Much ado about nothing

Finally my bags arrived. Really should have not been nervous about this whole situation at all. Should have just trusted the disorganization and looseness of Hungarian administration. Got my bags, stood around with the young lady at customs, waiting for my keys that I left at their care, in case customs wanted to mess around. My dad kept the girl busy by asking idiotic questions about Christmas shifts. Then we walked out. Bless chaos.

Mate de Coca what is your position?

The last time I was arriving from Peru, I entered the EU in Madrid. I had a small bag of coca leaves on me, which I completely forgot about and I panicked. So I figured honesty is the way forward, I marched up to the X-ray lady and asked. She literally laughed at me and said it was no problem. Never felt less rock'n'roll in my life, freaking out about a bag of coca leaves.

So this time around, naturally, I assumed that it was fine. Now that I am sitting at home and trying to figure out EU or national policy regarding the issue, I am finding it more and more difficult.

What happened was the following. My two backpacks remind behind in Amsterdam, as lay-over was 45 minutes, I wasn't really even hoping for them. So after I registered with lost&found I was required to get a paper signed and stamped at customs. When I said I was coming from Peru, the dude asked me if I have coke (no), coca leaves (no) or coca tea in my backpacks. The latter I had and I said it so without thinking. Remember when I thought honesty was the way forward? The guy's eyes rounded and he let out a pitying sigh. In a subject, where he was an apparent authority, he started explaining to me that this is what they make cocaine out of and the natives chew it in order to get out of control and absolutely high. When I tried to rebuke his ridiculous explanations, all I got in exchange were rolling eyes and smirks.

I have to return to the airport to go through some procedures and testing of the coca tea to determine the level of alkaloids. I have been researching my counter-arguments since I got home, but besides the beautiful sounding cultural-anthropological arguments, which, at this moment worth crap, I cannot find anything comprehensive on the legal or policy aspect. The list led by the over 300 pages long Community Register of Food Additives that mentions cocain one line, around page 78, which allows 'decocainized' leaves, but further inquiry will leave you bouncing between three useless documents that quote each other.

Actually, as we speak, M. and I are doing massive Skype date-research in order to find some answers. It seems that in Spain the stuff is legal to bring in the country, if you dare to take a chat website with the name cannabiscafe.net seriously. I am mostly left incredulous by the fact that after a few hours of constant looking, it still seems impossible to find any reliable and comprehensive explanation on a national or international level. I have learned that there is the UN Single Convention from 1961 that prohibits any use of coca related products. This is a fair enough answer for me until I remember that not so long ago (2007) the UN enacted a little something called Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, where some paragraphs practically head-but the aims of the Single Convention.

An article by Joep Oomen highlights briefly some of the cultural, historical, policy and even medical issues surrounding the debate. Nevertheless, he is not providing me with a clear answer on the question of mate de coca. So far I have the following options:

• There is a supranational European consensus on the legality or illegality. If it is legal then Hungarian customs are pulling my leg, which I am hoping for, or if it's the latter then I'm screwed.
• Decocainized tea is legal. Yet to find out if the tea I brought belongs in this category.
• There is no distinction between cocaine/coca leaf/coca tea. I am going to jail.

M. just sent me the most comprehensive document so far on the 'esptupefacientes' not allowed to be brought into Europe.

Hoja de coca Un kilogramo de tintura de hoja de coca que contenga 0,1% de cocaína, o sea  

1 gramo de cocaína, debe considerarse equivalente a 200 gramos de hoja de coca. 

 Un kilogramo de extracto líquido de hoja de coca que contenga 0,5% de cocaína,  

o sea 5 gramos de cocaína, equivale a 1 kilogramo de hoja de coca. 

  

I guess what it really tells me that I do have to go back to the airport and have 'my coke' tested. As ridiculous and pointless as it seems. Bummer. 

I have received my first comment on this blog. Thanks to my sister. Cheers Jules. No pressure or anything, all of you, but if you feel like it, do comment on what you read, at least I won't feel like a psycho just ranting into cyber space.

Lima has been very good to us, we just have been very bad to Lima. We have not done a single thing here, except eating, sleeping, partying and shopping. Bad, bad travelers *slap on hand and liver*

Yesterday, we went to see Avatar in 3-D, which actually was the best ever cinema experience of my life. I am probably never going to the movies again, this cannot be topped. I am not at all a movie-goer, I cannot, for my life, remember the last time I was there. Not in Mexico, not in Spain, definitely not in Poland ... it must have been at least a year ago. Anyhow, Avatar was fantastic, and I urge everybody to go and see it. It's entertaining, it's emotional, it even makes you think a little bit.

I am leaving tomorrow, I am so torn. I am envious of Cam going to Cuzco for at least a month, at the same time I cannot wait to get back to snow covered Hungary, just in time for Christmas and the thought of the upcoming travels makes me shiver with joy. I am like the kid in the candy shop, so I am just letting it go and see where the wind takes me. I have a feeling this might be my last entry for a while, as I have nothing debaucherous or travelous to report. It has been a pleasure to be granted your attention I hope you have had a good time traveling with me. So long now.

It feels like our little raft of tied together backpacks with the two passangers finally reached the calm waters of traveling. We are in Lima, in my dear dear friend's, Amabel's house, sleeping in a real bed, under a real duvet, eating healthy food and sleeping normal hours.

After we collected some minimal motivation to get off our butts, we went to see the Christmas lights in Medellin, and for the first time this year the sight of the colourful fountains and numerous Santa Clauses, the sound of Jingle Bells pouring from the loudspeakers and the smell of Christmas sweets gave me the tingles of The Spirit. This lasted for about a quarter of hour, and as the crowd was shoving us from side to side, we felt it was time to get out. On our walk home we decided that we are still capable of mustering up some minimal social skills and mingle with some of the hostel crowd, so we purchased the smallest bottle of rum and some energy drinks we could find. Smallest it was, because we promised ourselves that we would only have a few drinks, some delightful small talk and then go to rest.

As we stumbled home around 7 in the morning, and decided it would be the best of ideas to have the last beer on the terrace of the hostel, it was rather clear our planned had failed miserably. We met some wonderful people on the way and ended up in a rather dodgy part of town, in a club that, from the outside, looked like somebody's house. The inside was partially open, and had a clear underground feel to it, with the local characters, the graffiti on the wall and the classical oldies that was occassionally and randomly disturbed by some songs by Kylie Minogue and that Lemon Tree song.

We got ourselves together by 1 o'clock and rallied ourselves up for some sightseeing. Went to see Pablo Escobar's grave in the Cemeterio Montesacro. As a cemetery it was one of the oddest I have seen, with no tombstones, but plaques laid down on the ground, so you are literally walking on people's grave. Pablo's resting place was nothing breath-taking, he is buried alongside of some family members. Visiting him, to me, was somehow the end of a long journey, which started with buying a random shirt in Italy from Puta Madre that said 'Pablo Escobar - Cocaine' on it, and I decided to do some reading up on what I was exactly wearing. I read my first book in Spanish about him and the situation in the early 90s in Colombia, Noticia de un secuestro by Márquez. So it was only natural to come and pay my respects.

Next, we wondered into the center of town to check out the sculptures of Botero, with the guidance of El Doctor, a 50 some year old GP, one of the most wonderful characters I encountered on this trip. After admiring the curves of all sorts of creatures, we took the cable car up to Santo Domingo, which is a normal form of transportation for the locals of that area, which admittedly looked very much like slums. Cam, due to her fear of hights, was completely terrified, but of course this could not prevent her from partaking in any sort of activity involving swaying little boxes 50 or so meter above the ground. On the way down I found some rum in my bag from last night so she took a swing from that, to calm herself down.

The sunset from Santo Domingo was beautiful, admiring the second biggest city in Colombia light up its normal and Christmas lights underneath our feet. As this place did not seem like a very common tourist destination, naturally we attracted quite some attention from the locals, which culiminated in noticing that a little boy, standing behind Cam, was pealing off her sunburnt skin with the greatest of attention.

Our bus was scheduled for half 10 that night, so we wondered home, made some wonderful egg-cheese-tomato-olive sandwiches and while we were devouring them on the terrace we spotted Sam, whom we knew from Panama City. He was with the lovely Danish couple, whom we took much liking to as well, yet seemed to be constantly missing them since we got on the boat from Panama. So impulsively we decided to stay for one more night and finally catch up with these great people. The night turned out to be a bloody debauchery, needless to say, but here I will not dwell on its details, it was a shameful step one step too close to the edge.

We arrived to the bus station at 3 in the next afternoon, without having slept a second. I have left Camden, half dead, guarding our numerous bags at the entrance, while I staggered to the appropriate box to try to reschedule our ticket. It went a lot more smoothly than expected, and before we knew it, at half 4, we set out onto our 10 hour journey towards Bogotá. Cam was out soundly, while I kept waking up, because it seemed like we were constantly stopping in the middle of nowhere, picking up and dropping off people, it was just odd that the best quality road between the two main cities was of dirt. Took the taxi straight to the airport, where we attempted to sort out our financial situation while waiting for the flight at half 6. It wasn't the most productive idea ever.

Arriving to Lima, was like a breath of fresh air. Although still not sure, what the time was and where exactly we were, we stumbled into the arms of Sergio, who took us home to finally clean up and try to put on a human appearance again. We just hung out and rested for most of the afternoon, then met up with Ama, and went to see a short exhibition of an artist, whose name I now forgot, but he was a mix of Peruvian political satire and Roy Lichtenstein. Grabbed some bar food and some Maracuya Pisco Sours and dived into a few hours of catching up, that was later joined by Sergio. We were supposed to go to a house party after, but Cam and I were still beyond exhausted, so by midnight we were safely and soundly in bed. As we discussed in the morning, both of us had the weirdest, most random and rapid dreaming ever, as our brains were probably trying to catalogue all our experiences in one night, where we were finally having a normal rest. Because who knows what will happen tomorrow.

The last time I was visiting the Escardos, I brought some pálinka and some paprika. They still have some of the sweet paprika left, so tonight I am whipping up some gulash for 6-7 people. Woooooo Gulyás Leves night!!!

We are sitting in Medellin, in the Black Sheep hostel, exhausted and hardly capable of moving. We left Cartagena at 9 to arrive to Santa Marta at 2 in the afternoon, overdosed on some Chinese food and some policemen kindly escorted us to the collectivo stop towards the bus station. Unfortunately, the collectivo buses were so small that there was no way we could have fit on it with all our bags, so we took a taxi.

Bought our tickets to Medellin for the next evening, and when, referring to the fact of leaving my credit card behind the counter for 20 minutes until the transaction is confirmed, I remarked 'I don't feel comfortable.', a Colombian guy took it a bit to the heart. When I explained that I love his country and what I really meant, he became instantly friendly and supplied us with heaps of advices, including that Parque Tayrona closes at 5 and it costs about 50.000 pesos to get there and also that he is a taxi driver happy to take us there. Not to be taken as a fool, I wondered outside to check this information from other drivers. It was true, and thankfully a Colombian couple overheard the conversation and suggested that we share a taxi. We packed in, stopped at a supermarket to stock up on some fruits and water, as Tayrona is infamously expensive. We had a military check on the way, and almost ran down a pack of lazy big black birds having their siesta on the middle of the road, but despite this, we reached the entrance as they were about to close. We reached the drop off area in, what it seems was 5 minutes, but the next day walking back was about an hour hard trekking. We strapped our bags on a donkey and set out for a 45 minute hard walk through the jungle, struggling to get to Arrecifes beach before the last rays of the sun disappeared.

We rented two hammocks, consumed a part of our fruit supply and soaked ourselves in mosquito repellant. This of course didn't halt the 5 million little buggers to attack and slowly consume us throughout the night. It was the least restful night I've ever spent in a hammock and prayed for the sunrise as my various body parts were itching out of control.

After fruit breakfast, we proceeded down to the beach where a mule was having his last minutes of the night's sleep. Actually, on the photos, he looks like he is dead and partly decomposing. The sunrise was gorgeous and as at Arrecifes already 200 people died since it was opened, we opted for a 20 walk through different beaches and some jungle to La Piscina, where we spent a wonderfully solitary morning. Literally not a soul was around, until about half nine, when people started lingering about. Got back to Arrecifes, had some more fruit, although we had to throw some of it out, because it started to smell like fermented alcohol, and we thought before a 15 hour bus ride we probably shouldn't risk it.

So after the above mentioned 1 hour and 45 minute track we managed to get on a bus to the station and started our freezing cold journey (apparently the more the bus resembles a refrigerator the more luxurious it is). Took the metro from the station dragged all our crap here to the hostel and now here we are sort of unable to move. But we are determined travelers. There is a display of Chrismas lights on the banks of the river and great bar and restaurant areas to discover tonight. Tomorrow we are taking on a more cultural side of the city and at half 10 at night taking a 10 hour bus journey to Bogota. I am aware that this blog entry is not the most entertaining one of all, but I have actually misspelled 'shouldn't' just above. I am not at capacity to write, let alone to entertain. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed it.

I´m suffering what would definitely make it into the top 15 of my worst hangovers. When in Colombia... The night´s details are fuzzy, but for sure I know we had a great time. Oh the randomer´s name turned out to be Manuel. He took us around, we ate some local food called ´flutas´in the market. Actually they are not completely local, I´m pretty sure they had something very similar in Mexico too.

I decided to put some more paragraphs in, because if I just keep ranting without at least a momentary stop it will end up looking like my last entry, which is even daunting to look at, let alone read.

It turned out that last night was the night of Candelas, the celebration of the immaculate conception. Am I supposed to capitalise this? Anyhow, wondered around with Manuel, went to the bar where he works occasionally, when his not out on sea being a lieutenant for the Colombian navy. We picked up some stuff from the bar and met Julio the crazy cab driver, who took us to the new part of town, which is basically just a bunch of skyscrapers. We agreed to meet later that night for some pre-gaming in our hostel, given that at that point we still had 4 liters of hard liqueur. Of course this has changed significantly since.

Had to pick up our passports in Media Luna, where the other 80% of our boat was staying, and of course I inquired for my money from Captain Peter. He said he needs to contact his insurance company, and I should give him a call tomorrow. I thought this was a load of bollocks and he is just trying to stall, but today actually we went to meet him and he gave back 50 bucks, which is better than nothing. So all in all, Golden Eagle, great place, just watch out for the latches.

So we beered up on Plaza de la Aduana, lit up our cigars and sneeked rum in plastic cups from the backpack. Stylish as usual. People kept coming and going from and to our table, it seems Manuel knew half of the city. When we started getting some crossed looks from the waiters, we decided to change bar, where we met the lovely Danish couple, and Sam and Andy, who were with us in Panama, but ended up very unfortunately on a different boat, the Fritz (or zie Fritz?). From here we proceeded to the previously mentioned bar, where we were able to freely booze up from our stock. Actually as the night progressed and we were still almost completely alone in the place I started to wonder from what the hell this place makes its money. And then at 3 am the hookers started pouring in. It was rather entertaining.

By accident, today, we stumbled into a lovely seafood place, which, under normal circumstances, would have been the dream restaurant. But with this dreadful hangover, I actually had three bites and had to ask it to be wrapped up to take away, because my stomach was just not having any of the fishiness.

We are staying for one more night here, we are completely enchanted with the rainbow city and its charmingly out-of-control inhabitants. So here follows the Colombian itenerary.

9th leaving for Santa Marta, about 3 hours north of Cartagena. Catching a collectivo or hopefully a boat to Parque Tayrona the biggest national park of Colombia, where we intend to just chill, enjoy the untouched beaches and forests.

10th taking an overnight 15 hour bus ride to Medellín

12th taking an overnight 10 hour bus ride to Bogotá

14th catching early morning flight to Lima

14-22nd enjoying Peruvian style debauchery with Sergio and Amabel woooooooooooo

So of course I didn´t go to sleep on my last (and actually first) night in Panama City, and I didn´t even get to take a shower because I forgot to set my clock an hour ahead. So as I was happily chatting about absolutely nothing with Will, the front desk guy at Mamallena, Camden walks in and tells me that it is indeed 4.30 and not 3.30 in the morning. So we rapidly got our shit together, alongside with the numerous liters of booze and after Cam said loving goodbye to her beau á la Panama, we headed off to our 4 hour journey to the other side of the country. I almost broke my neck as I literally passed out (at this point I haven´t slept for about 50 hours) despite the damn bumpy roads. We packed off the jeep and packed into little shaky boats that took us out on the river to the bay, where we actually managed to re-pack our stuff onto the Golden Eagle. We got our safety lecture from Peter, the Aussie captain, who was about 45-50 and marred by sea, where he apparently have spent his life since he was 8. We washed our dishes with sea water, took showers above the toilet and generally behaved like burly pirates, drinking rum and swaying around. The first two days we stopped at various islands in the Golfo San Blas. On the first there were actually people living, in what I counted were about 4 or 5 huts scattered around the island of about a square kilometer. So we had beer and Peter and his missus, Marlene went and actually caught us 3 lobsters for dinner. We went snorkeling and I found a beautiful shell, which probably equals in size and beauty to all the shells I ever collected. After contemplating if it is ethical to take it (or attempting to take it) home, my tourist side got the best of me. I did put up a lot of arguments against it, like ´it´s like taking a stone from Mayan ruins´or ´it´s like taking somebody´s future real estate´but hey. Being so caring all the time is demanding. So we had lobster dinner, Cam and I slept outside in the two hammocks on the front deck, which was absolutely marvellous, even though the wind was quite strong during the night. The morning view was priceless, the sun, the blue sea and the island from a little distance, it was a moment I want freeze in time and put it in a frame. The next day was largely similar and completely different at the same time. We played in the water, snorkeled, I can´t really remember what happened on which day, it was just a huge rush of joy, the salty taste and a multitude of colours that I can really recall. Oh, but I can definitely remember the feeling of pride when I managed to pry open my first ever coconut and its sweet and warm milk was pouring into my mouth. And mostly everywhere else, it was a bit difficult to control.

I was dreading the open sea part of the program, which was a 35 hour continous sailing, day and night. Thank god, some people on the boat were a bit more prepared so I actually borrowed some pills and drugged myself to sleep. So I was fine most of the time, I just tried to move and talk as little as possible. It was quite an anti-social time for our Golden Eagle, the sound was broken only by people throwing up over the rails and Camden complaining that she doesn´t know what to do, because her iron stomach prevented her from feeling anything and she was happy as a bird but had nobody to share it with. The funny thing that she actually got a bit dizzy, land-sick while taking a shower here in Cartagena, apparently it wasn´t swaying enough. Anyhow, we kept watch throughout the night, and Cam and I got the 6 to 8 shift. All we had to do is watch out for tankers or any sort of boat heading our way. Cam spotted this shadow far far away, and eventually my blind eyes got the message as well and we both stared at it trying to figure out where it was heading. While staring intently I glanced a bit to the right and as the front of the boat was bobbing up and down I spotted a massive tanker heading almost straight at us, much closer than our shadow that we were so vigilant about. I guess the lesson is much the same as many of these stories. We need to pay more attention. At some points dolphins swam around the boat, at some point Peter told us that we were a 100 miles away from any sort of land and the water was around 3 and a half kilometers deep. There was something very overwhelmingly mighty about the power of the sea and our complete insignificance. We all sighed with relief when the skyline of Cartagena appeared on the horizon. Cam and I, we went to play in the front of the boat, which kept tipping into the water, splashing the waves in our faces. It was great fun, as we approached the ´tombstones´of Cartagena. Had we only known that while the water was splashing it was also pouring into the part of the front desk where all our stuff was stored. Our big backpacks that we didn´t use as the ´day-pack´on the boat soaked in salt water and boiled in the tropical sun for 4 days. They smelled like a pack of wet dogs. Let alone the smell, but my external memory drive is ruined, my travel documents, my documents from UNAM, everything. I´m trying to twist the dear Captain´s balls to give me back at least 50 Euros, to cover some of the damage. I will report on the results of the twisting the next time. This episode was a total anti-climax for the trip, but at least in Casa Viena, where we are staying now they were able to wash our stuff. I was well-miffed about this incident, but as we were sipping our excellent Abuelo rum on a bench in Cartagena, we got to talking to this wonderfully crazy half-legged woman, who ended up drinking with us for a bit and telling us her life in a total confusion of Spanglish. She was from Medellin, and was raped by her father when she was 8. She has been a prostitute ever since, mothered 4 children and lost her leg in a domestic accident. Life has a way of showing that we should bow our head in shame and think of the millions worse off, when we encounter a minor bump on our road.

We ended up at a wonderful live concert of salsa, merengue and congas, where we stayed for a few beers, shook it up a bit, chatted to randomers and then headed home to wake up to a 37 degree day in Cartagena. Today we walked around the city for a bit in this unbearable heat and now we are trying to figure out the best, safest and cheapest way to get to Medellin.

Actually one of these randomers just walked in the hostel, called my name and said let´s have a coffee. And I can´t remember his name for shit.

It feels great to be reunited with Cam, event though she is actually off for the night with her hostel-boyfriend. The boat that we are taking tomorrow, the Golden Eagle (the most cheesy or grandiose name, you decide), is apparently one of the best boats that is around for this trip. I am spending tonight just chatting and playing endless domino with three Spanish guys. The jeep is picking us up in 4 hours, at 5 in the morning. Now I'm actually just simply scared to go to sleep, because I'm so exhausted I'm afraid I will never wake up. We bought about 8 liters of rum and vodka and many packs of cigarettes to hold out for 5 days. Unfortunately one of the bottles of rum already broke, but I brought a bottle of mezcal from Oaxaca and two havanas to have a fully intercultural experience, drinking Mexican liqueur smoking Cuban cigars while we are crossing Golfo San Blas.

I`m sitting at the post office at the airport in Guatemala City at the only existing computer for which they charge me an outrageous 8 quetzales/15 min rate. Anyhow, I felt that it is my duty, as I haven`t been on the radar for a while to provide an update on my ludicrous adventures. So let`s do the mundane chronological order. Yoxchilàn was about 40 minutes boat ride literally on the Mexican-Guatemalan border, one side of trees was the former, the other, the latter. Both Yoxchilan and Bonampak were lovely and interesting, but nothing extraordinary to report. I parted from my small group to head towards the ecological reserve with a small indigenous guy who picked me up. He was telling me on the way how he loves to swim in the smaller rivers, but not in the big ones because there are crocodiles. He asked me if I would like to see one of these rivers, and I said why not. As we were making our way through the jungle on a barely visible small trail, he told me that this was actually the local shaman`s territory and pointed out the ceremonial grounds and sacred trees that were marked by colourful ribbons tied around them. We got to a tiny clearing, where the river gave a small turn and formed a little bay, not bigger than maybe two bathtubs. So my new friend began telling me about this cleansing ritual that he and his people perform against all sorts of pain and fatigue. It involves getting completely naked, getting in the water, praying and rubbing clay on your body in a particular way. Of course I was completely torn between trying to decide if this was for real or it might just be the most elaborate plan on part of a man to get me out of my clothes. We got rid of my skirt, because he said red was too strong of a colour and it disrupts the ceremony. I put my foot down at the bra and underwear. Nevertheless he got butt naked. Smallest penis ever, by the way. I know I wasn`t supposed to look, but I couldn`t help to sneak a peak. Anyhow, we prayed in the local mayan language and asked permission from nature to be able to perform this ceremony, then for about 20 minutes he rubbed this clay all over me and it was incredible. Eventhough the water was quite cold after a while I stopped shivering and actually felt as if something bad was leaving from me. As we dried off the sun was already quickly sinking and on our way towards the road he stopped and held me back. The shaman was coming and we weren`t supposed to be around. We hid in the now almost completely dark jungle for what it seemed like eternity and then decided to take a detour which involved passing through the totally creepy garden of the shaman, and an abandoned shack which for all I know could have easily been a set of a horror movie. When we finally got to the car we found some of his family waiting for him to give them a ride. As he introduced me, for a moment I wondered that maybe I just taken place in some marriage ritual and I didn`t even know it. The place where I slept was simple with a few hammocks and the mosquito net around the bed. I slept like an angel, instead of bothering me or scaring me, I enjoyed the crazy concert of the insects like never before with the smooth noise of the river as the background noise.

The next morning I crossed to Guatemala and left behind this marvellous country, which held surprises for me until the very last minute. Flores was about a good 4 hours of bumpy ride away. When I tried to find a bank on the island it turned out they only exchange dollars, so I had to cross to Santa Elena, following the instructions of a lovely gentleman, who even gave me 5 quitzales for the tuc-tuc ride. I spent the afternoon having some food and beers, which rapidly turned into more beers and then a joint Israeli-Portugese-Hungarian venture to the liquor store where we managed to accumulate about three bottles of good guatemalan rum. Of course we were eventually asked to leave the hostel, and managed to find the only bar open in Flores where we danced salsa and for the sake of good measure had some tequila too. Went to bed around 1 and the next morning caught the 7 o`clock bus to Tikal. On the bus we met a guide who offered us a tour, first for a 100 then for 80 a head. As I was still hesitant, he took me aside and told me I can pay 50 as long as I don`t tell the others. He was a very good, knowledgeable and clearly interested in what he was doing and despite my sizable hangover I fully enjoyed the 4 and a half hour tour and 10 km walk-through of the biggest Mayan site of the world. The Russian-Israeli-New Yorker couple I met here were also staying in Flores, so as we got back we decided to take the boat-taxi to the other side of the lake to San Miguel, cross the little peninsula where we had the most well-deserved and satisfying swim at the deserted beach in the beautiful water. As the sun was setting we walked to the Mirador to marvel at the sight of the island of Flores, Santa Elena and the surrounding flora and fauna and of course the large and completely full moon. Despite this long day I managed to get caught up in some drinking action again with these lovely boys that I met in Los Amigos. This night I didn`t even get to sleep in my hammock, I dosed off on the bench around 5 and at 6 I got my things and headed off to the airport. On the tuc-tuc I bade a last goodbye to the beautiful Petèn Itza and swore that I will return here to relax and to definitely do the 5 day hike to El Mirador. Hopefully San Juan travel will be out of business by the time of my return.

I would like to start by paying a moment (about four lines) of respect to my blanket. You have served me well, and kept Miguel and I warm for long weeks. You have protected me from the dirty sheets and biting freeze in Hierve el Agua, may you keep having the same fulfilling purpose of life in Oaxaca with one of the Mujeres Artesianas, where I left you. Goodbye.

So the 14-hour bus ride in line with expectations was long and not fun. There were only two people who actually were on the bus for the whole ride. Me and the bus driver. I think that is actually absolutely prohibited for him to drive for that long. I still wonder what he was on. I am staying in El Panchan, a wonderful congregation of cabañas surrounded by actual jungle. It sounds like there is a rock concert outside my window. I arrived here around 8, had a quick breakfast and caught the local bus to the ruins of Palenque. I let myself be talked into a ^guided tour of the jungle^. I was a bit sceptical at first, but it was absolutely worth it. Fifty minutes of just my boy Oliver and I fighting our way through the green. He showed me calbo (not sure about the spelling) that the locals chew against toothache, camfor, cocoa and many other plants. The guides gather every second month with a biology professor from the nearby university, to study and learn to spot different local plants, from dangerous trees to poisonous mushrooms. He showed me sweet water shrimps and despite my srong wishes he attempted to find me a flying spider that is as big as a palm. Thankfully, he didn^t succeed. Getting back to the ruins of Palenque with the amounts of tourist was a dramatic break in our peaceful walk. Nevertheless, they were beautiful.

Got back to El Panchan just in time to catch the bus to Mislo Ha and Cascadas Agua Azul. Met two lovely Mexican and two equally lovely Israeli ladies. The waterfalls were absolutely amazing, the road was nauseating and terrifying, curvy as crazy and everytime we took over a car my life was flashing in front of my eyes. Regardless, Chiapas feels like a big, fuzzy, green pillow, where, no matter where you fall, you will never hit yourself. Everything is covered with all shades of green and nature is crawling, reaching and growing out of control. This is one of the reasons, why I decided to postpone the crossing to Guatemala with a day and tomorrow I will pack up my stuff visit Yoxchilan and Bonampak and spend the night in an ecological reserve and only the next day head off to Flores. If this entry feels a little rushed, it^s because it is. It is a Saturday night and I have a michelada and some live music waiting for me in a bar where the roof is made of dried banana leaves. Hasta mañana!

Getting to Hierve el Agua was actually a bit more difficult than I expected. The fancier minibuses that took me to Monte Alban only took people there who wanted to rent a guide and a round trip. I wanted to spend the night, and wasn´t having any of that. So I made my way to the periferico where taxi compartidos and buses honk and literally are on top of each other, and you can just fight your way through 3-4 lines of traffic and hop on. The bus to Mitla was late (no wonder, I could have walked faster in that chaos) so I waited around. Some locals, true to form, this happens almost everywhere, advised me to keep an eye on my stuff, because there are a lot of scumbags around. As my feet touched the ground in Mitla I got yelled at ´Hierve el Agua?´, it was a guy hunting for tourists. He told me that so far I am the only one, but because he usually takes up 6 people and makes 300 pesos he´ll take me for 200. Needless to say I wasn´t gonna eat this up, so we waited around and eventually I hunted for him two german girls. So I paid 50 pesos, which was still the double of what local buses ask for, but I was getting anxious as it was nearing 4 and we still had 20 kilometers of mountain road to get through. When I finally settled in the cabaña where I was to spend the night, I went outside to the patio, where the whole mountain range was laid out underneath my feet. Hierve el

Agua means the ´boil of the water´, or something along those lines.

Well, there wasn´t much boiling going on, nor it was very hot (although after it turned out that there is no water in the room, I considered some splashing around) it contains some heavy minerals, which, dripping down on the side of the mountain produce something that can only be described as a frozen waterfall. Sitting on the top, I looked around, feeling nature´s every heartbeat yet when I looked to my right the waterfall looked like as if one of these heartbeats just froze in time. It was one of the most magnificent and humbling experiences of my life. I went to bed around 8, exhausted, but not before the guy-at-the-gate came around to hit on me a little bit. The night was more than eerie. The strong wind made not only my terrace and entrance door creek and thump like crazy, but the chair inside was also shreeking in the dark, like someone was shifting around on it to get comfortable. I killed a spider before going to bed, I know it´s bad luck, but I can´t have that thing climb in my mouth or something. A Mexican grasshopper (by this I mean it was big, brown and making drilling noises) scared 

the living shit out of me as it hopped on my bed just as I opened my eyes at half 5. What was, I presume, a breathtaking sunrise, unfortunately was more or less covered up by clouds. As I made my way through the small paths to discover and see more, and besides encountering numerous large bees that were defending their territorry and admiring the colibris and, what I suppose were eagles, I also got completely terrified by the death fight of a bird who was dragged away by god knows what. Had a strong coffee at the village (of about 15 houses) which was to the

 brim of its absorption level with sugar. I think it will never fail to surprise me when my coffee is made with real fire in a large tin pot, and when drinking it I have as many chickens and dogs running around under the table as children. Three to be exact. The chickens may have been more, I can´t distinguish them. Got on the first bus, which was for the locals, no tourists arrive at 8.30 in the morning. Six people in the front, in the actual car, and seven of us at the back of the pick up, and one hanging off the back. The little girl was wretching in front of me. Thinking that when I was a kid I would vomit in the car, on an asphalted highway, for me she was a hero. No surprise she couldn´t hold it on a 2-meter wide dirt road, U-turns, in the back of a pick-up car (because it definitely wasn´t a truck). Caught the bus from Mitla, and on the way I realized that I had forgotten to pay for my ride down. This is how much this trust-based manner of handling things hasn´t sunk in yet. Of course it also could be the fact that sometimes I fail to pay any attention. To anything. Nevertheless, I felt so ashamed! Now I´m back in Oaxaca, I have four hours until catching my lovely 14-hour ride to Palenque, Chiapas. So I am off to see this city a bit.

Actually arrived earlier than expected, so I bummed around the bus station until 6 waiting for the first bus to the center. Chatted with a guy from Switzerland, and I realized that I already forgot how much less friendly most Europeans can be. Although it is also entirely possible that I wasn´t at the top of my conversation and entertainment skills at 5 in the morning and I just simply scared him. Brushed my teeth and cleaned myself up a bit in the bathroom and caught the bus, from which, of course, i got off about 10 blocks away from my intended destination. So I wandered, and watched the city wake up. Later I found Calle Mina which

is full of buses heading to Monte Albán, my first destination. The gentelman from the phar

macy, just opposite to Hotel Rivera del Angel, who sold me the ticket, advised me to spend

my time until the bus leaves at half 8 at the nearby chocolate factory/breakfast place on the corner of Mina and 20 de Noviembre. I am not a sweet tooth generally, but the sound of the machines, the sight of the workers turning the massive brown paste, and the sweet smell while I was sipping on my hot and delicious chocolate, dipping sweet bread in it and reading the newspaper, was truly a cosy experience. The sight of the Sierra Madre from Monte Alban, and just the positive energy oozing from the place is unexplainable. The cattles of shrieking and obnoxious tourists remind me how wonderful it is to travel alone, or with somebody that shares a similar rythm and calm with you. Thankfully, it was relatively easy to ignore and lose sight of them in the massive spaces of the ancient city. I am now on the hunt for taxi compartido to get me to Hierve el Agua, a place at 3000m with hot water springs, where I plan on spending the night.

Wanderings in space and time

'-Have you ever transcended space and time?'

'-Yes. Space, but not time. No, I have no idea what you are talking about.'

I am leaving behind today at midnight Mexico DF, which has been my welcoming home for almost three months now. Welcoming, except of course for the time when Christos, my flatmate was robbed by two guys and a gun outside our door. But I try to pass this off, because it can happen anytime and anywhere, especially when you live in such a huge and chaotic city.

I promised (myself, I didn't let anybody else know) that I would keep a brief, funny, entertaining yet insightful diary of my stay here on this very blog; keep an account of the difficulties and wonders I may encounter when interacting with this different and sometimes puzzling culture. Needless to say (and clear to see) this did not happen in the slightest. So hereby, I am making the promise in 'public' that I will try to document the next 3 weeks and some days to come, when I will be rushing through some of Central and South America in my desperate attempt to see all the wonders of this part of the world. Let us see if this time I can live up to the plan. Following is my itinerary, for numerous reasons: so you can keep track of me, appreciate in one breath the 'locura' of the situation and not the least to already make an excuse if all this does not happen, 'Just look at my plan! There was no way I was going to be able to find a computer, let alone reflect in writing on anything that is going on!'

Nov. 25. Taking night bus to the capital of Oaxaca state, Oaxaca.

Nov. 26. Visiting Monte Alban and then setting out for Hierve del Agua and spending the night there

Nov. 27. Seeing a bit of Oaxaca, before taking a 14-16 hour busride to Palenque in the southern state of Chiapas

Nov. 28. Take a 5am. bus through Yaxchilan, cross the river to Guatemala, take another bus to Flores

Nov. 29-Dec. 1. Enjoy the island of Flores, the city of Santa Elena and the Mayan ruins of Tikal

Dec. 2. Arrival to Panama City and reuniting with Camden

Dec.3. 5am jeep taking us to the other side of the country to take a boat (sailboat, yacht or a tanker? unknown as of now) to Cartegna in Colombia

Dec. 3-8/9. Fighting sea-sickness and visiting some of the uninhabited islands of San Blas

...

Further plans are fuzzy. Depending on arrival of the boat, hopefully visiting Medellin and on the 13th flying out of Bogota, Lima bound. There I am at the mercy of my dear and totally crazy friends. Budapest bound on the 22nd of December. Hope you hear from me soon.

Because everybody is talking about it

Just a quick thought on Michael Jackson's funeral. I find it simply odd, how people are so passionately mourning somebody who gave kids wine and taught them to masturbate. If we must employ the old and rubbed down cliché of the artist being separate from his art, then can we just let the pervert with an unfortunately disturbed mind-set rest in peace, and celebrate his music that lives on forever? Cheers.

On the importance of participation

"Sok kicsi sokra megy" is a Hungarian saying, meaning something along the lines of "lots of little goes a long way". Earth Hour is an initiative to encourage people to switch off their lights for an hour today, the 28th of March at 20.30 their local time. When I say "lots of little goes a long way" I'm not really talking about a significant change in the consumption of energy. Sure, for this particular hour there is certainly some detectable change, but what really goes a long way is these 60 long minutes that I, personally will spend with some dear friends, candles and some wine. Those 60 minutes, that usually just fly by unnoticed during the course of the day, will be spent reflecting on the direction we are headed. It is a collective doom, towards which we are speeding faster and faster with every minute of every hour of everyday, and these 60 minutes are a reminder of our belonging together as a damned humanity. Most importantly, these 60 minutes are a lifeline to regain faith in ourselves as conscious individuals and active participants. There is a way to slow down the slide towards oblivion. We are not a mindless mass that marches towards its own destruction. We vote Earth. We vote life. We vote decision.

http://www.earthhour.org

Banksy, Lights, Hip, Camera. Action?

I remember the Leake Street tunnel, near Waterloo, when it was a convenient shortcut to get from the side of the Thames to the Cubana on the other, but it was just as dodgy. The old taxi station, abandoned when the Eurostar moved from Waterloo, smelled like piss, and the presence of the many homeless was all the more accentuated by the trap-like feeling of the tunnel. For a moment both them and I were stuck half-way towards the light. Then I emerged, had a drink and tried to shake off the feeling with some heart-lifting Latin music.

Now the tunnel is one of my favourite spaces in London. There is still a faint whiff of piss lingering but the cigarette and spray-paint smell almost over-powers it, and rather than speeding off towards the comforting other end, I loiter from side to side wishing it would never end. And it doesn't. The changes occur in front of the eyes, new sketches emerge, covering old ones, day after day; depicting, criticizing our world in a cruel and direct way, that seems to be largely absent from any form of media that is poured down our neck minute after minute. Pictures say a thousand words, because the words are ours. We are not told what to think, our mind is shocked by an impression that can trigger thousands of individual interpretations. One of the few things praised by the works is the individual. The thoughts we can think, the love that we make, the changes we can create. But the fear is detectable. You are capable, but what you do with your gift remains a question.

Graffiti is a form of expression (artistic or not, let's not get into it here) that is, through its originally clandestine nature, temporary. Then came Banksy. You think of rats making political statements, you think of kids with balloons flying over the Western Wall, you think of some chick sitting on the Queens face. Banksy made it huge with his talent, and the somewhat elegant style of cruel criticism of basically everything, and because nobody new his face. If he is really Gunningham or not is quite irrelevant. He turned the art of graffiti from illegal destruction into constructive hip. 

Banksy makes a load of money. (Or at least I would think so, he published a number of books, and his works are being sold for crazy amounts.) Good on him; his art can be dispersed to an even wider audience, making hopefully more people think. His works haven't seem to lost the piercingly cynical attitude, just look at his recent 'pet shop' in New York, where chicken nuggets eat ketchup, the monkey watches monkey-porn and Tweety still dangles in the cage, some 20 years on. The twisted relationship of man and his animals. Some we dress up, some we eat. 

The Cans Festival kicked off sometime in the beginning of May last year. It lasted for three days at the Leake Street tunnel, with large installations and the possibility for the spectators to participate with stencil works of their own. It was a day or two before my Italian orals, but I just couldn't miss it, so I queued for a couple of hours with my quickly purchased Il Resto del Carlino. When I got in finally, in my momentary crowd-spirit I regretted not bringing a camera. Everybody seemed to be taking pictures around me. After a while, it just got very bloody irritating. I couldn't spend time reading, looking, admiring something, because there was always one sucker who, glaring at his digital screen, was flashing around like a maniac. I kept ducking, until I had enough. I emerged on the other side, had a drink and tried to shake off the feeling with some heart-lifting Latin music. 

Apparently it was 'hip' to be at the 'Bansky-exhibition'. There was of course a number (countless actually, including the participant turned spectators) other artists involved. But Banksy is famous, he is controversial, we don't know who he is, but I was there, therefore I am cool by association. It is besides the point, that I can't remember anything I saw without looking at my camera. 

I need to emphasize, as an enthusiastic amateur photographer myself, that there is nothing wrong with taking a photo, as long as it is a personal interpretation of the world as you see it. When applied in this context, it is the perversion of the concept and intention of graffiti on a number of levels. First and foremost it denies the inherent quality of graffiti as temporal, and therefore destructs its value in leaving an imprint on your mind rather than your camera. The spectator who is asked to be the interpreter remains a spectator, hiding behind a machine, not coming into worthwhile direct visual or emotional contact with the work. 

Feel the atmosphere, reflect. Let the work speak to you. Let yourself appreciate what you see, and how it is making you feel. Take a picture if you want. But enjoy it first. It maybe temporal, but it won't disappear in the next 5 minutes. Graffiti is hip, fashionable these days. But it can speak to you through the same clandestine channels about the different ways to see the world as it did decades ago. Just listen. 

A recent addition to Sara's box

"At my apartment, the ceiling is pounding with some fast music. The walls are murmuring with panicked voices. Either an ancient cursed Egyptian mummy has come back to life and is trying to kill the people next door, or they're watching a movie.

Under the floor, there's someone shouting, a dog barking, doors slamming, the auctioneer call of some song.

In the bathroom, I turn out the lights. So I can't see what's in the bag. So I won't know how it's supposed to turn out. In the cramped tight darkness, I stuff a towel in the crack under the door. With the package on my lap, I sit on the toilet and listen.

This is what passes for civilization. 

People who would never throw litter from their car will drive past you with their radio blaring. People who'd never blow cigar smoke at you in a crowded restaurant will bellow into their cell phone. They'll shout at each other across the space of a dinner plate.

These people who would never spray herbicides or insecticides will fog the neighborhood with their stereo playing Scottish bagpipe music. Chinese opera. Country and western. 

Outdoors, a bird singing is fine. Patsy Cline is not.

Outdoors, the din of traffic is bad enough. Adding Chopin's Piano Concerto in E Minor is not making the situation any better.

You turn up your music to hide the noise. Other people turn up their music to hide yours. You turn up yours again. Everyone buys a bigger stereo system. This is the arms race of sound. You don't win with a lot of treble.

This isn't about quality. It's about volume.

This isn't about music. This is about winning.

You stomp the competition with the bass line. You rattle windows. You drop the melody line and shout the lyrics. You put in foul language and come down hard on each cussword.

You dominate. This is really about power.

[…] 

These music-oholics. These calm-ophobics.

No one wants to admit we're addicted to music. That's just not possible. No one's addicted to music and television and radio. We just need more of it, more channels, a larger screen, more volume. We can't bear to be without it, but no, nobody's addicted.

We could turn it off anytime we wanted.

[…] 

These distraction-oholics. These focus-ophobics.

Old George Orwell got it backward.

Big Brother isn't watching. He's singing and dancing. He is pulling rabbits out of a hat. Big Brother's busy holding your attention every moment you're awake. He's making sure you're always distracted. He 's making sure you're fully absorbed.

He's making sure your imagination withers. Until it's as useful as your appendix. He's making sure your attention is always filled. 

And this being fed, it's worse than being watched. With the world always filling you, no one has to worry about what's in your mind. With everyone's imagination atrophied, no one will ever be a threat to the world.

[…] 

There are worse things than finding your wife and child dead.

You can watch the world do it. You can watch your wife get old and bored. You can watch your kids discover everything in the world you've tried to save them from. Drugs, divorce, conformity, disease. All the nice clean books, music, television. Distraction. 

These people with a dead chid, you want to tell them, go ahead. Blame yourself.

There are worse things you can do to the people you love than kill them. The regular way is just to watch the world do it. Just read the newspaper.

The music and laughter eat away at your thoughts. The noise blots them out. All the sound distracts. Your head aches from the glue.

Anymore, no one's mind is their own. You can't concentrate. You can't think. There's always some noise worming in. Singers shouting. Dead people laughing. Actors crying. All these little doses of emotion.

Someone's always spraying the air with their mood.

Their car stereo, broadcasting their grief or joy or anger all over the neighborhood.

[…] 

This isn't anything new.

Experts in ancient Greek culture say that people back then didn't see their thoughts as belonging to them. When ancient Greeks had a thought, it occurred to them as a god or goddess giving an order. Apollo was telling them to be brave. Athena was telling them to fall in love.

Now people hear a commercial for sour cream potato chips and rush out to buy, but now they call this free will.

At least the ancient Greeks were being honest."

-- 'Lullaby' by Chuck Palahniuk

Initial concerns over the title

I have to admit this blog is the result of a dire need to procrastinate, therefore the title and the URL address are also products of spontaneous decisions. It is not an order, it is a delightful invitation to 'Think Inside My Box'. Which leads me to think do I really have a box? Which leads me to think, should I change the title?

Even though the Internet-age didn't quite catch up with me until mid-teenage years (I'm a technological conservative, I used to swear upon tapes, and snarl at CDs), thanks to my relative laziness and the constant typing I tend to abbreviate a fair amount, 'r', 'u', 'w/' et cetera, nevertheless 'lmao' and the likes give me distinct chills. I'm content with a 'hehe'. Anyway, the point here is, that because of this laziness I tend to also neglect capital letters, so I figured why not defy grammar stylishly and refuse capital letters altogether, and name the blog 'against-the-capitals'. Or something along these lines. Do you see my problem?

A title with such strong (although at first totally unintended) political overtones would have implied very rigid borders to my box. Instead of a light, first attempt to give a comprehensive frame to my thoughts that are usually very difficult to catch and organize anyway, I would have been forced 'by titling' to constantly defend one important but not necessarily central idea to my box. I like my box to be as flexible as possible, I am taking in new things, wherever, whenever and from whomever I can. I can't really throw out the old things, I was always rubbish at spring cleaning. As I'm growing, so is my box, as, needless to say, I live in my box, constantly experiencing what others and myself put in. My box is my living space, it has hardly any walls, they are see-through and very stretchy, and most of the time I'm not even sure they are there. I'd like to believe they actually aren't. That I've been told wrong. What are your walls like? 

'againstCAPS' would have required me to say something like this: I am not per se anti-capitalist, I only feel that consumerism, encouraged by this particular economic construction, is ruining things that are truly important in this world. It is not the question of ideological orientation, it is the question of individual world-view and value system. But I am not anti nor pro CAP. And there. I am defending my box as I feared. Bugger. I am not here to defend, I am here to share.