A Good Day

Today was a good day.

Kaful arrived yesterday afternoon and I had to get him out of the car using a dog-catching pole. Kaful did not like it, and he thrashed around like a hooked fish. I led him, in wild circles, to his new home: a kennel and run shared with two females. As I predicted, once his doting family drove off, Kaful calmed down considerably, and looked a little lost … and in need of a leader.

Today, Kaful was barking ferociously again at anyone who went near his run and snapping aggressively at anybody who didn’t understand the instructions to stay out until he had been rehabilitated. But I know how a dog’s mind works, so I slowly approached Kaful’s pen and sat with my side to the wire fence, remaining calm and confident and ignoring the gnashing canine beside me. He barked ferociously at the fence for a while before doing what most aggressive dogs do when countered with nonchalance: he lowered his head and quietly came closer for a sniff. You see, people don’t understand that, in polite dog circles, the first thing new acquaintances do is smell each other. They don’t make eye contact, they don’t speak, and they don’t touch; instead, they approach sideways-on for a smell of the stranger -- anything else would be perceived as possibly threatening by the other party.

So, once I’d introduced myself (my unique smell) to Kaful properly, his aggression dissipated. I had made friends with him. He sat near the fence, with his eyes averted, signalling that he had accepted my presence as non-threatening. So I quietly went inside with the dog who, just a couple of days before, had made some vicious lunges at my legs, arms and face. I remained aloof, giving Kaful the impression that I was confident of my status as the more dominant of us two, and Kaful backed off with nothing more than an interested look. I sat looking away, and almost immediately he came closer for a quick smell before laying down beside me, his eyes relaxed and looking away. As he had approached me, I stroked his side gently while speaking praise, and he closed his eyes, showing his enjoyment.

After a few minutes, I decided he was ready for the next phase in our new relationship: me leading Kaful on a walk down the hill and back. I reached for the noosed leash I’d hung over the fence already and carefully hooked it over his head. Once you get a dog on the end of a leash, particularly one that will tighten with pressure, you are half way to cementing your position as a calm, assertive leader and his as a calm, submissive charge. I stood up and gave a light tug to signal we were on the move and Kaful responded as I knew he would and stood up to come with me. He approached the door but I held him back and made a noise that showed my discontent with his attempt at going through before me. He respectfully backed up, I walked out, and then I gave a little tug again to show he could now follow.

In stark contrast to the wild and crazy antics the day before, Kaful instantly accepted his place either by my side or behind me and we headed off down the muddy path at a brisk pace, which Kaful clearly enjoyed, as his behaviour when out with his family had meant no walks in a long time for the 

energetic young canine. For the first ten minutes, Kaful wasn’t allowed to stop to smell or go to the bathroom; only once he'd mastered the walk with me was he granted the opportunity to go about taking in the smorgasbord of doggy smells along the trail.

When I felt it was time for wagons to roll again, I gave him a gentle tug and we went on our way, with Kaful looking every part the show dog walking calmly, obediently, and happily by my side. It was a great feeling, and I couldn’t help but smile when I returned him to

 his run when I thought about the rapid progress we had made. Of course, Kaful wasn’t a bad dog; he’d just been allowed too much of a free rein with his family and was acting up because of it. As I headed back to the cabin, I looked back to see the golden retriever’s eyes following me lovingly and longingly. I looked forward to taking him out again later in the day.

The Brit girls arrived mid-afternoon and immediately set about helping me with the chores and cleaning up the clinic and guest room. Lucy and Alexis had only arrived in Guatemala one day before, as part of a round-the-world trip, but had decided to roll up their sleeves and get straight into volunteer life. I walked them into town and bought all the ingredients to make a curry of sorts for our evening meal. The ladies took it upon themselves to care for a two-month-old pup who was refusing to eat, was covered in fleas, cold, and dehydrated. It looked like the little guy wasn’t going to make it to the end of the day, but my fellow Brits got him eating raw chicken, taking in some water, and warmed up on a hot-water bottle. It was great to see him improve so much under the care and attention he was receiving. The last I saw of the sick pup was his tail a-wagging as he was being prepared for a night sleeping inside Lucy’s sleeping bag to keep him warm. The runt had made it.

Missing and More

Am I missing Taiwan? My dogs, of course, are always on my mind; I worry if they’re getting enough walks and attention, and hoping they’re not missing me too much, as it’ll be a while before I see them again. The weather here is perfect (when not cold), with clear blue skies almost every day and crisp, fresh air, so I’m not missing the bleak winter months over there. There are some people I’m missing, but I’m making friends here every day.

There are many things about Taiwan I don’t miss, of course, and a few situations. I’m happy that I’ve only encountered good people here so far. But I do miss something about the R.O.C. Not sure what it is. Not too seriously, mind, but I am looking forward to the familiarity of being ‘home’ again in April and seeing if I’ve been changed at all by my travels. But I suspect I’ll miss Guatemala when I leave, even though I’ve only been here two weeks. It’s a great environment, and very colourful, and I’m tempted to start a new life here. We’ll see. I’m also hoping to check out a new dog shelter in Mexico late March, and I had a great time there last time I visited our neighbouring country to the north, so who knows?

There’s a guy here fixing the electrics in the clinic, and he has taken it upon himself to get me practicing Spanish. So far we’ve discussed my travels, chinitas (beautiful Chinese girls) and muchachas (beautiful local girls), and beer. It look like he’s taking me to a local cantina to sample a few bottles of local beers in order to get the Spanish flowing; I just hope I’m back in time for early evening dog walks!

The Brits still haven’t arrived, but Kaful is on his way, I hear, which is great news! I’ll start working with the vicious retriever this evening, unless I do have a beer, in which case we’ll wait until tomorrow. This almost certainly means I’ll have some more stories to tell, so stay tuned.

Adios!

Out With the Old

I’ve been told two new volunteers are arriving today. The Dutch volunteers (actually, Wilson was born a South African, I later learned) left yesterday, bound for Antigua and onwards. I was sad to see them leave, as we all got along really well, shared mealtimes and went on village jaunts together, and all in all we had quite a good time. We only nearly came to blows once, on their last night, during a discussion about neutering ;-). The two British ‘birds’, as Xenii likes to call them when speaking to me, will be staying the minimum two weeks, which is great because that gives me a week to show them what to do and an extra week of making sure the skin-condition dogs get their natural diet after I leave.

I’m not sure who or what to expect, but I’m looking forward to sharing some British humour and seeing if they brought any baked beans or Marmite with them. I’m a little concerned about the sleeping arrangements, though, as I’ve become quite comfortable in the recently vacated clinic quarters, and really don’t want to be extradited to the cabin porch again. We’ll see how it goes.

Noah

It was going to happen sooner or later: I did my first rescue today. Nothing exciting; very easy. I had seen this skinny little pup yesterday, excitedly bouncing up to passersby and following them for a while before the next human took his interest. His ribs and pelvis were protruding, his back legs looked weak, and his deep-brown eyes seemed to large for his underdeveloped head, but he seemed happy enough. I was on my way to the village market, so I told myself if he was still there when I came back I’d take him back to Hound Heights with me; he had vanished by the time I returned.

But today he was there again, bouncing around the street, greeting passersby, and he came straight to me. I picked him up and examined him; his teeth showed that he was only a few months old. He had no fleas nor any obvious ailment other than being grossly underweight. Again I told myself that, if he was there on my return journey, I would take him back to AWARE as he obviously wasn’t getting enough food to survive.

But Noah had other plans. Not wanting to leave seeing me again to chance, the skinny canine street urchin somehow found the Internet café I was at and came striding in for more attention. The café owner wanted to shush Noah out, so I picked the pup up and took him across the street, where he sat and waited patiently for me to finish what I was doing online. I carried him with me to the market, buying him a leash along the way. But he refused to walk when leashed, so, now laden with my jacket, chicken for the skin-condition dogs, supplies for myself, and a four-kilo pup, I decided to take a tuk-tuk back to the centre, making this a very expensive day for me, going well over my daily budget. But some things are worth it.
And why did I call him Noah? I discovered on my return that I had accidentally left a tap on before heading out, and the clinic was aflood with water.

As I’m writing this, Noah is happily munching on a raw chicken leg with a green-veggie-and-supplement sauce. He gets vaccinated tomorrow. It looks like I’ll be making a donation towards his care when I leave, but hopefully he’ll get adopted soon. We’ve had an adoption almost every day since I arrived.

The Dog Screamer

When I wrote to AWARE to tell them I would like to come volunteer for a few weeks, I informed them that I have experience and enjoy rehabilitating problem dogs, including overly timid or aggressiveones. I’m no expert, but I have employed the methods I have learned from watching Cesar Millan on the National Geeographic Channel’s The Dog Whisperer to great effect. Cesar adopts the approach whereby we need to think more like a dog instead of trying to teach a dog to think like a person. He teaches people how being a calm, assertive leader will bring about a calm, submissive dog—not submissive in the fearful sense, but more in that the dog will happily relinquish his or her perceived leadership role to their new leader and thereby shed the unwanted behaviours that had come about from their (usually reluctant) belief that they should be in charge.

A dog needs a leader. In dog packs, there are two basic strata: the two alphas, and everyone else. If a pack loses its leader, one of the dogs will immediately assume the position for the sake of the pack’s coherence and safety. When the human members of the dog’s pack show no leadership qualities in the dogs own language, the dog must take the responsibility on him- or herself, and that almost always leads to problems, for a dog doesn’t know how to lead in a human world.

How do we show a dog we are the leader and he or she is the follower? There are five basic rules: a pack leader goes through doors first, he leads the walk, he doesn’t respond to demands for his attention whenever the pack is reunited, he eats first, and he ignores unwanted behavio

ur and is careful to reward desired behaviour. Cesar also teaches the importance of giving clear, consistent rules, boundaries, and limitations to a dog, and of giving the dog exercise, education, and reward, in that order.

I've gone to people's homes to teach them how to employ these methods with their own dog, and always the reaction is incredulity when I show them how well behaved and easily accepting of new leadership a dog can be. “That’s not my dog! What have you done with my dog?” is the usual response when owners see how well their dog can walk on a leash, how he can allow himself to be touched again, how nicely he sits before feeding, how calm he becomes, and how much happier he is after shedding his leadership role.

Using these techniques, I’ve helped dogs become less timid, less aggressive, less boisterous, more accepting of strange circumstances, and far better behaved. The methods are sim

ple, but many people have trouble adopting them because it goes against what they feel they should do when faced with a problem dog. With a scared dog, for instance, we mustn’t comfort them, as that will only reward the fear while demonstrating the lack of leadership at a time when she needs to feel protected; instead, we show calm assertiveness to the dog, not allowing her to back away from what scares her, making her sit or stand confidently, and demonstrating that we will lead her through the experience to minimize her stress.

At AWARE, I’ve already been busy showing Naomi how to control scared and aggressive dogs while they’re being examined; I’ve shown that so-called ferocious dogs will accept a calm, assertive guest entering their cage and sitting beside them (see pics of Dickens and me, above); and I’ve taken dogs for a walk who had previously been too scared to go outside or reluctant to accept a leash. It’s been extremely rewarding.

But it hasn’t all been successful: Xenii got a call from a family whose Labrador retriever, Kaful, had bitten three times and who was getting increasingly aggressive, so she suggested bringing him over for me to try to fix. It was going well: I took Kaful’s leash and started to 

lead him on a walk. But he suddenly pulled out of the collar, and when I tried to put it back on him, he went for me. I’ve had dogs try to bite me before (and several succeeded), but this was the first time I was actually attacked so full on. Kaful jumped at me and tried to bite my arm and leg, and I made the mistake of backing off, giving him the perception that his aggression was now in charge.

I went to Kaful again and this time stood my ground as he snapped at me, and he backed off. I kept entering his space and he kept backing off, but every time we tried to get his collar back on, he protested viciously.

The family decided to put Kaful back in the car, and I asked them to bring him back the next day so that I could work with him again. Xenii called them later and left a message that I had agreed to have Kaful come live with me for a week so that I could have plenty of opportunity to fix his unwanted aggression, but so far we’ve not heard back from them. I’m worried that they may have taken a more terminal approach to Kaful’s aggression. If Kaful comes here soon, I’ll happily stay a few extra days to work with him; I really don’t want this one to slip through because of my mistake.

Mobbed

Guatemala is a wonderfully laid-back place. Life is enjoyed slowly, and work isn’t something you should stress over. Up here in Sumpango, people greet each other when passing in the street, and I’ve managed to perfect my Buenos dias and Buenas tardes because of all the friendly, smiling greetings I receive from the Indian folk on my walk into town to buy supplies or get online. Horses amble past bearing loads of wood or fruit, led by a genuine Guatemalan cowboy who waves Ola even to the passing gringo. It’s a wonderful change to the fast and mostly unacknowledging Taipei city life that strangers are greeted in such a friendly manner so consistently.

But one thing here disturbs me: When you read the guidebooks or check official websites about safety in foreign countries, you’ll come across many stories of Guatemalan townspeople taking matters into their own hands and lynching those visitors they believe to be up to no good. About six years ago, a Japanese tourist and his local driver were killed by an infuriated crowd after he took photos of a youngster at a time when tales were circulating of Satan-worshipping child snatchers operating in the area. Another tourist in another village was murdered for similar reasons. Advice is explicit: Do not photograph locals without asking permission and be careful to avoid interactions with local children, even just taking a snap.

This bothers me a lot, as, apart from sharing experience with other animal-welfare agencies, I’m here to capture the beauty of this place in digital images. All my photos so far have included locals only if they have wandered into the picture (as I planned) or seemed happy for others to photograph them, or I’d had explicit information to do so. I usually enjoy doing silly magic tricks for kids or making them laugh, but here I stare at the ground and walk on by whenever a Guatemalan Indian child comes near.

My Dutch roommates thought this was hilarious, that I was so in fear of being lynched for accidentally photographing a disallowing subject or being mistaken for a child snatcher. They laughed when I told them one afternoon of my sheer terror at finding I was walking back from Sumpango, past the school, at turning-out time. Hundreds of kids spilled onto the street as I walked along trying to hide my camera and ignoring the ‘Hello’s from those children brave enough to practice their English. Too many of them seemed mischievous. I wondered how much fun they thought it would be to play victim and get a passing foreigner into serious trouble. I know kids—I taught them for years—I know how they can go too far sometimes. I was crapping myself. I kept my head down and strode ahead, but they were pouring out of everywhere and their numbers were increasing. Then I started worrying that striding along with a hidden camera while refusing to make eye contact or return ‘Hello’s might make me seem like I was up to no good!

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally passed the bulk of them, and it was only my fear that it would look bad that stopped me from running once I had emerged from the young crowd.

Wilson enjoyed telling Xenii and Martin of my nightmare return from town. Martin said that there was really no need to worry, as the Sumpagoans hadn’t lynched anyone for a couple of years now. What?! Apparently, just two or three years ago, a couple from Guatemala City parked their car outside the school and took photos of some of the kids, which spooked one of the children so much that she ran screaming down the street, and a lynch mob quickly formed. The police came to the couple’s rescue, but the angry and vengeful villagers later stormed the police station, running the entire force and the mayor out of town; anarchy ensued, culminating in the rubber-necklacing of the two snap-happy city folk in the village square!

I now leave my camera at home when heading into the village and time my visits not to coincide with the comings and goings of the local school. And only photograph foreigners.

Taking Care of Los Perros

My first impression of Hound Heights was that it was a bit messy, with rickety cages set up all over the tree-shaded hillside, but well run. The dogs were kept in groups of three to six in simple housing mostly made up of small breeze-block buildings surrounded by wire fence nailed onto roughly hewn wooden stakes. The dogs seemed happy. Four staff worked to keep them well fed and watered, and what I really liked was that every dog was walked every day, along the wildflower-encrusted trails that zigzag down the hillside. It was evidently the dogs’ favourite part of the day, as those that could joyously bounced at their doors when it was almost their turn to be taken out.

Many of the dogs here are overweight. Xenii gives strict instructions to her staff to keep food and water bowls topped up; I guess it’s to ensure that the slower or more timid eaters get their fill. It’s my only criticism; I prefer to keep dogs on the slim side, for longevity and greater health. Skin problems seem to be a big problem here, with a lot of the dogs showing flea allergies or mange. They all receive medication daily (AWARE has two vets, Claudia and Elsa, who come several days a week to prescribe medication for the animals) but to me it’s clear that, for these dogs at least, the donated dry food, despite it’s good name, isn’t helping their immune system any. But the majority of animals here are happy and healthy, perhaps thanks to the fresh mountain air, daily exercise, and oxygen-rich environment that´s also doing wonders for me.

Thankfully, Xenii is well read on natural diets for animals, and I’ve been given free rein to take some of the worst dogs, put them together, and take charge of their feeding. The dogs at the Animals Taiwan holding centre are all fed raw meaty bones (mostly chicken and the occasional fish or lamb rib) and a blended mix usually composed of green leafy veggies, garlic, fish oil, egg yolk, and apple cider vinegar. Unlike most shelter dogs, none of the AT dogs have fleas. Ticks were kept to a minimum during my tenure thanks to daily helpings of garlic and vinegar. Since starting to give the Animals Taiwan dogs the veggie mix every day, we had seen incredible improvements in the health of all the animals, and all those with recurring skin problems are now showing off beautifully healthy, shiny coats. I hope that I can show such improvements in the AWARE dogs under my care during my stay—I’ll happily come back in a few weeks to check.

We’ve been spraying the flea-allergy and fungal-infection dogs here with apple cider vinegar, as it creates an acidic environment parasites can’t thrive in without any nasty side effects for the animals. We discovered after a few days that the apple cider vinegar is actually fake, made up of some acid and apple flavouring. We’ve searched high and low for the real stuff but haven’t found any. But we may be in luck: Dee, a regular volunteer at AWARE with a dog of her own who has had a long-term and stubborn skin condition, listened intently to how we feed the dogs at Animals Taiwan and the profound positive effect it’s had on their health. She memorised the formula and went straight out to get all the ingredients for her beloved dog.

Three days later, Xenii was over the moon to play me the message that Dee left on her answer machine, telling of her utter disbelief that the new, natural diet has already made a great difference to her dog’s condition; the first signs that she has noticed are that the dog’s eyes are no longer weeping or red. I smiled when I heard how happy Dee was. Dee has spent a fortune trying every potion possible to cure her pet of her painful skin condition. We’ll see how well it goes from here. Anyway, Dee is taking advantage of her newfound source of apple cider vinegar to make sure that the AWARE dogs can start to benefit in the same way.

Hound Heights

[I’m now staying in the mountains near a village that’s not even in the travellers guidebooks, and getting online with a fast connection isn’t easy, so entries will be long, as they will cover many days. Put the kettle on! Also, my connection here is slow, so I'll upload those next time I´m back in civilization]

I left a bustling Sunday afternoon Antigua in a taxi bound for Sumpango. I was supposed to be sharing with three Dutch volunteers who had already been at Hound Heights for a while and were visiting the old city, but something got lost in translation, and their driver, who I had called to arrange to share their fare, had got me another driver who was trying to take me to Guatemala City. It took my best Spanish and a lot of miming to explain the mix-up, but I succeeded too late, and, having missed my shared ride, ended up having to fork out for the cab fare by myself – about a day and a half’s worth of travel budget. I’d be eating tortillas for the next few days.

I was greeted at Hound Heights by several fat, barking dogs, and, soon after, the not-so-fat Xenii (pronounced ‘Shaney’), one of the founders of AWARE. A greying lady with a youthful sparkle, Xenii has been running this hillside dog rescue shelter with her British husband, Martin, a Herne Bay native, for eight years now. Xenii argued the fare on my behalf while Pete, one of the grounds’ free-roaming dogs, went and found the bottle of juice I had left on the floor, which I was thankful for, especially as he relinquished his proud find so easily.

It was a warm and dusty early evening, and Xenii immediately showed me to my quarters, which boasted a hot shower, apparently. She walked me to a cabin just up the hill. We walked inside, and I noticed from outside that the main room was stacked to the roof with huge bags of dry food. We didn’t go in. We were standing in the porch. Xenii pointed to a folded camp bed in the corner. ‘Well, make yourself at home’, and she ambled outside. My new home was the porch. This was even smaller than my last place and smelled of dry dog food, but a bed’s a bed, so I resigned myself to my new quarters and unloaded my bags. Grabbing a sweater to ward off the approaching night chill, I followed Xenii to the clinic, where the three Dutch volunteers were staying, while Pete gleefully nipped at my shoes and my trousers as I made my way through his territory.

The room the other volunteers had was large—enough for three single beds pushed closely together—and had a fridge, stove, small dining table, and lots of shelf space for towels and bedding, mostly for the animals. Wilson and Jolanda, and their new roommate, Naomi, had been travelling for a while already, and, fortunately for me, they all spoke English well. Naomi, a vet student, had been in Guatemala for six weeks; Jolanda is an occupational therapist and Wilson does paving; both have been in Central America for a month and will stay a little while longer. The friendly and welcoming trio told me what jobs I could do and shared their food with me, which was great as I hadn’t yet got any supplies of my own.

I had arrived as the day’s work was coming to an end, so the only thing left to do after eating was walk some of the clinic dogs, so we all grabbed one each and set off into the darkness to let the canines relieve themselves before sitting down to watch a movie. Bedtime soon followed, and I trekked the path back to my bijou quarters and settled into my sleeping bag and camping bed—and a pretty good night’s sleep, given the cold and the chatty and fidgety two black cats who decided to share my abode.

Siesta King

*** For more pics, see my PBase site.

This beautiful town lulls you into a more relaxed lifestyle, entices you into slowing down your pace, and eases you into a new mindset that realizes the importance of taking time to stop and smell the roses as part of your daily routine.

Taipei is a friendly city, but, in Antigua, people take more time for each other, and the friendliness is more ... genuine. No one is racing anywhere; friends and family greet each other in the street and spend time laughing together; workers take siesta; and everyone takes a moment to sit and absorb the spring sunshine. I like it.

I thought I’d perfected the art of siesta, as I managed to doze off just after lunch; I wish I hadn’t extended my snooze so long, though: I woke up at midnight, which isn’t the best time to be wide awake, refreshed and hungry in a town with a 1.00 am curfew and a guest house that locks the door at 12.00. I missed my pub quiz and salsa night! But there’s salsa every night here, so I still have plenty of opportunities to show these Latin American women just how white English guys interpret one of their dance styles. I accidentally extended my siesta yesterday, too, which was surprising, because I seemed to have adjusted my body clock really well when I arrived, sleeping at 1.00 am and rising at 8.30. Not sure where I went wrong, but it’s clear the laid-back life here has something to do swith my new ability to sleep at any time. Except when I’ve just woken at midnight after an eleven-hour stint of shut-eye.

So, I’m tapping away at my keyboard in the hope that my eyes will soon get heavy again and I can get closer to my goal of learning to be asleep well before midnight and up just after dawn. I head to the AWARE animal rescue centre on Monday, and I need to have adjusted to a 6.00 am start by then, or I’ll have 170 hungry dogs baying at my tardiness.

**************************

Well, I somehow managed to keep sleeping, and woke up at 5.30 am, which is exactly where I need to be for my 6.00 am starts next week. So I got up, took a reluctant cold shower, dressed, and headed out. My early morning escapade ended at the front door, which was still locked for our safety. I didn’t have the heart to wake the couple who run the guest house, as they would have been up so many times during the night to let in the later revelers, so I sat and read. And read. And read. But 7.15 I did have the heart to wake the couple, so I banged on their door and the wife kindly got up and let me out.

So, this is what early rising is like! The streets were quiet, the light even, and I had a hunger like you couldn’t imagine. Muerto del hambre means ‘I’m dying of hunger’ and was the first Spanish phrase I ever learned, from the non-English speaking grandmother of a girlfriend I had gone to stay with in Apopka, Florida, when I used to live in the Florida Keys. The grandmother chose something she could demonstrate easily, which she did beautifully, rubbing her tummy with acted pain, and later demonstrating how muerto means ‘I’m dying’ – which was acted so well that I considered calling an ambulance before fleeing for overtaxing the kindly old lady.

I’m really enjoying the slow pace, and am way more than rested. I’m not one for a dull, easy life (though I hereby vow to take a little more time to enjoy the simple things in life), so I’m going to make arrangements today to go and start working at the dog rescue … or maybe I’ll hike up the nearby active volcano first; whatever happens, more exciting news to follow. ☺

(This is a stray dog I call Uno; he has lost almost all his teeth and much of his lower jaw, just like Norton, a dog at the Animals Taiwan holding centre. Uno was covered in what looked like tar, so I spent a little time cutting the bigger bits out of his fur with my Swiss army knife) >>>

Amo Antigua!

Well, on the plane, I got talking to a Ken, a lawyer from Santa Barbara who's also on several NGO boards, including the Santa Barbara Wildlife Care Network. Ken and his architect buddy, Allen, were traveling to Antigua to visit Ken's cousin, Matt, so we agreed to share a taxi.

Things have changed a lot since I was last here 12 years ago. For one, we weren't descended upon by mobs of official and illegitimate taxi drivers as we left the airport, and the road to Antigua was very smooth, with emergency stopping lanes, signs to slow down, and traffic lights.

The ride seemed to take no time, and before I knew it, the driver announced that we had arrived in Antigua, and immediately we entered a different world, one that I was very familiar with. I couldn't help but smile as we drove along the cobbled streets lined with single- and two-storey Spanish colonial buildings of terracotta, mustard and ochre.

The first guest house I tried was full, and the second didn't answer my knocking, but on the third try I was fortunate enough to be offered the last room available, and was pleasantly surprised when entering the courtyard to find that this was the same place I had stayed in so many years before. A simple guesthouse with small rooms and cold showers, it appealed to those real travelers, the ones on a budget, and is a great place to meet people, make friends, and find companions with whom to hit the bars and restaurants. In the daytime, guests were rewarded with an outstanding backdrop: the giant Volcan Agua, an extinct volcano that overlooks the town.

My room was US$3, and consisted of a tiny bed, a table, and enough floor space to choose either standing room or a place for my bag. It was all I needed, so I threw my bags down, got changed, and headed out for a bite to eat with my new friends.

I've been living in Taiwan for nine years now, and have come to love the place, but on ambling along the cobblestones of Antigua, with its antiquated but lively feel, full of the most gorgeous courtyarded cafes, restaurants, and bars, I had to wonder if I'd just got used to Taipei; Antigua is the kind of place that really appeals to my senses.

I slept well, and spent the next day exploring, eating, and taking photographs. Every street, every person, every establishment is as photogenic as you could ever want; the town is so picturesque you'd think they'd consulted theme-park designers. But this place is real. Cobblestones are missing, paint is peeling, and some buildings are in need of repair, but the place's dignity is so clearly intact.

One thing I really like about Antigua is that signs are not allowed to impose on the ambience of the place. One street has a McDonald's, but you'd only know that if you passed closely, as no arches are allowed, and no tacky Ronald sits outside waiting to put his arm around resting fast-food addicts. A simple bronze sign tells you what lies behind the large wooden door and simple, iron-clad windows, and the business is none the worse for it, with a steady supply of customers still eagerly queuing up for their fried-food fix.

I like this place. Already I'm thinking about staying.

On the Way!

I'm up in the air right now – literally: I'm on my final flight, from Dallas Fort Worth to Guatemala City. It's 6.45 in the evening, and we're somewhere over Mexico.

I very nearly missed my flight on Tuesday morning, as I was packing and saving laptop files all through the night, mostly because I managed to find more fun things to do at the last minute instead. I arrived by taxi just 35 minutes before take-off … at the wrong terminal: My driver woke me up as he dropped me off at the China Airlines check-in at Terminal 1, but, to my surprise, the lady at the desk there told me that China Airlines has check-ins at both terminals, and the Japan flight was leaving from the other.

She pointed me in the direction of the skybus to that terminal, and I headed off, adopting that panicked, waddling gait and wide-eyed signage staring particular to people carrying too heavy bags while rushing to a place so far unseen. The signs for the skybus said This Way and That Way, and then stopped. Then they started saying Shuttle Bus to Terminal 2, This Way and That Way, and then stopped. I had come so far only to realize that I must retrace my steps, so I did, this time waddling faster with wider eyes and more lost head turns per second than I had employed before.

I found the elevator to the skybus, stepped in, and hit the Door Close button about twenty times in succession, ignorant to the squeals of pain and annoyance coming from those people being pounded by the doors as they tried to follow me in.

Once we arrived at the third floor, the doors opened and more signs beckoned us to keep waddling in a panicked fashion this way and that way, up stairs, down long corridors, across bridges over highways, down more stairs, and along more lengthy corridors, finally to the waiting skybus, which glided us into Terminal 2, where, thankfully, only a few more corridors, twists and turns led me to the check-in. I realized, during this great journey from Terminal 1 check-in to the skybus terminal, that I could have walked directly to Terminal 2 in half the time.

When I finally reached the desk, the check-in was closed. Mercifully, the very nice woman at the China Airlines group check-in took pity on the sweating foreigner she saw before her and quickly processed my ticket and bag and sent me toward the gate with a pleasant "But you should hurry up!"

I had just enough time to wake my best friend up with a hurried 'Good-bye and take care' call before waddling one last time onto the plane, where I took my seat and looked out at the tarmac I won't be seeing again for a few months.

The service both on the plane and at check-in were fantastic, I have to say; China Airlines have really made some improvements there. Everyone was polite, attentive, and pretty, which helped ease away the stress of the hurried morning. Good food, too.

Tokyo Narita airport was very nice, but I have nothing much to report about that, other than the ubiquitous "Very clean and very expensive". I changed up a thousand NT and bought myself a sandwich and some chocolate, and read my book while waiting for the flight, American Airlines 060 to Dallas.

I had mixed feelings about the service on American Airlines. Firstly, AA seems to be the place where cabin crew go to die, as all those on this flight were grey – perhaps it's a requirement, because grey matches the navy blue of the uniform. Also, I noticed the crew to be a little impatient and very condescending, particularly when assisting the Asian passengers. I guess, when you're a 55-year-old flight attendant, you've heard the same questions a few thousand times too many, and you used up all your polite responses in the eighties.

Still, despite my first impression, and with a little more understanding, I soon began to enjoy the friendliness of the service, which was free flowing when not demanded. All I remember of the eleven-hour flight was slipping out of slumber to eat before quickly sliding back into sleep again. My request for vegetarian fare didn't go through, so I ended up enjoying the bread rolls and salads from two trays otherwise destined for meat-eaters. At least the breakfast offered more for the non-carnivore.

It was lucky I caught up on sleep during my flights, because U.S. Immigration was ahead of me, with the long, slow-moving lines that are indicative of a more careful (paranoid?) approach to welcoming visitors to American soil. I had been warned that the process wasn't anything to look forward to, so I was surprised to find that there were plenty of jovial and helpful staff on hand to assist me with my forms (they fill them in for you – not sure if that counters the security measures or not, but I appreciated it nonetheless, much as one would appreciate someone sitting a test on one's behalf, guaranteeing a pass). Friendly signs assured me of the professional and courteous nature of the officials waiting to screen me, and a uniformed man mingled among the waiting queues with a little beagle named Brady to add to the cheer.

Brady was a sniffer dog, trained to sense and indicate the presence of any contraband in the passengers' bags. Still, everyone thought he was cute and enjoyed watching him, his tail a-wagging, his ears a-flapping, and his nose a-sniffing, ready to grass on those with grass on them. I smiled as he scampered along the line toward me, enjoying watching the little fella loving his job so much, and grateful that I had nothing in my bag to give the American security personnel a chance to show what they can do.

And then Brady stopped at my bag. He sniffed it all over, again and again and again and again. I looked in wide-eyed alarm at his security-guard handler, who in turn looked questioningly at me; my fellow passengers stepped away from my bag and its canine admirer and glared at me while I stared confusedly down at Brady, who in turn stared intently at my bag.

But he didn't give a signal. Then it hit me: he can smell the sixty or so dog smells that my bag must have picked up when I lived at the holding centre. "Oh, he can smell my dogs", I explained. "I have sixty!" The guard looked at me in disbelief, the passengers looked at me in horror, taking another step back, and Brady, not sensing any distant cousins or family friends among the aromas, went on his merry way to check out some of the less odorous baggage. The guard chuckled as Brady led him away.

My flight had arrived at around 3.30, but it was 4.30 before we finally got through the lengthy queues at immigration, so I hurried through to the departure gate so I could check out the duty-frees and get a sandwich before my 5.50 flight. But now we have to go through pre-board passenger screening, and this was an America still affected by the events some seven years before. The line was even longer and even slower than immigration … and far more intimidating.

Security agents scanned the lines of people waiting to pass through, and I noticed one who had taken a particular interest in a Spanish-looking fellow behind me. He glared at him sideways almost the entire time, and called another agent over to indicate his concern. I wondered what the agent had noticed that the screening process wouldn't: to board a flight in the US, you have to put everything you can through the x-ray machine, including your shoes!

When it was my turn, I followed the clear instructions and took several minutes to take my laptop out of its bag, put my jacket and sweater in a tray along with my change and my shoes, and later the belt that set off the metal detector as I passed through. Then I had to pass through some strange machine that looked like a phone box but which propelled jets of air over my person to detect explosives.

Not having lived with sixty phone boxes, the machine paid less attention to me than his canine counterpart, and I passed the test with flying colours. I took several minutes to get dressed again while watching the Hispanic guy be sat down and scanned again with some other detectors. I observed his frustration as I headed off to change some money, where I heard my name announced over the speakers, and telling me that I was the last passenger they were waiting for to board.

And so, here I am, somewhere over Central America, with tiny pockets of civilization glistening far below me in the surrounding darkness, wondering how I'm going to get from Guatemala City to Antigua safely so late at night ...

Race Against the Clock

Oh, dear. It's 3.30 am, I need to be at the airpor t in four hours, I haven't slept yet, and I still have to pack my bags and finish boxing up the rest of my stuff. My dogs, bless 'em, are on my sofa watching me.

That reminds me: I also have to say farewell to 55 other dogs and half a dozen cats, who I will miss more than anything.

Had a nice evening with one of my favourite people, doing a bit of dog stuff and then going for a luverly meal by the river.

So, still not much to write about yet, though missed flights and connections always make for a good read, so don't go away!

Get Packing

Dear Diary,

I have realised I have a great talent for finding things to that are anything other than the things I really ought to be doing. Right now, that's writing this blog when I should be packing. Much to my disappointment, my worldly goods haven't jumped into boxes by themselves as I'd hoped, and I'm sitting here typing away with my back to the nine years of accumulated allsorts that still await sorting and packing, a task that I've been tackling in dribs and drabs over the last few weeks but which now requires one gallant effort to complete with just two days to go before I fly.

With that in mind, I really must close down this web page, turn up the iTunes, and get packing.

Stay tuned for guaranteed last-minute leaving drama.

Adios for now,

Sean