would be spending my 40th birthday in one of the most stunning places in the world, in what should prove to be an action- and fun-packed day, amongst some great people.

Jaibalito

Not much to report here; I think the photos should explain why I loved this place so much but couldn’t afford to stay more than one night. The hotel’s called La Casa del Mundo, and I can highly recommend it for the super relaxed and romantic ambience, the friendly service, great food, and stunning views.

Help Send Suka to Canada

Please read here: http://suka.chipin.com/sukas-flight-to-canada

Hippy Mayan New Year

San Marcos is known as a bit of a draw for the new-age traveller, so I wasn’t surprised to see signs all over offering everything from yoga to meditation to healing massage to lessons in reiki to accommodations in the shape of pyramids with their four points coinciding with those of the compass. Long hair, wispy tie-dye, and bare feet was the dress code, apparently, and shaving was frowned upon, for either sex. Rooms were cheap, food was healthy, and the atmosphere one of quiet contemplation. I actually liked it.

In the mornings, I swam and sunbathed off the rocks that cascaded into the clear, calm water that lapped the shore, and spent my afternoons downing strawberry liquados and tofu burgers.

While in Blind Lemon's one afternoon, drinking a strawberry liquado and scoffing down a large and delicious veggie burger, I heard the haunting sound of a single, wailing voice accompanied at times by a chanting crowd. As the singing approached, I was delighted to see a procession coming my way, consisting of a large group of locals, the women in matching purple traditional dress, the men bearing on their shoulders a statue of Jesus carrying a cross. They solemnly wound their way around the lane before turning right and disappearing up the hill, the voices still resounding. I managed to steal a few shots as the parade went away.

It wasn't to be the only religious event I would witness that day: While exploring the narrow lanes that lead to everywhere worth going to, I came across an English girl, Clare, who talked me into attending a special ceremony taking place on a nearby hilltop to celebrate the eve of the Mayan new year. How could I say no? We trekked up the rocky path and soon stumbled across the bonfire ringed by Mayan priests and new-age travellers who were focused on the flames as they listened to each other make speeches that were translated for the rest of us by a greying lady in ankle-length tie-dye with matching bandana.

The onlookers were taking the event very seriously, but I became more fascinated by the fireflies that flashed like neon beacons in the grass and trees around the semi-meditative crowd. I was impressed when, at one point, one of the priests talked about the importance and benefit of having canine companions and, as he spoke, a dog walked out of the darkness and stood by his side as though to press the point. The priest seemed tickled too.

One seemingly very important priest, who had fasted for five days to protect us from the evils that abound during the shortest month that marks the end of the Mayan calendar, lectured the audience on the rituals that should accompany the coming of a new year. He suggested cutting one’s hair, shaving, and taking a shower to mark this important new beginning—not unwise words given the audience.

I took some photos, contemplated life, the universe, and everything, and decided to leave as the random bongo-banging reached a crescendo and the crowd were being encouraged to make a donation before joining in a holding-of-hands that I knew was bound to precipitate a group hug.


The next day, I shaved and showered, and even brushed my teeth.

Lovely, Laid-Back, Lakeside Life

The last time I came to Guatemala, about thirteen years ago, I came to Lake Atitlan but only stayed at Panajachel for one night. I thought I’d seen the best of the area, as Pana, as the locals call it, is the most visited town on the lake. But I had missed the point: Lake Atitlan’s draw is it’s calming tranquility, and I wasn’t going to find that in its busiest town. So I was kind of happy this time to be forced to try some of the other villages that nestled lakeside in the volcanoes’ shadow.

We arrived in San Pedro just as the sun was going down only to endure a 30-minute, backpack-laden hike to a meet up with some friends of Mitchell’s in a quiet guest house that boasted some of the cheapest accommodation in Guatemala. It was my first time trying out dormitory life on this trip, and it was good; staying in a room with several other people is a great way to widen one’s circle. Together, a group of about eight of us explored the town, which, for the most part, consisted of a necklace of very cool, very pretty bars and restaurants that line the paved path which weaves its way through the quiet town. A bitter-sweet aroma permeated the air, its source revealed as we hustled past large plastic sheets filled with drying coffee beans and mounds of exhausted and now moldy husks.

I liked San Pedro. There were cafes and restaurants I could happily have stayed in for days, with colourful furnishings, natural settings, music to lounge to, and some fantastic vegetarian food. I stayed two nights, and spent most of my time relaxing in D’Noz, a popular dockside restaurant that offered not only free wireless Internet, but Marmite sandwiches to boot. Canoeists quietly paddled the water beyond my laptop screen, while lancha pilots called out their destination to beckon stragglers to board. There was no room for improvement; I had found my paradise.

I have learned from my travels so far that, no matter how much I like a place and want to stay, there is a destination just down the road that will please me just as much while also offering something a little different. But still I was quite sad the morning I decided to head out. I sat on D’Noz balcony and enjoyed the lake view, the breeze, and a flurry of cheeky sparrows who came one by one to take advantage of a bowl of sugar that was lacking a secure lid. I bade them farewell as I finished my breakfast and limonada and traipsed downstairs to the dock to haggle a ride to San Marcos, known to be the hippiest of hangouts on the lake.

Far from the Madding Crowd

I caught the 6.00 am shuttle that took me and my fellow travellers on a rolling, windy road through the Western Highlands before finally descending toward the magical and mystical Lake Atitlan. Looked down upon by a ring of mountains and volcanoes, Atitlan is one of the most beautiful lakes in the world, and yields ample crops of coffee beans and corn around its fertile shores. Native Guatemalans who populate the lakeside and mountain villages maintain a mixture of Catholic and traditional Mayan customs, and many, particularly the women, still adorn themselves in traditional, richly textile costumes. The air is clean, the lake usually clear and calm, and the atmosphere one of intoxicating relaxation.

We pulled into Panajachel, the largest town on the lake, and I set about finding a cheap but comfortable hotel room and exploring the cafes and shops that lined the road leading to and along the lakeside. Panajachel was once a hippy hangout, and therefore--luckily for me--healthy, organic, vegetarian fare was easy to find, so I settled into a colourful roadside cafe and studied my guidebook over an extremely refreshing limonada.

I got talking to a British woman, Susan, who had family in my hometown of Folkestone, and I struggled to put faces to some of the relatives she named. Then she asked if I'd heard about the violent disturbances in Solola, a popular market village about 10 kilometers away over the mountains. I had heard something, but Susan filled me in on the details: apparently, four kidnappers were caught by the police there, but the locals, tired of a corrupt legal system that doesn't protect them or their children from criminals with connections, stormed the police station, wanting to lynch the accused. The police managed to contain the trouble but not the discontent, which was threatening to spill over to the neighbouring town, Panajachel, as the kidnappers were to be transferred to a jail there today. Rumours were milling among the maddening mob that the criminals were to receive a light sentence, and frustrations manifested themselves in violence once more. The word on the street was that we were to be vigilant and stay well away from the town centre.

As Susan escorted me to a cafe with wireless Internet connection, someone shouted out to me from a roadside cafe; it was Matt, the Canadian guy I had also bumped into I Antigua and Monterrico, again! I said a quick hello, promised to email some photos, and carried on towards the Wifi cafe. As I sat there, checking on my email, I noticed that people were starting to vacate the building and store owners were hurriedly pulling down the steel shutters. Mitchell, a Los Angelesean I had chatted to many times in Antigua, walked in, and I explained we may have cause for concern here. Susan came back to explain that trouble may be on its way, and as we walked out onto the street, a large convoy of police vehicles underlined her point. The corner, usually a-bustle with buses and passengers, was eerily abandoned.

As we walked back towards the lake, life seemed to be carrying on as normal, so we wondered whether we really needed to be so concerned. Mitchell headed off to his hotel and I remained wandering around the streets, but the atmosphere was clearly changing. I noticed that almost everyone seemed to be crowding around radios that were blaring out news reports of the approaching and potentially violent demonstration. An oldish man in a brown shirt ran down from the town centre signalling that people should leave, and vendors hurriedly put away their wares and began closing up shop and bringing down the shutters. Some foreigners I spoke to uttered that we should all return to our hotels and stay put as they hurried past to flag down a taxi or tuk-tuk.

There was a definite tension in the air when Mitchell returned. A couple of restaurant workers told us that probably nothing would happen, but we should keep our wits about us; other expats told us that we should really hole ourselves up in our hotels as you never know what an angry, frustrated, and intolerant mob might do. We had to make a decision.

I considered staying and taking photographs, but then I remembered how foreign photographers had been a popular target for maddening crowds in recent years, so I put my camera away and decided another course of action would be wiser. Concerned that we may be stuck in a town where, at worst, machete-wielding mobs might wreak havoc, or, at best, all the shops, bars, and restaurants would be boarded up for the rest of the night, I decided to take the lead and gave the order to run away.

We got our bags and met down by the jetties where boat owners ply their taxiing trade, and finally got one who'd take us across the lake for our price; strangely, the previously calm lake had become choppy, and the sky, clouded over. We endured a bumpy and damp ride for 40 minutes before reaching the far side of the water. So, here I am, in San Pedro, an extremely laid-back, friendly, lakeside town that smells of warm, damp, coffee beans, and also a strange, smoky aroma that seems to emanate from swinging hammocks.

I'll be touring the villages that dot the lake shore while waiting for some people to get in touch to meet up, and will stay here until I'm sure the mobs have gone back to their villages and taken their machetes and pitchforks with them. Nothing happens in these sleepy towns, so maybe just expect some images over the next few days (I'll be adding pics to my currently photo-less blog entries, so do check back for that).

Adios!

Update

I'm back in Antigua and catching the early morning shuttle to the magical, majestic Lake Atitlan, where I plan to kick-back and feed myself up, and get the pics uploaded to the blog, so keep watching for more annotation soon!

The Best Beachside Bar Entertainment!

After helping Mariachi feed the iguanas and turtles and fixing up a wall to separate one iguana from some young caimans who’d attacked him during the night, I asked Mariachi what else I could do. He led me to the hammocks, explaining that there would be more work tomorrow, as we’d be rebuilding the fronded roof of the turtle cemetery. I decided to head back to Monterrico to check my email, find a lost towel, and grab a soyburger and banana liquado at Johnny’s.

The bar was quiet; Monterrico is a weekend town, so during the week only a few people remained. One of the four or five customers was watching the horizon. As my food arrived, he let out a Wow! ‘There’s a whale breaching out there!’ He pointed to a spot about halfway between the horizon and the shore, just east of a stationery boat. We all moved to the side of the bar that faced the water and scanned the waves in eager anticipation. Sure enough, a huge whale leapt out of the ocean, getting an incredible amount of air for its size, and crashed back into the water with an immense splash. It was a humpback, and it wasn’t alone, as telltale spouts nearer the horizon gave away his buddies’ positions.

For the next three hours we sat, enthralled by the performance that we felt was put on for those of us who stayed to enjoy the real Monterrico. The spouts and breaches continued across the vista, culminating in a lengthy and intensive display of fluke-smacking that had us all shouting ‘Wow!’ in unison. I ordered another liquado to celebrate our fortunate sighting, and contemplated the amazing sights I had seen in this country, and in such a short time, particularly in and around Monterrico.

ARCAS Hawaii

Buenos diaz!

As I was finishing off my blog entry last night, an approaching torchlight signalled the arrival of Mariachi, one of the guys who works at the parque. A friendly and welcoming Guatemalan, Mariachi smiled as he thanked me for coming; he was clearly very happy that he had at least one volunteer at this usually quiet time.

I explained, as best I could in my Coffee Break Spanish, my name, where I was from, where I live now … and, seeing as I’m only on lesson 10, I decided to end the conversation there by asking what time we start in the morning and signalling that perhaps I should go get some sleep. All spare time now will be spent building on my hardly great Spanish that’s hardly been used at all in the last 12 years since my last Central American adventure.

I slept well, and so far haven’t been bothered by malaria- and dengue-carrying mosquitoes, though their sandfly cousins are happily doing their best to annoy on the mosquitoes behalf. The rolling of the waves, just a turtle-run from my quarters, soon lulled me to sleep, and I was woken shortly before my alarm by the sun’s rays creeping through the mosquito netting in the east-facing window. The puppies greeted me as I emerged from my room and showed me where the bathroom was before electing one of themselves to escort me on a morning stroll of the beach. A pelican foursome glided over the waves in search of snatchable fish while a fishing boat trawled a net into a large circle just beyond the breakers.

The white pup drew my attention to a hole dug in the sand just beyond the shoreline. It looked to be the size of a turtle nest; further down the beach we spotted a couple and their child digging a similar but larger hole at the water’s edge. I went to investigate, but my limited Spanish ability and understanding of local arrangements left me with little more to do other than photograph the diggers to show the parque managers, although it’s probably nothing as we are clearly no longer in nesting season.

Mariachi just arrived, but then popped down to the nearer tienda for a Guatemalan momento—I guarantee he’ll be at least 45 minutes. The pups became excited by his arrival, and so did the mosquitoes, who are now nipping at my arms and legs in hunger. I’m going to Deet up. More later …

Parque Hawaii

I’m in heaven. I’m on the beach, just a stone’s throw from the border to El Salvador, sitting under a palm-fronded lean-to, watching the sun set over a tumultuous Pacific. I’m completely alone (almost), and will soon be in utter darkness save for the light emitting from my MacBook monitor. This is Parque Hawaii, the ARCAS-run centre dedicated to the conservation of sea turtles, and also iguanas and caimans. The place seems to be run by three puppies, who greeted me enthusiastically when I arrived, checked my bags for me, and playfully escorted me as I explored the centre.

I found free-roaming geckos and captive fish, turtles, and caimans as I made my way around the grounds, and bathrooms, a library, an activity centre, and a couple of bunk-bedded dormitories. So I put my bag in the nicest one, claimed the bunk with mosquito net already installed, and headed down to the beach. As much as I enjoyed my stay at Monterrico, I was now enjoying being far away from the madding crowds and their maddening late-night and early-morning revelry. I was alone—just me, the pups, some reptiles and some fish, the sunset, and, soon, the stars and my old fiend Orion, who has accompanied me throughout my Guatemalan travels.

I felt like I had ridden into a ghost town that had clearly once been a hive of activity; the whiteboard showed that volunteers collected more than 32,000 turtle eggs from May of last year until this January. The busiest months were August to October, with roughly 9,000 eggs per month. January reaped just 83. February, it seemed, was only for the foolish who had no idea when egg-laying season was over; it wasn’t even represented on the board. A message in Spanish mentioned something about food for the puppies and leaving in the afternoon, and a freshly cut quarter of watermelon sat tantalisingly on the long, blue-painted but weathered table that at times must have hosted a dozen or so fervent volunteers. A large tub marked ‘PATROL KITS’ sat on the floor beneath a small notice reminding egg-saviours of their pre-bedtime duties, such as burying the nests properly and writing up all relevant data.

I walked buoyantly a kilometre or so down a sandy and bachata-serenaded lane to the nearest tienda, to get some essentials and give the locals a chance to practice their English. And here I now am, my supplies adequately bolstered with pasta, biscuits, and toilet paper, and my head filled with little more than the sound of the waves and realistic hopes of a good night’s sleep … and wondering what volunteer work I might be subjected to now that the fun stuff was over.

Hasta manana!

Hatchling Release

One of the highlights of late-turtle-season weekends is the release of hundreds of hatchlings back into the ocean. The activity, organised by university-backed CECON, takes place every night in season, but, despite advice to the contrary, keep all the week’s hatchlings during slow season for mass release when more tourists are in town. People can pay to release a hatchling themselves, and if theirs is the first to cross a line drawn in the sand, they win a monetary prize.

At first I was impressed that so many people, both Guatemalan and foreign, came to watch the sunset event, and hoped that it served its educational purpose well. I wasn’t happy that young children were allowed to handle the soft, tiny young turtles, as clearly some weren’t as careful as you should be with an animal that’s just a day or so old and about to embark on an arduous and dangerous first night in the hostile ocean. The people at ARCAS also explained how they performed a study that showed the hatchlings' energy ebbed with every hour they were kept from entering the water; holding them on shore for a few days may provide more entertainment for and money from the tourists, but it was giving the turtles far more precarious chance of survival once released.

Marine researchers estimate that, for every thousand hatchlings, only one will make it to adulthood. That means, of the 32 thousand hatchlings saved and released by ARCAS in 2007, only 300 or so will return eight years later to carry on the cycle. Teams of volunteers scour the beach at night, competing with local parlameros (egg hunters) to be the first to spot and claim a nest. It’s hard work, in hot, humid, and often thunderous and mosquito-filled conditions, but most of the volunteers take the job very seriously, as they are very aware of the importance of ensuring the rescue of as many eggs and release of as many hatchlings as possible.

The CECON group operates a little differently: poorer in regard to volunteer help but richer by far with financial support, CECON mostly buys eggs directly from the parlameros. Once the eggs are in their care, the process is pretty much the same as that of ARCAS.

The eggs are counted and placed in new nests within a walled and sheltered sand pit. Within 45 to 50 days, the hatchlings emerge, are counted, and then they’re released into the ocean—at ARCAS, almost immediately, so as to give them the greatest chance of survival.

As I’m sitting here, Eduardo is checking on the last three nests in the hatchery to see if there is any sign of new life—and new hope for the ever-decreasing turtle populations. With a little luck, we should have some baby olive ridleys to release before I depart this rugged neck of the woods early next week.

Yawnless Dawn

It wasn’t easy getting up at 5.00 a.m. when the salsa party next door didn’t finish until 2.00, but I didn’t want to miss the tour I had booked. I met my tour guide and fellow tourists at the main road at 5.30, and we quietly walked through the pre-dawn darkness to board our launcha, stopping briefly on the way to move a young and reckless pup from the middle of the road.

Once the six of us had boarded, our guide gently punted us out into the canal with a shunt of the pole, and we glided silently into the mangrove-lined waterway. As promised during the sales pitch, the infamous four-eyed fish frequently skimmed its way between the lily pads just beyond the bow. Other, smaller fish caused the surface of the water to bubble as they panicked away in tightly coordinated shoals. In the distance, a large flock of white herons or egrets took to flight as the rising sun gave away our silhouette.

Dawn is the busiest time on the canal, for all the animals, including humans; many boats carried a silent fisherman or two, with one on the bow continually casting a net across the water and loading the wriggling catch into the hull. I felt like I was inside a National Geographic article. It was magical—well worth the pre-dawn rise.

I was sad when we headed back to the dock, but on the bright side was thankful that it was still early enough to get some more morning sleep in. But that dream was dashed when I arrived at my room to find the country-and-western fans in the building next door were blaring their passion from just outside my quarters. So I hit Johnny’s for breakfast, and planned a day relaxing on the beach, with the intent of proving that Englishmen with Irish blood really can get a tan without going red first. (I failed).

Monterrico

It’s always difficult to once more pack your bags and move on from a place that you really enjoyed and are not yet anywhere near tiring of. I felt sad leaving Antigua for Hound Heights, the same when heading back, and once more when departing Antigua for Monterrico. But always I’d been rewarded with a just-as-enjoyable experience at my latest locale, and my most recent stop didn’t let the side down.

A sleepy Pacific-side village by day, the popular beach resort comes alive at night with green bellies* and foreigners alike, who descend every weekend upon the bars and restaurants in their hundreds to enjoy the fresh seafood and air, convivial vibe, and endless stream of beachside reggae, bachata, and salsa.

The volcanic beach here, like the atmosphere, heats up as the day progresses, its ashen grains absorbing the rays the way the greying Americans sop up cheap rum cocktails. By early afternoon, it’s too hot to go barefoot, and the rolling ocean appeals for its cooling-off properties more than it scares by its thunderous swell. As I hotfooted it down to the ocean, my attention was drawn to some commotion centred on a recently arrived outboard. A svelte young blonde woman in sunglasses and a tiny black bikini had also risen from her sun-soaking to see what was going on. We agreed to check it out together.

As we neared the fishing vessel, the cause of all the lively interest became very apparent as four guys struggled to lift their catch, a huge manta ray that equalled the men in height as they raised the whopper head-first from the sand. It was enormous. I was in awe of the beast, and at first pitied him, for just a short time before he was gliding along beneath the olas or skimming the sea floor without a care in the world, and now here he was, destined for the dinner table. But then I realised that, if all animals had the freedoms he had up until the moment he met his baker, there would be far less suffering in the world. I wished him well, reminded him to be thankful he wasn’t factory farmed, and bade him farewell as I escorted the bikini-clad blonde back to our towels.

Her name was Kristine, and she had just moved from her native Denmark to Antigua to set up an organisation to raise awareness about water (I’ll expand on that bit once I have clarification from the lady herself). I was very interested to hear that she had made, for her thesis some years before, a documentary about the 15,000 people living off a huge garbage dump on the outskirts of Guatemala City. I was enthralled and appalled as she told me how people built homes from the garbage, ate from the garbage, sold their bodies among the garbage, and gave birth to and raised children in the garbage. I realised the importance of what someone had explained to me a week or so before: that we had no hopes nor right to increase the level of animal welfare in this country until we had first lifted the well-being of people from the abject depths at which some of them languish.

Kristine and her friends, Casimah and Jenna, and I hung out for the weekend, along with Matt, one of the Canadian guys I spent time with when I first arrived in Antigua. It was relaxing fun, as most of our time was spent on the beach, or in a café supping liquados and scoffing soyburgers. Jenna, the mother of one of Kristine’s friends, like myself couldn’t bear to look at the seven parrots in a tiny cage and started a whipround to build them a flight cage, which the hotel management agreed to. The cage should be built this week. Bless her.

Saturday evening, we danced a little in the sand, and I did my best to teach the ladies a little salsa as the only customers at one of the quieter beach bars. Salsa makes sense here, as does bachata, and the mariachi that set the pace for Sunday night Sumpango, and the Cuban rhythms in Antigua. It matches the local mood so much better than the hectic, conservative lifestyle of Taipei. I promised I’d meet the girls for real salsa lessons in Antigua early next week if my next stop didn’t work out. I clearly needed to refresh my repertoire of moves and turns, but the women, in their naivety, thought I did pretty well, bless them. I let them keep that misguided thought.

After sharing a surprisingly tasty late night snack, with chili-soaked carrots and garlic to counter any bad bacteria, a good night’s sleep ensued. Breakfast was spent exchanging contact information and badgering other hotel guests to chip in a few quetzales for the new parrot cage. We said our good-byes over late lunch at Johnny’s, and I ventured out onto Calle Principal to watch the world stroll by while awaiting the bus that would take me the bumpy, sandy road to Hawaii ... Hawaii, Guatemala, that is.

* a translation of vientres verdes, a term Guatemalans use to refer to themselves, as lovers of the locally abundant avacados