May 31, 2026 by trs

Guatemala December 2005: Lost Memories of Antigua, Copan, and Tikal

This is the third and final installment of my trip to Guatemala in December 2005–January 2006. Because I never got around to typing up a travelogue of this last stretch, I have had to rely on my photos, a few brief diary entries, and my own Swiss-cheese memories from more than twenty years ago.

*The Iglesia de La Merced in Antigua, Guatemala*

After returning from the Tajumulco Volcano trek to Xela around 5 p.m., I took a room at Quetzaltrekkers, the guide company, simply because I had no energy to look elsewhere. I grabbed an early dinner and fell into a deep, heavy sleep.

I let myself sleep in the following day—well, until about 8 a.m. After being up before 5 a.m. the previous two days, this felt positively luxurious. I caught another chicken bus for the three-hour ride to Antigua, the former colonial capital of Guatemala and a UNESCO World Heritage Site, where I would ring in the New Year.

All I really did in Antigua was walk. I wandered the historic streets and soaked in the atmosphere. The city is an architectural wonder, full of 17th- and 18th-century Spanish Baroque buildings, many of them worn but still elegant. When my legs grew tired—which they did, especially so soon after the Tajumulco hike—I sat in the plazas and watched people, or grabbed street tacos and devoured them on park benches.

Given that my arrival coincided with New Year’s Eve, it is something of a miracle that I found a place to stay at all. It seemed that much of Guatemala, along with a large percentage of the tourists in the country, had converged on Antigua. Still, I lucked out with a simple place right in the center of the old city, with all the main sites within a stone’s throw.

*The Arco de Santa Catalina in Antigua, Guatemala, for the 2005-2006 New Year’s festivities*

I wish I remembered visiting all the beautiful sights captured in my photos, but unfortunately, I do not. What I do remember are streets crowded with happy visitors, a street performance near the Arco de Santa Catalina that had the crowd in stitches, watching horse-drawn carriages clip-clop by, and eating what may still be the best street taco of my life from a small vendor set up near Central Park in front of the Cathedral.

I didn’t make it to midnight. I rarely do. The long days of active sightseeing had absolutely caught up with me, and around 9 p.m. I dragged my very tired self back to my room and fell asleep. Not even the sound of firecrackers throughout the night managed to wake me.

The first day of 2006 found me once again wandering the streets of Antigua, which were noticeably quieter and less crowded than the day before. I visited the ruins of the Convento de Santa Clara, the Convento de la Recolección, and the Convento de las Capuchinas. As open-air ruins, they were accessible on the holiday, and I had them mostly to myself. With plans to move on the following day, I once again went to bed early.

On January 2, I was up very early to catch a 4 a.m. bus that would take me across the Honduran border to the town of Copán. The bus ride itself took about six hours, but this did not include the two and a half hours spent waiting at immigration. I do not remember what took so long, and perhaps I never really knew. More likely it was the usual combination of understaffing and bureaucratic red tape that anyone who traveled regularly back then would recognize.

I had come to Copán to visit Copán Ruinas, a UNESCO World Heritage Site and once-powerful Mayan city-state at the southern edge of the Mayan world. The site is known for its artistic sophistication, with intricately carved reliefs, stelae, and statuary. Once again, I had the place almost entirely to myself, which felt especially delicious after the crowds of Antigua and Xela. There were no pushy guides—no guides at all that I can recall—and while it might have been helpful to understand more of what I was seeing, I happily wandered the ruins alone for hours, accompanied only by peccaries and scarlet macaws.

I had originally planned to stay just one day in Copán, but after such a long journey, I decided to remain another night to rest. I signed up for a horseback-riding tour through the countryside to give myself something fairly gentle to do. I had the guide all to myself, and uncharacteristically, I stayed quiet, lost in my own thoughts as we followed the Copán River and rode into the hills above town.

We stopped briefly at Hacienda San Lucas for a drink and the view, then continued on foot into the forest to see Los Sapos—a group of large Mayan stone carvings of animals, most identified as sapos, or toads, associated with fertility rites. We also passed through a small village where I was a big hit with the local children before riding back into town.

*Some of the incredible carvings to be found at Copan Ruinas*

I spent the remainder of the day organizing onward transport and wandering up and down Copán’s hilly, cobblestoned streets.

The next morning, I was up early once again. I had another very long travel day ahead of me as I crossed back into Guatemala. The border crossing was mercifully faster this time, which was good, as we still had at least eight hours of driving ahead of us to reach Flores, in the far north of the country.

I don’t remember much of that journey, and perhaps that’s for the best. It was sunny and warm, everyone seemed in good spirits, and for reasons I still don’t understand, the driver never collected my fare. I only realized this after being dropped off in central Flores, with a pocketful of Honduran lempiras that were now completely useless.

Because we departed Copán at a more reasonable hour, I had more sleep, but I didn’t arrive in Flores until late afternoon. There was little to do but find a place to stay, eat, stock up on snacks, and make a plan for the following day.

*I was convinced a croc would launch itself at me from the depths of Lake Yaxha*

I visited the Yaxhá Archaeological Site, the third-largest Mayan site in Guatemala, about two hours from Flores by bus. Yaxhá receives far fewer visitors than nearby Tikal, and once again I found myself among only a handful of tourists. The site is less excavated, with many smaller temples still wrapped in jungle, vines, and tree roots—reminding me a little of Angkor Wat.

Yaxhá sits near a lake, and from the top of its tallest structure, Temple 216, there is a sweeping view across the rainforest canopy and out toward the horizon. I sat there for a long while, listening to howler monkeys below and thinking about history, culture, and nature.

Later, I wandered down to the lake and stepped onto a long pier. Only a few months earlier, the television show Survivor had been filmed there. I knew crocodiles lived in those waters, and although I didn’t see any, I felt distinctly uneasy standing at the edge. I asked another traveler to take my photo, put on my bravest face, and then quickly scampered back to terra firma.

The following morning, I boarded the 5 a.m. shuttle bus for another long ride—this time to Tikal. Once a thriving Mayan capital with a population of perhaps 100,000, Tikal is astonishing in scale. With more than 3,000 structures, it is one of the largest Mayan cities ever built. Temple IV, at roughly 230 feet, is the tallest standing Mayan structure.

Tikal is popular, and unlike Copán and Yaxhá, I had plenty of company. After several days of solitude, I didn’t mind. Tourists are allowed to climb many of the pyramids, and standing in the Great Plaza, surrounded by immense stone structures, one feels dwarfed by history. Sitting atop a pyramid and watching tiny figures move below, I felt strangely grand myself.

When the crowds became too loud, I wandered onto quieter paths toward smaller temples. I saw monkeys, macaws, and even a few coatimundis. At one point I realized I had been alone a little too long and began imagining a jaguar around the next bend. That was my cue to head back.

I spent hours exploring before catching the 4 p.m. shuttle back to Flores, arriving just in time for dinner and another early night of deep, exhausted sleep.

On my last day in Guatemala, I avoided long bus rides and flew from Flores to Guatemala City. With only part of the day left and thoroughly worn down from so many early mornings and long walks, I stayed close to town.

The flight was thankfully unremarkable. I spent one night in a gated guesthouse with bars on the windows. After two weeks of travel with little thought to security, the precautions were jarring. I stayed inside all evening. The next morning, I went to the airport early and flew back to the United States.

May 24, 2026 by trs

Guatemala December 2005: Xela and Tajumulco

This is the second post about my December 2005 trip to Guatemala.

*Earliest rays of sun at the top of Tajumulco Volcano*

I decided to head to Quetzaltenango—Xela for short—early instead of staying in Pana another day. It is always tricky, the first day or so: with only limited time to see a country, do I stay in one place that is nice or head to another place that might be nicer? I thought to move on.

The tourist shuttle bus would cost $20. That seemed crazy to me, since I had spent just over $2 to come on the “chicken bus” from Guatemala City. The chicken bus to Xela would cost exactly $2, and the shuttle lady’s best argument was that it would save me maybe half an hour. If this was supposed to scare me into parting with my money, it didn’t work. I took the chicken bus.

Right on time, the 8 a.m. direct chicken bus pulled up and I got on. It wasn’t even as cramped as the bus the day before. There were stunning vistas of dry, dusty villages, corn fields, and deep valleys. A little before arriving I realized I did not know where in Xela I would be deposited, and then I looked at the guidebook and discovered Xela is Guatemala’s second-largest city—and the bus station is nowhere near the center of town. Oops.

I hopped off at one of the most chaotic bus terminals I have ever seen. There were food stalls, handicrafts, and a smoking trash pile. A taxi driver told me it would cost 30 quetzals to the center. That was highway robbery to me, twice as much as my two-and-a-half-hour ride had just cost. I pushed on through a maze of shops and a huge market and finally found microbuses—busitos—that would take me to the center for one quetzal. I patted myself on the back for not giving in.

I found my way to a small hostel, deposited my bags, and set out to explore Xela. That took about ten minutes. Okay, maybe twenty. The main thing to see is Parque Centroamérica in the center, a small green expanse about the size of a soccer field, surrounded by neoclassical buildings. I sat on a bench in the sun and wrote in my journal. No one bothered me. One guy headed straight for me and sat next to me even with open bench space all around, but after a few minutes of me staring at my journal, he just got up and left. So different from my experience in Spain a few years before when such a guy would surely have tried to sit closer and grope me a bit before leaving.

Back when planning my trip to Guatemala, I discovered that within Guatemala’s borders lies Central America’s highest peak. Having recently returned from my less-than-successful (though fun) attempt at Mount Kinabalu, Southeast Asia’s highest peak, I thought I should give this one a try. I found Quetzaltrekkers, a non-profit run entirely by volunteers, with climber fees going to La Escuela de la Calle (the School of the Street), a school for poor children in Guatemala. Even better, they offered two-day trips up and down Volcán Tajumulco.

Before the trek, I headed over to Quetzaltrekkers to confirm my registration. On the way there, an old wrinkled Maya woman about four feet tall beckoned me to a doorway. She wanted help getting down a step, which was probably a foot tall. I understood she wanted help, but when I went over and stood next to her, she grabbed onto me. She just used me to balance herself—and then she would not let go.

She gabbed away at me in Spanish, her little face shining with kindness. She asked where I wanted to go, and I told her Quetzaltrekkers; she told me she knew the way. It was hard for me to slow down to the pace of an old four-foot-tall woman, but she just smiled at me, clutched my arm, and prattled on. When we met people along the way, she would say look at me, and point to me, her friends laughing when they saw her on the arm of a tall blonde foreigner. She took me right to the door of Quetzaltrekkers, then held me by both hands, wished me a wonderful New Year, and pulled me down for a good hug. She was one of the best parts of Xela.

On Wednesday evening I met at the Quetzaltrekkers office in Xela to learn the basics. Tajumulco is 4,220 meters—13,845 feet. We would start our climb at 3,000 meters, where you can already begin to feel altitude sickness, and carry all of our gear up to 4,000 meters where we would camp for the night. There is no accommodation on the mountain.

I met our volunteer guides, Paul from Ireland and Irina from Bulgaria, plus an impressively international group: two Americans (yours truly included), a Canadian, a Japanese man, a couple from the Czech Republic, a couple from Germany, two Israeli soldiers, and an Irish woman.

Then came gear assignments. Everyone had a plate, spoon, and cup. I carried the spice kit—salt, pepper, cinnamon, Tabasco sauce, coffee, tea, sugar, and cream—and, famously, a bag of pasta that must have weighed a few pounds. We were told to buy at least 4.5 liters of water per person; I ended up with five liters. Since one liter weighs one kilogram, that was eleven pounds of water alone. Add the pasta and my other stuff and I was carrying about twenty to twenty-five pounds. That doesn’t sound like much until you realize you’ll be hauling it uphill for hours at 3,000–4,000 meters.

*I am all smiles at the start of our trek*

We met at 4:45 a.m., crammed into a small truck to Terminal Minerva, and took chicken buses toward San Marcos. I slept most of the way, waking once to find us lurching across a bit of road that appeared to be half missing—probably washed away in a mudslide—gazing out at the unguarded edge of a drop-off. I went back to sleep. Sometimes it is just better not to know.

Another bus later we were dropped on the side of the road near where we would begin our hike. A young family living in the house next to where we disembarked stared at us with wide curious eyes. This was the beginning of what I have come to call “Gringos are Funny.” We just do funny things like ride chicken buses for fun and climb volcanoes with large backpacks.

With our packs on, we crossed the street and climbed a steep embankment. Ten minutes later we reached a clearing overlooking corn fields, with a view of our destination—the summit of Volcán Tajumulco—ahead of us. It seemed an awfully long way away, and I was already tired and needed to pee. The sun was out and the temperature rose to maybe 75 degrees. Most people were converting their pants into shorts and stripping down to t-shirts. Not me. I would be trekking in a mid-weight long-sleeve shirt and nylon running pants. While everyone else looked like they were going trekking, I looked like I was heading to a track meet. Great.

I headed to some bushes with toilet paper and a little dog trailing behind me. The night before I had bought a package of three Pengüitos—like Hostess cupcakes—for a treat along the way, and the dog could smell them a mile away. It isn’t very easy to heed the call of nature in the open while defending your chocolate cupcakes from a hungry mutt, but there was no way that dog was going to get my reward snack.

After a quick round of introductions and the talk about the “shit kit” (toilet paper plus a small garden hoe), we set off. For the first stretch we followed a dusty track the locals drive as far as they can before walking. Within minutes my fairly new white Nikes were coated with dark dust. We passed a chicken bus parked with a tremendous view of the valley below and then what I called the road rally: locals’ trucks parked where they finally accepted they couldn’t drive any higher. In the distance we could hear firecrackers, and small plumes of black smoke rose from the summit.

Then the trail got steep and uneven and the rest of the group began to pull ahead. Oh darn it. I didn’t want to be the last one, but I didn’t want to race up the mountain either and kill myself. Every time I rounded a bend and saw the group resting, they would see me and get up and go again, so I felt like I could not rest. We’d barely been going an hour and I began to think I wasn’t going to make it. Those “whose stupid idea was this?” thoughts were running through my mind.

*A chicken bus near the start of our trek*

Paul stayed back with me and finally I handed over a water bottle. My pack felt immensely lighter. When I reached a grassy knoll where the others were resting—and did not get up when I approached—I felt quite good. So good that I treated myself to one of the chocolate cupcakes. I joked that they would have to wait for me; after all, I was carrying the pasta.

After that I hit my stride. Whole families of Guatemalans and Mexicans climbed down past us: children walking, babies strapped to mothers, old women, men smoking or talking on their cell phones. The women and girls wore traditional Mayan clothes and plastic shoes, some with heels, and few carried anything that looked like gear. They looked at us and our packs and laughed. Gringos are funny.

After about three hours we reached the lunch spot and had a little feast. Then the food coma hit, along with a deep dislike of putting our backpacks back on. We pushed on anyway, and about forty minutes later reached our campsite. What elation! I practically skipped.

We set up tents—or rather, I watched while others set up tents. I still have yet to put up a tent in my life. To redeem myself I went off in search of firewood, dragged back two giant logs, and then learned they were too green to use. Oh well. I still carried the pasta.

Most of us climbed the lower of the two peaks to watch the sunset. From the top the sight was incredible: other volcano peaks broke through fluffy cloud cover, and one cloud in tornado shape whirled up from the crater below. As the sun set, clouds poured in from all around us obscuring the view, but we knew we had already been incredibly fortunate.

Back at camp the pasta was finally freed from my backpack and prepared. We ate pasta with red sauce and cheese, bread, and soup, and toasted marshmallows after dinner. By 8 o’clock I was ready for bed. We would wake at 4:30 a.m. to climb the highest part for sunrise. I figured that gave me eight and a half hours of sleep. Great.

But I didn’t sleep. Even layered up, I froze. My hips felt as if ice lay on top of them and my feet never got warm. I lay curled up in my sleeping bag, crushed in a tent with six people, listening to the shouts and firecrackers from the Guatemalans camped nearby, and waiting for morning.

At last Paul woke us. For the final ascent we left the big packs and carried warm clothes and headlamps. We passed camps where Guatemalans had stayed warm with roaring fires, and I felt very envious. Then the climb became steep, my stomach churned, and my breathing got labored. In the dark, large families passed us on narrow switchbacks, and I was amazed to see older women in skirts and plastic shoes climbing by with no light at all.

How glad I was to reach the top—though it was short-lived. I was only glad because I wasn’t nauseous anymore. Unfortunately, it was very, very cold. Firecrackers boomed overhead. At one point someone set off a rocket that went sideways instead of up and there were yells of “look out” as I ducked. My patience, like the air, was thin. I willed the sun to rise quickly.

At long last the sun peeked up over the horizon. Volcanoes around Antigua and Xela poked up through a thick white blanket of clouds, and there was even a puff of smoke above the active Fuego volcano. I took my requisite picture to prove I was there and then hopped around trying to warm up.

We climbed down a different way, around the crater. It was beautiful, but my prevailing thought was the likelihood that I was going to die by slipping on loose gravel and falling into the crater or over the edge. I moved like a person in a horror film: one in front of the other. In the end Paul had to hold my hand as I tremblingly inched down the gravel. The worst part wasn’t even near any crater or drop-off. I’m just scared of loose gravel. Thankfully only Paul and one of the Czech guys saw my fear; the others had nimbly, like mountain goats, leaped happily down the trail.

*Another incredible view from atop Tajumulco*

Back at camp we ate oatmeal with cinnamon, packed up, and—much to my delight—one of the Germans took the remaining pasta. On the way down we all picked up garbage the Guatemalans had thrown all over the trail (much to their delight—Gringos are funny).

The trip down felt like a blur: the long trek back, buses to San Marcos and Xela, and finally the walk from Terminal Minerva to the Quetzaltrekkers office. Somehow, we managed. I was exhausted. I took a room at Casa Argentina, where the Quetzaltrekkers office is located, rather than try to find another place. I had grand visions of a long, steamy shower, but had to make do with a lukewarm trickle. I could barely stay awake for dinner and crawled into bed around 9 p.m. I slept well, having finally reached my first highest peak.

May 17, 2026 by trs

Guatemala December 2005: Arrival and Lake Atitlan

Back in the day, I used to do a fair amount of backpacking. I’d take off for a week or a month, head to another country, and make my way around by whatever inexpensive means I could manage. Along the way, I wrote travelogues of my adventures and sent them to friends and family.

I miss those days.

Every so often, I dig up one of those old travelogues, dust it off, and share it here on my blog. In December 2005, I spent two weeks traveling through Guatemala. Unfortunately, I only ever wrote up the first part of the trip—but here it is. Part one of two.

I arrived in Guatemala City blurry-eyed and stiff just before 6 a.m. Guate time. But by the time I stepped through immigration, I was ready to face the day. Then the most amazing thing happened: I walked through the sliding doors past Customs (though there was no Customs to speak of) and out onto the street, and not a single person accosted me.

I had prepared to stand firm through the throngs of taxi drivers and tour-mongers who would attack me the second I emerged into the Guatemalan air. But there was no one. For a second this took me aback and I didn’t know what to do next. I bought a water with my newly exchanged quetzals so that I would have small change. Again, this was done without a hitch. I was getting suspicious.

Across the street I found a small taxi counter with a signboard. One guy asked me if I wanted a taxi and I said no and he went away. Another approached and tortured me with Spanish for a while; when he was satisfied I had very little clue what he was talking about, he used a few words of perfect English to ask me where I wanted to go. He quoted me the same amount on the signboard—eleven U.S. dollars to the bus station. It seemed a bit much, but I shrugged and said okay, sí.

Perhaps ten minutes later he stopped in front of a closed building with a garage. There wasn’t a sign of life except for an old man sitting on a step. Here, the driver told me, is where the buses to Panajachel depart. I felt a little concerned about getting out on a near-deserted street in Guatemala City at 6:20 in the morning. The old man conveyed the news that I had just missed the 6 a.m. bus but another would depart at 7, in forty minutes. Luckily, just as the taxi began to drive away, the bus station attendants arrived and opened up the garage, revealing a small and dirty courtyard where three buses were parked. I sat down on a bench—which was really just a bus seat—and prepared to wait.

At 7 a.m. nothing happened. By 7:15, by some magic, everyone suddenly got onto the bus. There were eleven other people on board, and I was easily the tallest person by at least half a foot. This made me quite happy for some reason and I mentally clapped myself on the back.

And then we drove about ten minutes to the same road where the bus signposts and lines of waiting people stood. And there we sat until 8 a.m. Grrr. Probably if the driver had just left me here in the first place I would have made that 6 a.m. bus that probably really left at 6:15 and sat here while I sat on a green bus chair in a courtyard for forty minutes.

At 8 the bus took off, drove maybe two minutes down the road, and stopped to pick up more people. Three people squeezed into the space where really only two could fit comfortably. I was now mashed up against the side of the bus, my shoulders crunched together, my legs piled on top of one another atop my smaller backpack. They would not move for the entire trip to Panajachel—a good two and a half hours away. I downgraded the measure of my success thus far.

To add to my depression, the “one-armed” man boarded the bus to plead for donations. We were captive, all mashed into the bus like sardines. At first I noticed he did indeed have an arm he was hiding under his shirt and wondered if he really thought we would buy the one-arm story. Then he pulled his sweatshirt up to reveal his thin limp arm, with what appeared to be a bullet hole, severe bruising, and blood near his shoulder. I heard the word accidente but didn’t know what to make of it. It was grotesque but fascinating. The other passengers pulled out change to give him. I toyed with the thought of giving him five quetzals, my smallest bill, but I did not yet know what it could buy—and before I could make up my mind, the bus slowed and he got off.

Thankfully, out the window I spied the near-perfect cone of a volcano in the distance and was cheered. The sun was out, it was going to be a beautiful day, and I fell asleep.

About two and a half hours on windy mountain roads we approached Panajachel—Pana for short—on the banks of Lake Atitlán. From high on the road into town, the lake shimmered for miles and blue volcanoes rose in a ring around it. I tried to take a few photos from the bus, which involved unpinning my arms from their crushed position and then trying to steady my hand as much as possible. How much I missed my lame first-class seat on the second flight—the cushions, the pillow, the ability to move. The attempt resulted in blurry photos of shrubbery overlaid with the reflection of my hands and the camera in the window. I gave up with trying to record the moments for posterity.

It took another thirty minutes to make it down the mountain road to lakeside Pana. I hobbled down the road on near-useless legs, apparently having already grown unaccustomed to actually providing locomotion. I had a few missions to attend to before I could explore: (1) find out my location; (2) find accommodation and put down my bag; (3) pee; (4) eat. Within fifteen minutes I had found my way along one of the dusty main roads and found myself a little room. Then I headed to lunch.

Almost as soon as I sat myself at a little table, I became the target of aggressive sales tactics by cute little Maya girls dressed in traditional finery. The first was about eight or nine, with her wares—pretty dyed scarves—perched on her head. She crouched beside my table and began her pitch in Spanish. Isn’t it lovely, she said. Very good price. I don’t want any, I said. Very good present for your mother. My mother wouldn’t like that, I said. Then perfect for your sister? Nope, she wouldn’t like it either. Then good for your friend. Sadly, I said, I do not have any friends.

She was not deterred. She tried other color combinations and asked me my name, where I was from, how long I had been in Guatemala. The first scarf she showed me was rather nice. She was so cute. My resolve began to disappear. I asked if I might take her photo. She told me the scarf and one photo would cost me fifteen quetzals. I gave in.

Unfortunately for me, her friends saw the transaction and immediately descended. One sold scarves, another bracelets; then came a man with carved wooden knives, a boy with embroidered “Guatemala” pens, and more of the same. Waiting for my food, I was a sitting duck. It was, after all, my first day in Guatemala; I had not perfected my mean grouchy replies or stony-silence tactic to such merchants. I focused very deeply on my nachos and guacamole while repeating, “No lo necesito. No lo necesito,” until they drifted away.

I finished lunch feeling overwhelmed.

Now that my immediate needs had been met—and I was the owner of a new scarf—I headed down to the lakeside. People lounged along a stone wall overlooking the water. A lanchara (who knows if they are called this or I just made it up—basically a boatman) tried to get fares to other towns around the lake. Having just eaten, I didn’t really feel up to bouncing across the lake on a motorized vessel, so I sat for a bit. According to the guidebook I could walk to Santa Catarina in about one hour. After so much sitting, a walk sounded perfect. It being one in the afternoon, I figured I could walk a few hours and then come back by boat in time for sunset, an early dinner, and bed.

Five minutes in, I hit a huge problem: a dry riverbed about fifty feet across and no bridge in sight. What was more perplexing was that no river was in sight either—just rock and sand, men digging, dust flying. I returned to the stone wall and went down to the lakeside to cross along the water. Two small streams were jumpable; the third was a good five feet across. I had my good Nikes on and was not in a wading mood, so I followed the stream up and found a log laid across the surprisingly rapid water. Small detour, but now I was across.

*Mayan women walk along the road along Lake Atitlan*

On the other side families picnicked under trees and enterprising people sold grilled chicken, ice cream, and fruit. I bought fresh coconut and felt instantly better—except then the wonderful sunscreen/bug spray I had on my face began to drip into my eyes stinging them terribly. I stumbled about half blind with tears streaming from my eyes. I probably looked drunk. I mopped my forehead dry and onward I walked.

Soon the path grew narrow and I ignored a Private Property sign, prepared to play the idiot gringa. Then the path narrowed to barely wide enough to fight through the foliage and ended at a private beach. Heavy sigh. I retraced my steps and asked a couple for directions. They told me this was the old path, and now I had to walk along the main road—turning right just after the house with all the boats.

Approaching it from the other side, I wondered how I could possibly have missed it. The yard was literally littered with boats in varying stages of repair. I made my way up to the main highway, looked at my watch, and realized it was already 1:30 and I was basically where I started. So much for making it in an hour. I almost turned back, but now I felt committed, so I turned right toward Santa Catarina.

Not much to say of the walk. The road was dusty but paved and snaked around the hills. Occasionally it opened to incredible views—the sun shining high on the lake, volcanoes wrapped in cloud. The last ten minutes into Santa Catarina were all downhill. The town seemed simple: small houses and a large white (but unimpressive) church the guidebook kindly called gleaming. I took the path down to the lakeside and sat in a small restaurant along the shore with a Coke and some more chips and guacamole, enjoying that no one pressed me to buy. Apparently the boats there were only for private hire—a price I didn’t even inquire about, figuring it to be more than I wanted to spend.

It was nearing 3:30 and I figured even if I walked on to the next town and it really took only an hour, the boats were likely also only for private hire. Feeling restored, I decided to walk back to Panajachel. The walk did take an hour this time and I felt very pleased with myself. I arrived in time to take a quick shower (I looked dreadful) and then headed down to see the sunset. It was pretty but not spectacular. I had dinner, and then, exhausted, dragged myself off to sleep at 8 p.m.

February 19, 2025 by trs

A Weekend Getaway to Melaka, February 2003

*Lunar New Year’s decorations in the Chinese areas of Melaka*

With current events being what they are, I thought this would be a good time to get into my way back machine and revisit a trip I took a long time ago. To go back to before I worked for the federal government, back before I was a mom, and before I grew old and my parents older. From July 2002 to July 2003, I lived in Singapore while pursuing a Master’s in Southeast Asian Studies. As Kismet would have it, a few months into my degree I discovered my high school friend CC was also in the country working at an advertising agency. CC and I decided to take a weekend and head up the Malaysian peninsula to Melaka together.

Melaka is but a quick, comfortable four-hour bus ride from central Singapore. I met CC early on a Saturday for the journey. All I remember is the bus was nice and CC and I talked the whole time. I know it must have been an easy trip as I do not recall anything special about it. I have been on very many types of transport around the world, and though it’s nice to have a straightforward trip, it’s the uncomfortable and weird journeys that make the best stories.

*A traditional Straits Chinese shophouse building in Melaka*

Melaka (spelled “Malacca” by the British) is quite possibly Malaysia’s most famous city outside of the capital. Owing to its strategic location halfway along the Strait of Malacca, a long-vital maritime route, and at the mouth of the Melaka River, Melaka has served as a crossroads, port, and home for many cultures over the centuries. In the 1400s it was the seat of a sultanate, from 1511-1641 a possession of the Portuguese, from 1641 to 1824 a Dutch holding, then ceded to the British until Malaysia’s independence in 1957. Chinese envoys and tradespeople made Melaka a key commercial stop and immigration destination. As I wrote in 2003: It is a fascinating little city with architectural representations of each of its colonial rulers and the Malay, Chinese, and Muslim influences of its past and present. It seems like a place out of time, an almost European city plunked down in tropical Southeast Asia, with a Muslim Malay population with a heavily Chinese influence.

We stayed at the Eastern Heritage Guesthouse, an inexpensive lodging house in a traditional southern Chinese shophouse on Jalan Bukit Cina (China Hill Street) near the city center. Percentage Boy was the front desk clerk and jack of all trades at the Eastern Heritage Guesthouse. When we stopped in to inquire about a vacancy, we asked to see the room first. We thought it was nice, but CC wanted a room with an attached bath, and the Eastern Heritage Guesthouse didn’t have any. We asked Percentage Boy if he knew of other places with similar prices and attached baths nearby. He assured us there were some, but mentioned that approximately 75% of visitors to his guesthouse decided to stay. After some discussion, we, too, came around to Percentage Boy’s persuasive nature. It was after all only 22 ringgit a night, which came out to 11 ringgit each or six and a half Singapore dollars each or four U.S. dollars each. We were sold.

*The Peranakan-style necklace I bought; it’s still one of my favorites*

Downstairs, as we entered our details in the guesthouse registry, I asked Percentage Boy if he spoke Malay, hoping to practice mine. He mentioned that he knew about 80% of Malay. I then asked about his Chinese. He responded that he spoke approximately 10% Chinese, about 90% English, 5% German, and 5% Italian. I tried not to roll my eyes. As CC and I exited, he provided us with a map and suggested we might be interested in the Laser Light show, as nearly 95% of his guests had reported enjoying it. However, the lady at the tourist information center informed us that the show was not running at the moment, although we discovered the next day that it had been. I wondered what percentage of visitors received the wrong information from Tourist Info Lady.

The Eastern Heritage Guesthouse, now permanently closed, sat about midway down a street of faded Chinese shophouses built in a style typical of the Straits Chinese. Downstairs the front of the building facing the street housed the family’s shop, while in the back and upstairs the family home. While living in Singapore, I visited the National Museum of Singapore during an exhibition on the Straits Chinese and was keen to see more of the culture.

Also known as Peranakan or Baba Nonya culture, the early southern Chinese who arrived on the Malay peninsula between the 14th and 17th centuries developed a unique amalgamation of Malay, Dutch, and Chinese culture. Their beautiful shophouses line many of the streets in Melaka; several have been turned into graceful hotels, interesting boutiques, and atmospheric restaurants.

*The Standhuys, or city hall, built by the Dutch in 1650*

CC and I walked towards the historic center of Melaka to take in what is known as Red Dutch Square, an area characterized by 17th- and 18th-century Dutch buildings, including the Stadthuys or “city hall” (considered the oldest Dutch building in Asia) and the Dutch Anglican Christ Church (the oldest Protestant Church in Malaysia), and supplemented later by the British, who built the free school and the Queen Victoria fountain, and the Chinese, who built the clocktower. We next visited the ruins of the Portuguese Church of St. Paul, built between 1566 and 1590.

*Some of the hell money I bought in Melaka*

We poked about in shops, had a fantastic foot reflexology session, and gobbled up delicious wood-fired pizza in a refurbished shophouse. We also strolled through the Jonker Street Night Market, which was certainly lively, but lacked the jostling crowds we had experienced in Singapore.

While window shopping, I found a large stock of “hell money,” incense paper resembling various currencies, used in Chinese ancestral worship. By burning the currencies, people transfer funds from the living world to their deceased family members in the spirit world to ensure they will have sufficient funds in the afterlife to buy necessities and luxuries, pay bribes, or atone for their sins. Most hell money notes are high denominations. As a long-time currency collector, I had to buy some to add some to my collection.

*The evocative ruins of the Portuguese Church of St. Paul*

On our second and last day, Percentage Boy had one more opportunity to impress us with his statistical knowledge: At breakfast the next morning, Percentage Boy asked if we wanted toast with jam or eggs. We both ordered the egg, which seemed to confuse the boy as he noted that 75% of female guests ordered the toast and 90% of male guests ordered the eggs. We explained that we were hungry women. He seemed dubious.

Before we left Melaka we took a riverboat tour and met the talkative tour guide, whom I dubbed Loquacious Captain. We should have guessed something was up when his disembodied yet friendly voice welcomed us on board through the intercom with “Welcome. Welkommen. Selamat Datang. Huanying.” This guy was full of character. He gave tons of information about the town of Melaka, the sights along the river, and just about everything else. Every monitor lizard we saw along the river had a name: Antonio Banderas, Sean Connery, Michael Douglas, Catherine Zeta-Jones, and Charlie. He spent much of the return journey saying goodbye to us…in as many languages as possible: “I would like to thank you on behalf of the tourist office of Melaka, myself, the boat captain, the crew, the Ministry of Tourism of Malaysia, the Prime Minister, and all the people of Malaysia– Thank You, Terima Kasih, Xie Xie, Arigato, Gracias, Merci, Danke Shon, Selamat Po, and for my friends from Russia Spaciba, to the Koreans Kamsahamnida, Shukriya to our Hindi friends, we want to thank all of you and to say Goodbye, So long, Farewell, Adios, Arrivederci, Ciao, Zaijian, Selamat jalan, Salaam, Adieu, G’day mates to those from Australia, Cheerios to our friends from Britain, Au revoir, Auf Wiedersehen, Aloha to the Hawaiians, Namaste, Sayonara, Do Svidanja to our Russian friends, thank you and goodbye, and as they say in Texas, you all come back now ya hear.”

I wish I had written more about and taken more photos of our trip to Melaka. It was a long time ago and a quick trip. Someday, I would love to return with my daughter. Five years after my visit Melaka, along with the Malaysian city of George Town, was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site for its extraordinary blend of cultures and architectural styles. I hope the designation has led to funding and visitor interest in protecting this beautiful town. Though the faded, peeling paint jobs, broken shutters, and crumbling facades provided a certain atmosphere, future generations deserve to enjoy them too.

March 8, 2022 by trs

The Failed Conquest of Kinabalu: Part Two

This is the second of two posts recalling my September 2005 attempt to climb up Mount Kinabalu, Southeast Asia’s highest mountain. This was written soon after my trip in an email to friends and family.

Laban Rata Guesthouse was, at first, an oasis. Smiling, bubbling trekkers (happy I think not only to have made it to this point on the trek but to have also gotten out of the rain) bustled about or sat at tables munching down on warm bowls of noodles and sipping cups of steaming beverages. I had a bowl of chicken ramen and AG had Tom Yam soup. He had tea and I had hot Milo. And we just sat there slurping away, our hands caressing the hot bowls and mugs, content to have arrived. I did not want to take off my wet clothes because I knew that soon enough we would have to slosh our way back down the hill a little ways to the Waras Huts, now synonymous in our minds to the worst possible accommodation imaginable. This was especially true when we learned the Waras Huts were not heated!!! I could not help but stammer dumbfounded at the receptionist: “You have got to be kidding. Why would you have an unheated dormitory on the top of a mountain at 3300 meters (10,826 feet)??” I mean, really? Why have 100 beds in heated dormitories and then have just 16 or 24 beds in an unheated hut?? Why be that cruel?

AG tried to convince them they wanted to upgrade us, but they were very, very firm that they were full in the main lodge. So, I changed into my dry clothes, and we hung out in the main lodge as long as we could (the downstairs was not heated either) and then rolled up our pants legs, put on some flip flops, put our wet trainers in a bag, put our emergency ponchos back on, and braved the storm outside. I managed to get my flip flop stuck in a big muddy puddle, but I was back in good spirits and laughed about it. I also laughed when AG’s rain slicker he had tied around his waist fell down and it looked like he had lost his pants and he was hopping around trying to fix it while the rain pelted him. I think the thin air was getting to me, too.

But then we were faced with the reality of the Waras Huts. It was cold and sparse. A single thin blanket on each of the eight dorm beds in our room. Four slatted windows rattled in the wind allowing cold air to blow in. The bathrooms were outside; one had to brave the elements and leap over a big cold muddy puddle in order to pee. Oh, it was a joy to behold. We must have stood incredulous for a few minutes. They had to be kidding, right? We chose a lower bunk and decided it would be ours, figuring the only way we would survive the night is if we huddled together. We took our two blankets, put on all our dry clothes and huddled. But the drafts from the windows were terrible. We switched to another bed that was not under the windows, and when it became clear that we were sharing the room with only one other person we grabbed 2 more blankets from the other beds. Then AG fashioned two other blankets into large drapes over the drafty windows. Our poor dormitory-mate was left with his one blanket, though he didn’t seem to mind (seeing as how we had covered the windows) and he had on some pretty warm looking gear and made himself into a blanket cocoon. We missed dinner, but I didn’t really care because I could not face going outside again. AG did brave the elements one more time around 8 PM to get water and ask one more time if there was ANY way at all for us to move up to the main lodge. None.

We woke at 2:30 AM, although truth be told, even with four blankets we were never really warm enough to sleep well. The rain had stopped in the early evening the night before, but the wind was still high and the fog thick. The fog was, in fact, terrible – visibility was no more than 10 feet. Our guide had told us the night before if the weather remained bad, we could not climb. Although the rain had stopped, the low clouds threatened rain at any moment. The summit climb involved holding on to ropes while walking over granite. The ropes and rocks would be slick from the constant rain of the day before. Usually, the clouds roll in about 30 minutes to an hour after sunrise. With the cloud cover already well in place, there would be no views at all of the mountain or the surrounding area. And a climb that is already a tough one would become very risky. Folks have been known to fall off the mountain (I only confirmed this afterwards). I was not having warm fuzzy feelings about it.

We decided to ask around to other climbers to see what they were thinking. It seemed most were not going to try the climb – though of those polled in the lodge it was probably 50-50. Except that most had not even bothered to get out of their warm beds. Our dormitory-mate had not moved from his cocoon, so it looked like he was not climbing. In fact, none of the other people in the Waras Huts were climbing. One guy said that his guide had told him he had climbed the mountain 502 times, and this is the worst he had ever seen it. Sounded great! I asked one group why they would climb if they would see nothing but mist and one guy said “George Mallory: Because it’s there.” “Yeah”, I said, “but he died.” “Good point,” the climber said, but they were still going to give it a go.

AG and I decided to question our guide. AG asked Janeul very slowly what did he think of the conditions? Janeul looked thoughtful. “Is it dangerous?” AG asked. “Yes, dangerous,” said Janeul. “So should we climb?” AG asked. “Yes, can climb,” said Janeul sagely. What? Janeul just said it was very dangerous, very slippery, but if we would climb, he would climb. Passed the buck right on to us. I wanted Janeul to say there was no one in his/her right mind that would climb the mountain in these conditions so that I could in good conscious say, well I tried, but the guide said we would kill ourselves, so what can you do? This lackadaisical-leave-it-in-the-climbers-hands made us look like chickens. I did not like that one bit. I WANTED to climb. I had not flown halfway around the world for a week to almost climb a mountain. But I also was not interested in getting myself killed to see nothing but fog. Frankly, I was not even interested in being very, very cold and wet and scared to see nothing but fog.

View from Laban Rata Guesthouse up the mountain — that is not snow, but rock

Thus, we decided not to climb. We sat in the cold lounge and played a few games of cards. Some groups who had started off for the summit returned noting the conditions were poor and they had had to turn back. AG went to see if someone in one of the heated rooms would take pity on us and let us sleep in the beds of those who had decided to make the stupid climb. Success – and for two hours we huddled in a very warmly heated room while cursing the Waras Huts. (I can still remember – perhaps the most vivid of my memories of this trip – the sheer pleasure of snuggling beneath the cheap, scratchy, but substantial blanket in a top bunk in a toasty room. I feel into a deeply satisfying sleep). At 6:30 am we were up again and went down for breakfast, but we were too early. With nothing really to do, we decided to trek down as soon as it was light. Just before leaving the lodge Janeul told us we should get our climbing certificates, BUT since we had not climbed to the summit we could only get SECOND CLASS certificates. Well, no thank you! I think even if someone does not climb to the very top because of dangerous fog, but they climb up two-thirds of the darn mountain in cold, driving rain and stay the night in the Waras Huts then they deserve a FIRST CLASS certificate. But obviously Janeul thought differently. I just know he thought we were chicken. I was pretty sure on the way down when we would pass Malay porters heading up they would ask “Hey, Janeul how goes it? Did your people climb?” and Janeul would answer in Malay “No, these two are big chickens.”

The trek down was rather pleasant. I was disappointed, yes, but also relieved. The fog was still thick, but the air was crisp and fresh. As we were one of the first groups to start down, the trail was quiet, with only the occasional porter bringing up a sack of rice or a propane tank. There were only the sounds of water trickling, birds singing, frogs croaking, and the swish of the wind through the tropical leaves. It was beautiful. We practically flew down. AG almost ran at parts. I, however, was not so sure of my feet. About halfway down, it started to rain again and we donned those emergency ponchos once more, but by then we were under the forest canopy by then and it did not really bother us. We were thrilled though when we reached the waterfall and knew we had only five more minutes of trail. We celebrated under the Timphonon Gate with a Coca-cola each.

From here it was a whirlwind of vans and taxis and planes. The story should have ended there, except that it turns out mountain climbing immediately followed by over 24 hours of transportation may not be a good recipe. Back to Kinabalu by minibus, a few hours wait at a guesthouse, then a flight to Johor Bahru, Malaysia, then a taxi into Singapore and the airport, then a flight back to Washington, D.C. All with very little sleep – and certainly not sleep that would allow me to be horizontal. When we came down the mountain, AG and I kept remarking about how good we felt, that our legs felt absolutely fine. No cramping. No pain. We chalked it up to being pretty darn fit. How wrong we were!

By the time I was boarding my flight in Singapore back to the U.S. my calves were starting to ache. I could hardly lift my legs while on the plane and ended up sitting for far too long. By the time I arrived back in DC, my feet, ankles, and lower legs had swollen so that my toes looked like little Vienna sausages and my ankles were no longer identifiable as separate from my log-like legs. I figured this was nothing a good night’s rest could not cure, only to wake up the next day still swollen. I hobbled off to work, avoiding stairs as much as I could. Yet after lunch, when my legs seemed to have swelled even more, I started to think maybe, just maybe, something was not quite right. I went to see the doctor on base (I worked at the National Defense University on Fort McNair in Washington, DC) and he took one look at my swollen feet and said it looked bad. He squeezed my calves and I yelped in pain. He told me I should go to the hospital to have deep vein thrombosis ruled out. He called an ambulance, and I was strapped to a chair and carried downstairs, then a gurney, and rushed off to the hospital. I waited in the emergency room for about eight hours to be seen (!), but thankfully the ultrasound revealed I did not have any blood clots, just badly swollen legs. So, I got an extra vacation day staying at home and off my feet. Thanks to Mount Kinabalu (and some spectacularly terrible planning).

Happy to pose for a photo by the trail map AFTER the return

Seventeen years later I still wish I could have stood at the summit of Mount Kinabalu, though I know given the circumstances I made the right decision at the time. I neither regret the decision nor the attempt. It is highly unlikely though I will try again; I have to accept that some things just are not meant to be finished, and that is okay.

*Just a note that in researching online to refresh my memories for this post, I found out two interesting tidbits: As a result of the 2015 earthquake, Waras Huts is currently unavailable. No great loss in my opinion! Also, due to 2009 cable damage there is no longer any heating in the Laban Rata dormitories and bathrooms. Yikes! Granted, online sites offering climbing tours these days seem far more organized than when I was there 17 years ago. There are even three day / two night packages on offer that include a night at the base of the mountain to help with acclimatization. As we could not climb the day we arrived at the park, this was ultimately what we did. Staying that unexpected night at the base — at 1,520 meters (4,980 feet) — might have actually helped us! Sometimes being unprepared works in one’s favor!

March 1, 2022 by trs

The Failed Conquest of Kinabalu (Part One)

A view of the South China Sea from Kota Kinabalu

As part of my blog, I sometimes find former travelogues I sent to friends and family of my travels before I joined the U.S. government and brush them off, spiff them up, provide some context, and then publish them here.

This is about my attempt – and ultimately, failure – to climb Southeast Asia’s largest mountain, Mount Kinabalu, located in the Malaysia state of Sabah on the island of Borneo. It is more an uphill walk than a climb, with casual climbers making the round trip in two days. Most climbers begin in the morning on day one climbing for three to six hours to a location approximately two-thirds of the way up where they overnight; then in the early morning hours they start the final ascent, returning to the base the same day. I would make this trip with my Indian friend AG, whom I had met when I studied for a master’s degree at the National University of Singapore, 2002-2003. He and a group of friends also from India had made the climb the year before.

It seems almost unbelievable to me that this trip took place in September 2005, already 17 years ago. But I enjoy going back through my old travel stories to remember the amazing things I have done. Sometimes I wonder what this younger woman was thinking! I also revisit this story at a time when we have been in the pandemic for two years and our travel has been very limited.

As per usual when I share stories of my former travels, I try to include as much as I can of what I wrote then and supplement with background information on the place and my memories. I have few photos of this excursion, largely due to the poor weather that provided few views of anything other than fog, scrubs, and muddy trails as we climbed. I imagine I was also just too tired. Though I do remember that during the summer before this climb I often put weights in my backpack and took long walks around Washington, D.C., to prepare for the hike, walking at near sea level on flat surfaces was not enough.

The mountain adventure begins with a stunningly long journey from the U.S. east coast to the Malaysian state of Sabah, located on the northeastern corner of Borneo, the world’s third largest island. This would not be my first trip to Borneo as I had visited the country of Brunei, the Malaysian state of Sarawak, and into the Indonesian state of West Kalimantan in July 2003. I had also previously visited Brunei in February of the same year.

I flew two hours from Washington, D.C. to Chicago, then 15 hours to Hong Kong, then three hours to Singapore. I arrived late the next evening. I spent three full days in Singapore catching up with friends and trying to shake some of the jet lag. On the fourth day, AG and I took a taxi from downtown Singapore to the Malaysia border. Then another taxi to the Senai International Airport and a two-hour flight to Kota Kinabalu, Sabah’s capital. Fun fact: Sabah used to be known as “Api-Api” meaning “Fire, Fire” because it was burned down so often by pirates (or so I read when I was researching my graduate thesis on maritime piracy in the region). We stay one night in Kota Kinabalu and the following morning we wake up early to catch a minibus for the two hour trip to the park entrance of Kinabalu National Park.

I could not have traveled much further away from Washington, D.C. than the mist-dusted slopes of Southeast Asia’s tallest mountain – the tallest mountain between the Himalayas and Papua New Guinea. At 4,095 meters or 13,435 feet above sea level, Mt. Kinabalu (meaning house of the spirits of the dead) is the youngest non-volcanic mountain in the world and is apparently still growing by approximately five millimeters per year. This mountain would be my challenge. I had wanted to climb this mountain before when I lived in Singapore, but when SARS hit travel plans were squashed and I let this idea go for a while. I wasn’t sure I could climb the thing anyway. It is one of those things like training for a marathon that one says they might like to do but never seem to work up the gumption to do. Oops! I AM training to run a half marathon this year. And so, it seemed time to put my mountain trekking dreams to the test.

A pitcher plant and Showy Asian Grapes at Kinabalu National Park

Up until the time that my friend AG and I set out on the trail to the top, I had a hard time imagining myself really going up the mountain. It then was no surprise to me that when we arrived at the park headquarters on Thursday that we were told that accommodation on the mountain was fully booked. Ah, here then was one of those times when my devil-may-care attitude toward reservations (and apparently AG’s too) was going to get the better of me. We tried; we really did. We asked about sleeping on the floor, about cancellations, about other ways to stay on the mountain. The hotel however only suggested that maybe we could climb up and down the mountain in one day. This option most definitely did not appeal to us, but still, we asked a guide about this option, and his look clearly indicated this would be on this side of crazy. (It seems these days permits for a one day climb are no longer offered) So, we accepted this temporary setback, made our accommodation bookings, paid all our fees for the park and guide, and then made our way to the lodge where we would be stay that night.

As we could not check in to the hotel until 1 PM, we joined a nature walk through a nearby botanical garden to learn about the flora of the area. Kinabalu Park became Malaysia’s first UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2000 due to the incredible diversity of its flora and fauna. The main plants to see – or rather what I wanted to see – were some of the orchids and the oddly fascinating pitcher plant, a carnivorous plant shaped like a pitcher with an umbrella cap. The pitcher fills with digestive fluid, bugs fall in, and the plant devours them. Even if the insects try to climb out, the downward pointing spikes at the lip of the pitcher prevent them from escaping. Really cool.

Our money was limited. I had tried to change a U.S. 100-dollar bill when in Johor (Malaysia) before flying to Sabah, but the money changer refused. Apparently the 1996 series of bills had been counterfeited one too many times by some Southeast Asian mafia. And AG’s ATM card was not working. Luckily our credit cards were accepted so we were paying for as much as we could with them to conserve our little cash. I had planned to keep expenses modest but with our spirits dwindling I opted instead to shell out big time – thus we dined very fine, stayed in a luxurious room, and had drinks by the lodge fireplace. (Unfortunately, I never wrote down the name of the lodge where we stayed. I tried searching online for clues but with nearly 20 years between now and then, I just do not know. But I recall the room – a two story loft with a sitting room with massive windows on the first floor and a king-sized bed with super soft sheets upstairs – was fancy indeed. And we watched the news that night on the large television and learned of the death of Supreme Court Justice William Rehnquist. We would have missed that had we been on the mountain.) As the rain poured down outside – though September was supposed to be still the dry season – we wondered if we should not just hang out in the lodge for three days. But I was there to climb that mountain!

Early on Friday morning we were up for breakfast. There we met a couple who had returned the day before. Although they said it had been cold and wet and their legs were now so stiff so they could not walk properly, it was “brilliant.” They passed on their walking sticks and told us to buy gloves (because one pair would get wet) and the cheap emergency ponchos to cover our bags. We made the requisite purchases (with credit card of course) then off to the park headquarters where we met our guide Janeul.

Every climbing group must have a licensed guide. Yet it was not all that clear that there was much training involved in one becoming a guide. AG said it was simply job creation, that all one needed was to be fit enough to go up and of stoic enough personality to climb the mountain again and again and again leading all manner of tourist. It was pretty clear early on that one did not need to have strong communication skills to be a guide. Janeul immediately, though in very few words, informed us he would be taking us to the Laban Rata guesthouse. Unfortunately, we would not be staying there since we had not made advance reservations, Laban Rata remained full and we had had to take accommodation in the unknown-to-us Waras Huts. AG tried to correct the guide but who only then repeated “Laban Rata” and “Please wait here five minutes.” AG noted again that we needed to go to the Waras Huts and Janeul again repeated, “Yes, Laban Rata.” So we gave up. We had the whole walk up to set this guy straight. (Though it turned out of course that we did have to go to Laban Rata to check in)

A minivan took us to Timphonon Gate, which marks the start of the mountain trail. There, decked out in our start of trek gear – shorts and t-shirts with our rain jackets tied around our waists and our small packs on our backs and our walking sticks in hand – we began. The first 50 feet is downhill, and I said, “Oh this is great!” and AG said, “Yes, Mt. Kinabalu is 4100 meters below sea level.” Ha Ha Ha! Just before the trail slopped upwards, we stopped at a small waterfall; it would be our sign when we returned that we were almost done. From there it was literally all uphill.

The first part of the trail is dirt with steps fashioned out of tree limbs and wood, clearly put together by someone with a special hatred of trekkers. These were monstrously sized steps and it seemed slow going. But we had sun and it looked like it would be a beautiful day. By the time we reached the first of the rest stops 30 minutes in I was feeling a little tired, having not quite yet hit my stride. But AG said it had taken him and friends over an hour to reach that stop the year before and I felt buoyed. We rested just a few minutes and then set out again. The sun was still out, and the mountain was lush and green. But the trees were thick, and we were still fairly low, so there were not any views.

Within half an hour the rain started to fall. It was a light rain, but we stopped to put on our five-ringgit Emergency Ponchos (made in China) to keep our bags, and spare clothes, dry. We met lots of people who were on their way down and though they were tired they were almost always full of hellos and encouragement. Mostly the trekking was just a matter of putting one foot in front of another, and while that sounds monotonous, it did not seem that way at first. Although AG and I did not trek side by side, him first being a bit faster than me and then when his legs started to cramp up, I took the lead. But we generally kept in sight of one another and at the rest stops would sit and briefly chat with ourselves and other trekkers and eat our chocolate (AG) or marathon Gu (me). Yet the rain continued, and soon became harder. As we climbed in altitude the trees became shorter until they were only shrubs. The wind picked up and instead of climbing over dirt and tree branches we were soon climbing over granite boulders awash in small rivers of rainwater. AG stood atop one high exposed boulder barely hanging on in the wind and raised his arms in jubilation and laughed. It looked scary to me, and I wondered if the thinner mountain air might be affecting his sanity. We slogged on. Now we met few others on the trail and our guide Janeul stayed closer to us. Before he would disappear, and we might look around thinking where in the world is our guide, and then suddenly he would be there again. The trail was by no means poorly defined, we didn’t really need a guide to follow, and yet it was comforting to know that someone was supposed to be looking out for us when we might become too tired to do so ourselves.

We had been trekking for three hours and now were at almost 3000 meters (9,800 feet) and I suddenly got very, very tired of walking over slick rocks, with very wet shoes, while the wind whipped my emergency poncho hood off and forced it to billow around me. I was tired of looking down to keep the hard rain out of my eyes. I was very, VERY sick of looking at grey rocks. I thought to myself if I see another G*dd**m grey boulder it will be too soon. We could see nothing of the view. There was the trail and then the low fence to keep us from wandering off the side of the mountain and then nothing but mist. We could hear the roar of a large waterfall but could not see it. Suddenly the wind was out of my sails, and I was thrilled to see the sign for Waras Huts – our mountain abode – appear before us out of the fog. But we still had to hike up another 10 minutes to the main lodge, Laban Rata, to eat and check in. But we had made it to the first leg of the hike! We also managed to do it in three and a half hours* despite the weather – what AG said took him and his friends nearly six hours last time.

Here I was – sitting in a café at 3,272 meters (10,734 feet) above sea level. The only other time I had been at this altitude was when I took a six-day tea house trek in Nepal’s Annapurna region. Then, Poon Hill at 3,210 meters (10,531 feet) had been the highest elevation and I had begun to feel the affects of altitude sickness with a tight pin-pricking headache and an intense need to move downhill. This time though while certainly fatigued and tired of the cold and wet, I was not feeling ill. Climbing the whole way was beginning to feel very possible!

*Recently, I have seen online it is recommended to take one’s time on the ascent due to the altitude and 5-6 hours is better. Ooops.

March 3, 2020 by trs

Uruguay via Buenos Aires 2005 Part 3

The final part of my week-long mini sojourn to Uruguay and Buenos Aires.

It took almost as long to get into Buenos Aires from Tigre on the bus as it took to leisurely motor along the delta from Carmelo, Uruguay. The traffic was awful and it was growing dark. I also felt a little sick because all I had had for lunch were nine small saltine crackers, two marshmallow chocolates, a mini candy bar I had left from United’s lounge in Chicago, and some water.

Once let down in the center of Buenos Aires, I determined I should take the subway to the neighborhood of San Telmo to find the hostel. I found a subway entrance and simply followed the crowd. I grew a little nervous when I realized I had reached the platform and was without a ticket; I had seen no ticket counter, no turnstiles. It was 80 degrees above ground in Buenos Aires that day, in early winter, yet the air conditioning (if there ever is any) in the underground was turned off, and with the crowds, the temperature was even warmer. The platform was already full when myself and my large backpack pushed our way into a small corner near the entrance and a shop, but people just kept coming and coming and coming. Soon it was like a sauna, and no trains arrived. In broken Spanish I asked the woman next to me where the ticket counters were and she pointed upstairs, but you could not even see upstairs anymore with the still-arriving mobs. She asked how I managed to get downstairs without a ticket, but I honestly had no clue. I saw no place to buy one and simply followed the crowd. She said it would not be a problem. I felt trapped because I saw no easy way to force my way up through that crowd. And still no trains arrived. I asked the woman how much a taxi might cost to my destination and she told me four or five pesos (about $1.50-$2.00). What? How much is the subway? Seventy centavos. Well if the taxi was only a few dollars I would much prefer to take it than suffer the rising heat of the train-less underground. But you can walk, she says, it is only 15 blocks! How wonderful to hear that someone would think that walking 15 blocks was very doable and easy! In many places the common response to a destination 15 blocks away would be that it was far too distant to walk. Another young man offered to go upstairs as well and show me where I could catch a bus; he said the subway workers were on strike. And so we shoved our way up the stalled escalator, past all the people still unknowingly descending into the tunnel.

Upstairs the air felt refreshingly cool so I decided to walk. I made it to the hostel to check in just in time for the storm to break. It was about 8 PM and I was starving, but when I tried to go outside I was soaked within five minutes even though I carried an umbrella. I went back inside the hostel and took a shower. By the time I was finished the torrential rain was over. I walked the ten blocks to the Plaza Dorengo where I found a small, dark, smoky cafe with windows open onto the plaza and a guitarist singing traditional songs. Though I had been reluctant at first to eat where there might be loud music, prefering to be somewhere quiet, I stayed almost two hours savoring my salad with Roquefort cheese and empañada along with the sounds of lonely, romantic ballads. I thought, now, my holiday is turning around.

Except the weather was not up to cooperating. It was overcast as I stepped out the next day to head to the posh side of Buenos Aires. to visit the Cemeterio de la Recoleta – where the crème de la crème are buried in grand, ornate tombs. It was lightly raining when I reached the gates of the cemetery but it seemed appropriate weather for the location. The Recoleta Cemetery is like a small city for the weathly, powerful, and connected deceased. A small park and a posh shopping center with very upscale furniture stores and chic eateries, including the Hard Rock Cafe Buenos Aires abut the high walls. Inside there is a grand entrance with statues and wide streets leading off from a sort of central square. Friendly cats – no wonder they have the reputation of being associated with death – leisurely stroll around the lanes, lie on the steps to the mausoleums, leap from the tomb rooftops, dart into open, un-cared for tombs, and give guided tours. Well, for at least 20 minutes I was tailed by one particular cat until we caught sight of a rival furry tour guide, and then she took off. I am here in a large part to see the tomb of Eva Peron. I followed an English tour I heard was heading for her tomb, though had I wandered around by myself it would probably not have proved difficult to find as there was a large crowd standing in front of it. Her tomb, regardless of the controversy surrounding her life and still her legacy in death, is a pilgrimage site. I paced nearby until the crowd left and then as the rain fell steadily harder, was able to get a close up look. I tried to peer into the tomb, but to be honest I had a small feeling that if even the slightest movement might happen anywhere near me I would probably scream. As Evita was embalmed, a uncommon practice in Argentina, I thought perhaps the body might be more on display. I know that sounds rather morbid, but the entire cemetery appeared to revel in grotesque, over-the-top demonstrations.

It begins to rain quite hard and I discover that the batteries on my camera have died and the spare pair I thought I had are actually dead too. So, I decide to go and have lunch and see about buying some new batteries. It stops raining after some time and about 1 1/2 hours later I return to the cemetery, but it starts raining again! My umbrella makes it still bearable, so I did not mind too much. I was impressed with the excellent drainage system the cemetery seems to have – probably better than many of the neighborhoods for the living.

As I walk back towards the Subway I realize it is 3:30 PM and there are supposed to be tours in English at Casa Rosada (the Pink House), the Presidential Palace, only at 5 PM on Fridays. I feel lucky that I just happened to think of this and head off. I arrive at the palace around 4:20 PM. There is a fence around the front perimeter; people are going inside but they must pass muster with the guard there. I go up and explain I am there for the tour. He tells me to come back Monday. I explain that I am there for the ENGLISH tour on Fridays. He tells me they have been suspended and waves me away. Once again foiled. What is it about this trip?? I walk around the Palace and it suddenly begins to rain very hard. I pull out my umbrella and dash across the street to a government building with a large roofed entrance way. I make my way to Avenida Florida, the shopping street, which is so much livelier than on my first day only five days before. I find a tourist information office and go in to ask about Tango shows. I also ask them why the English tours of the Casa Rosada have been canceled. They look at me puzzled and say they have not been cancelled – they are every Friday at 4 PM. I briefly imagine myself running back through the rain just to give that guard a piece of my mind – typical developing country guard/police bullshit to just tell people things are closed, cancelled, or never existed. But I’m am no longer really that upset by these things, it just happens when you travel. Had I more time, I would just return another day. Its just I had only this one opportunity.

But I lucked out at last; I found a Tango show in San Telmo. They offered a five course meal and a 1 hour and 45 minute Tango show for US$55. At this point during this ever-frustrating holiday, I expected the food to be overcooked, the service to be bad, and the show a disappointment. But, it was all wonderful. I had the next to best seat in the house, the food was delicious, and the show of Tango music, song, and dance was incredible. It was the perfect final evening of my holiday. The next day my flight left at 7:40 pm and so I needed to leave the hostel for the airport at 5. I slept in, showered, and headed off once again to Avenida Florida for some shopping. I bought two CDs of Tango music, some Patagonian chocolate, and a winter coat – just $40 for a coat that would cost at least three times that in the U.S. I had a final meal of Argentine beef – a fast food place in the Galleria food court that did burgers, steak, sausages, and chicken to order on the grill right in front of the customer. Not your usual fast food place!

Just as I start heading back to the subway (to go to the hostel to catch the taxi to the airport) I notice a large crowd down one of the streets. I notice this because as I am crossing a three lane road I notice a few people standing in the middle of the road staring. I think at first these two guys must have a death wish or something, and then I turn and see down the Avenida toward the obelisk (which resembles the Washington Monument) a large crowd of people. Ooooh, a protest I think! I immediately think of my Aunt C who tells me when in a foreign country and you see a large crowd of people like that one should go AWAY from it. So, of course, I walk towards it, and I am glad I did. It turned out not to be a protest but a gaucho, or cowboy, festival. The roads were roped off and sand was placed down on one of the lanes. There were men and boys in traditional gaucho gear – ponchos, pañuelos (scarfs), flat topped, wide-brimmed felt hats, white dress shirts, bombacha trousers with matching jackets, and boots – astride their equally-decorative horses. Stereotypically perhaps, many of them smoking. Riders were galloping down the sand covered lane. I had to get going, but I took 10 minutes out to watch and take some pictures before heading toward the metro. Again, I felt lucky to have come upon this. Although I was disappointed that I was unable to stay longer, it was enough to have seen it at all.

I then arrived at the closest metro and found it closed! Would these unfortunate events never end? But now used to this, I quickly pulled out my Buenos Aires map and found the next subway stop. It was open and all was well. I made my flight with no problem and it was with a smile that I said goodbye to South America for now.

February 29, 2020 by trs

Uruguay via Buenos Aires 2005 Part 2

My unexpected trip to Uruguay in May 2005 continues as I leave the capital Montevideo, which I found oddly deserted and subdued, and head toward the summer playground of Punta del Este, but in winter, and the UNESCO World Heritage town of Colonia del Sacramento.

Punta del Este 1 — Punta del Este marina – the one beautiful moment there

Punta del Este, the international jet set summer playground, was my next destination. I figured I might at least be able to afford to stay there in winter, when in summer it would be booked out months in advance and too pricey for my wallet. Since it is supposed to be such a popular vacation spot, I imagined beautiful white beaches and a lovely town with quaint attractive buildings. Two and half hours away by bus and I was about to be terribly disappointed.

[From my diary:] This morning as I headed out of my Montevideo hostel to Punta del Este I could sense a change as I might be heading for adventure. The bus terminal was modern and I had no problem buying the ticket or finding the bus. We departed and arrived on time. As we drove, the sun came out and I had high hopes it would remain so. But here I am not in Punta del Este and it is overcast, the sky almost uniformly white.

I found the hostel fairly easily (well, after many wrong turns and bad directions) and then set out have a walk around the town and some lunch. I walked down the deserted main street, again feeling things weren’t quite right. The town might be like any resort/beach town in the off seasons, think Ocean City, Maryland or Kitty Hawk, North Carolina in winter. Very, very quiet. Though Punta is supposed to be glitzy and expensive and trendy, I saw only old, worn out cars parked along the streets. I had some less than fabulous pasta at a small cafe and then headed back to the hostel to get some guidance. The girl in charge of the hostel was out and a man came downstairs. He told me he didn’t work there but he’d been there for months and maybe he could help me. My guess is that he was Uruguayan or Argentine though his English was almost accent-less. I asked, “What is there to do here?” “Sweetheart,” he said, “there isn’t anything to do here.” I was amused at his “sweetheart” address to me. It came off sounding rather cheesy and awkward, like he was just trying out its effect on foreign women. He proceeded to tell me that I should have come with a friend or a boyfriend (thanks for making me feel alone buddy) and that he was there with “his girl” and they would be watching a video that night, maybe I might join them? He pointed out to a beachfront from through the hostel front window. “See that beach,” he says, “in the summer it is so crowded with people you can’t see the sand.” I said that having a beach that crowded would not necessarily be a boon to everyone. I asked about Cabo Polonia, where there are sand dunes and the country’s second largest sea lion colony. Oh, don’t go there, he tells me. Because it will be absolutely dead, there will be nothing to do. “In the summer,” he says, “it is beautiful. They have a naked beach and you can drink and smoke anything you want. You can do anything you want there.” Uh, we clearly have different ideas about what is “beautiful” and “fun.” I wanted to see sand dunes and sea lions and enjoy stark natural beauty, not a bunch of drunk, stoned, naked people. Such a shame to miss all that, I know.

I decided to just walk around the point. It was sunny and not too cold and the walk was so much prettier than the Rambla. Here at Punta and nearby Maldonado are where many wealthy Argentines keep large summer homes. The walk reminded me very much of the walks along the ocean at Monterey, California for the climate and the architecture. Each house was pretty and unique. There was also a small port from where, in summer, boats head out to Isla Gorriti and Isla de Los Lobos, and in the winter the fishermen were selling fresh fish. Sea lions swam around the colorful boats. Around the point I slowly walked, with only a hopeful stalker bicyclist aiming to ruin it. He biked past me several times. At one point I must have made the mistake of saying “hola” while smiling. He biked on ahead and then parked and got off to sit on the stone wall. As I passed he smiled at me and patted the wall next to him. Forget it buddy I said (okay I really said I don’t speak Spanish and he indicated that he didn’t care by shrugging his shoulders) and I walked on. Around to the sculpture “El Mano” or as it is known in English, the Hand in the Sand – what appears to be five fingers of a giant hand, either reaching out of the sand or the last gesture of someone sinking away. I thought it reminded me of the Planet of the Apes and the Statue of Liberty sticking out of the sand at the end. I wanted a picture of me by one of the fingers, but there was no one else around.

Back at the hostel I have my dinner and watch a movie with Sweetheart’s girl. I hit the sack early because I planned to leave Punta del Este as early as possible.

[From my diary:] My hope was to make the 7 AM bus to Colonia, but I slept long and woke up just five minutes to. I had to settle for the 8:45 AM, which would get me to Colonia at 2:30 PM. The bus ride was uneventful, I slept in shifts. The sky cleared, then darkened, then cleared again.

I arrived at Colonia del Sacramento, the oldest town in Uruguay. Founded in 1680 near the confluence of the Rio Uruguay and the Rio de la Plata by the Portuguese and later ceded to the Spanish, Colonia as it is known is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Though it too seemed lost it time, it seemed more appropriate for it to be so. I am not sure which time Colonia is supposed to be lost in, but it was by far my favorite place in Uruguay. The weather was beautiful – when I arrived I first changed into a lighter weight long-sleeved shirt and my fleece and returned almost immediately to take off the fleece. It was sunny and warm – around 70 degrees despite the leafless sycamore trees with their fallen dried orange leaves littering the streets as evidence of the early winter season. There were actually some other tourists in Colonia, most probably on a day tour from Buenos Aires – located just across the river, 45 minutes away by fast ferry. I liked the no pressure strolling around the cobblestone streets – some of them of very roughly hewn stone without much attempt at placing them closely and smoothly together – looking into shops. No one pounced on me as soon as I entered the stores. No high-pressure salesmanship. I was almost disappointed. In Asia I would have been lured, even pulled, in from the street and drawn into haggling for items I had no desire to buy. But in Uruguay, the lack of customer interest or even customers at all seemed unimportant. There was something aggravating and yet also pleasant in this lackadaisical approach to sales and life. Things were unhurried and in Colonia it felt so very appropriate – with the eclectic mix of Portuguese and Spanish colonial and early 20th century with hints of the 21st – there did not appear any desire to rush the town into the modern era. There were horse drawn carriages, 1920s and 1930s vintage cars, along with what I would guess to be early 50s vehicles. A 2005 model would have been the outlier, not the norm.

I strolled for several hours through the streets, climbing up the lighthouse and along the ruined walls of an old fort, to finally stopping for an early dinner at a small restaurant with a view of the sunset over the Rio. I was the only diner and I sat outside in the warm air enjoying the view and a steak. The only disturbances were a dog that wished to share in my meal who was shooed away by the two waitresses who sat glumly across the street on the curb watching over me, and a poorly dressed old man who sold me two band-aids for five pesos.

It seemed almost too calm and relaxing. Why wasn’t I more pleased that the dogs were not attacking me? That the band-aid seller was not more persistent and aggressive? This holiday seemed unlike so many I have taken.

Back at the hostel I was savoring the last few pages of the book I had brought. I had tried to ration the pages – I had not expected to have much time to read, and certainly not to finish the book. I should have brought two or three books with all the time I had on hand. Mostly I had spent the time I could have been reading in another favorite hobby of mine – sleeping. I slept on the plane, on the boat to Montevideo, on the buses to Punta del Este and Colonia. And still I could go to sleep early at night. It was as if I was making up for all the less than adequate sleep for the past few months – and still with all that sleeping, I could not stave off the end of the book. Three days left and a long flight back and I was finished. But just then the woman sharing the dormitory came in. I explained that I was leaving Colonia the next day but was debating between the 9:15 am ferry to Buenos Aires or to spend another quiet day in the town and take the 5:15 pm; however, having just finished off my only reading material I was inclined to leave in the morning. She told me I should take the way back via Carmelo and Tigre. I had no idea to what she was referring, and she told me there is a slower boat leaving from a town about an hour’s bus ride north of Colonia. The boat would wind its way through the Parana River Delta and arrive in the suburban town of Tigre, from where I could then take a bus or train into Buenos Aires. The idea of a more adventurous and less conventional way to return to Argentina appealed to me.

And so the next day at 11:30 I took the bus north to the small river town of Carmelo. I had about an hour to walk the town and buy provisions for the boat. Again, it was beautiful weather, so although I circled the same 10 blocks at least twice and I did not find anything of particular interest in Carmelo, I felt rather excited to be there. The boat ride was again uneventful and relaxing, but this time I felt content because I could look out the windows at the brown river and the life along the delta. I could step out onto the back of the boat and feel the sun and wind on my face. It felt delicious, almost undeserved. Within two hours we pulled up at the dock in Tigre and those heading onto Buenos Aires boarded the company bus.

February 23, 2020 by trs

Uruguay via Buenos Aires 2005 Part 1

In 2005 I was working in Washington, D.C. in my first post-graduate school job. I had only been working for a few months and really wanted a holiday, but had not banked a lot of money or time off. I also love me a random, new, out of the way destination, but somewhere I could cover a fair amount within a short period of time. And for some reason, I honed in on Uruguay. I do not remember why only I had not been there before, I had found a flight, and there was enough, but not too much, for me to see in a week. This trip was most certainly something out of the ordinary. Yet this was 15 years ago and I am surprised by how little I recall of the trip, not the beauty of Colonia del Sacramento or the travel challenges I ran into that led me to originally call this email story “A Series of Unfortunate Events.”

Montevideo Why would I want to go to Uruguay? This was the question posed to me by just about everyone to whom I mentioned my trip. Why not go to Argentina? they asked. Well as just about everyone knows I like to take holidays that are a little different. I do not necessarily want to go to someplace that everyone else is going. However, looking up some statistics, I came across a website that said that Uruguay receives more international tourists than Argentina, Brazil, and Chile. This actually left me rather puzzled. Really? Where were they hiding? But I think I may know how this happens, if you count every Argentine that goes over for a weekend of shopping, then Uruguay may indeed have more “tourists.” I’d be willing to bet that 80-90% of tourists to Uruguay are Argentine or Brazilian, another 10% are the international jet set and celebrities a la Naomi Campbell, Leonardo di Caprio, and Claudia Schiffer that descend on glitzy Punta del Este in the summer.

But those realizations came later.

On a Friday afternoon, I began my unexpected holiday to Uruguay. I had little expectations really, I just wanted to get away, but the excitement was building. And quickly it was dashed. Despite the existence of a direct flight, I had found a cheaper option through Chicago. Unfortunately, this did not work out in my favor. The flight was delayed out of Reagan National and, due to storms, also delayed landing in Chicago. As we circled Chicago O’Hare, my overnight flight to Buenos Aires took off. There was chaos in Chicago, many stranded passengers, and it took time to finally speak with customer service only to learn the next flight was 24 hours later. I spent the first day of my vacation holed up in an airport voucher hotel dining at various O’Hare airport restaurants.

Montevideo 3 — Montevideo shopping street with a view of the old city gate leading to Plaza Independencia

I have to revise my plan. I am dejected. I think maybe I do not even bother going to Uruguay, because I am flying into Buenos Aires my plan is to take the boat to Montevideo. I have no idea when the boats to Montevideo depart. We touch down a little early at 10 am. I think noon would be a good time to have a boat and I figure I might be able to race across town on a bus and get to the boat in time. But I figured wrong. The boat leaves at 11:30 in the morning. I find this out around 10:45 in the morning when airport information informs me they tell me it will take 40 minutes to get into the city… The next boat is at 3:30 pm. I am momentarily stunned that my “plan” ( i.e. that was to have no plan) is not working. Usually, I am very lucky when I travel. This does not feel particularly lucky. I concede defeat and book the bus. I arrive at the port around noon.

My “plan” also included not acquiring any Argentine money; I figured I would just purchase the bus and boat tickets with a credit card and speed ahead to Uruguay. But unfortunately, now I had three hours to kill in Buenos Aires. In the boat terminal, there were neither open money changers nor left luggage facilities. Very traveler-unfriendly. I buy my ticket and ask if I can leave my bag at the travel office. They say no but tell me to try at the information desk. They also say no and tell me to try at the check-in counter. He also says no. But I am tired of hearing no, so I go back to the travel office and put on my sad traveler face and one of the guys goes over and bullies the check-in guy to let me leave my bag. One little triumph. A minor fortunate event. I have two hours before I have to come back for boarding. It is overcast and a Sunday. It was as if I had flown into a Stalinist state during the Cold War. There are not many people out and they are huddled in their coats, the shops seem half-empty on Avenida Florida, supposedly Buenos Aires’ main shopping street. I change US$10 so I can pay for lunch. I sit reading my book until it is almost time to return to the boat. It has started to rain. I am not in a particularly good mood, but then I think I am in for some adventure with the 2 1/2 hour boat ride ahead of me.

Instead, the boat journey takes 3 1/2 hours and it is completely uneventful. It is so overcast outside all we see is white from the windows. No view. It grows dark while the boat putters on. I fall asleep for two hours. When we finally arrive in Montevideo it is dark, around 7 pm, and it is raining. I am one of the first ones off the boat only to have to wait for what seems a ridiculous amount of time for the luggage to come out and for everyone to file through the bottleneck through the x-ray machine. There is no money changing places. I am puzzled by this seemingly key tourist service lacking. If it had been daylight – when I thought I would arrive – I would have walked some way from the port, but the guidebook says to definitely NOT walk in the port area after dark. Suddenly, I am standing with two German guys who are going to a hostel. I become one of their group. I don’t know how it happened, I think a woman offering tourist information lumps us together. That is fine because they seem to know where they are going. There is a huge line waiting for taxis and no taxis to be seen. The German guys suggest we walk away from the crowd and we hail a taxi just entering the port. We pile in together and our driver proclaims we are lucky to hail his taxi because he says not so many Uruguayans speak English. The Germans have an address. We arrive at a building with no sign and buzz the doorbell. It turns out to be a little retro hostel called Red Hostel. Walls painted red, a small living room of sorts in front of the service counter. Sofas, bean bags, a lit fireplace, low lights, and three computer terminals. I get a dorm bed; there are only two other girls in the room and they are not there at the moment. I never do meet them.

The next day I decide to head out into Montevideo, heading first for the Ciudad Viejo or Old Town. I’m looking forward to the cobblestone streets and colonial architecture. I decide to walk the whole way, a few dozen blocks is not too much for marathon-walking me! But first I must finally get some money and pay for the hostel. Walking down the main street, I think Avenida 7 Julio, I notice that nothing particularly stands out. The stores are nondescript and actually many are not even open although it is by now 9 or 10 am on a Monday morning. This is the capital of the country, where at least half of the 3.5 million Uruguayans reside, and yet there is very little bustle. There are people on the sidewalks, there are cars and buses, but it just does not feel right to me. I come across the main square, Plaza de Independencia. There is a large statue of Artigas, the Uruguayan independence hero, upon a horse. The Plaza is almost empty. A line of colorfully dressed school children is having a tour. Two other tourists stop to take a picture. I decide to follow the kids. We pass through the old gate to the city. I take a picture. We are then on the main pedestrian shopping street but again it seems oddly deserted. I feel as if I am transported back to Tallin in Estonia where years ago I also stepped off a boat from Helsinki to arrive in a town with a pretty central old town but surrounded by depressing Soviet-era buildings and boulevards and although the weather is nice, the people seem braced, huddled, unfriendly. Except, this time I am in the Old Town of Montevideo and this one is not nearly as nice at Tallin. There is a lot of construction, but it does not feel industrious. Does this make sense? I have the feeling that I am in a town that was long ago abandoned and people are now only beginning to return and rebuild their lives.

Montevideo 2 — School kids pass by Artigas statue on Independence Square

At the port, I decided that although it is just before noon, I might as well have lunch to give myself something to do. And this is supposed to be the place to have lunch and not dinner because it is not safe here after dark. It is not particularly cold, but the warm fire in the restaurant feels nice. [From my diary:] So far my impression of Montevideo is not too favorable. Thre are plenty of people living on the street, in doorways, in parks. There is a dejected feel here. Actually, the restaurant where I am eating is quite nice – a roaring fire to grill meats and vegetables. Lots of wood and brick, warm, dark colors. It feels very nice in here. If only the music were not U.S. eighties hits. That seems off, but again hardly surprising that the soundtrack to this trip (in the taxi, in the hostel, in the restaurant, in the shops) is American music. I order Lomo or filet mignon. I am in Uruguay after all and beef is the national dish. Both Uruguay and Argentina are known for their beef, the ranches, and gaucho (cowboy) culture. The steak is wonderful and I begin to cheer up. This was all I needed, a good meal and now I can sightsee happily. I go into the old market which is full of small restaurants with bar stools around large grills. Meat, meat, meat hanging everywhere, cooking. It smells wonderful. I imagine the heat from the grills might be too much in summer, but it is just right now. I head out and decide to go to the National Museum.

After a few confusing turns, I find one of the four buildings of the National Museum and go inside. It seems nice enough but seems a strange collection. There are no English explanations, but really there seem to be few explanations at all, even in Spanish. There is a room of what I guess is of early man in South America. Maps of the migration across the Bering Strait and through North and Central and South American. A life-size version of an early indigenous man. Some pottery and bones. Another set of rooms have paintings from the colonial periods and early independence. One room is dedicated to Artigas the hero. But a “room” might be misleading as it was really a small alcove with a bust, a painting, and a mural with his words. And strangely there was also another room with modern black and white photographs pasted onto three-sided cards on a table in the center of the room with a CD of new age music which seemed to alternate baby cries with erotic moans and heavy bass. I have no idea what that room was supposed to signify.

I went in search of another of the four buildings only to find it padlocked shut with no sign indicating anything whatsoever about the reason for this. Okay, fine. I decide to take a walk along the Rambla, the road along the other side of the peninsula. The guidebook said that this was a pleasant walk and one traveler had described it as the highlight of their trip to Montevideo. That person was clearly drunk, drugged or had had an even rougher start to holiday than I had. As I crossed the four-lane highway I had to be extra careful of the Monday afternoon traffic, barely making it across when the one car came barreling down the road towards me. Again I wondered if there had been an evacuation of the city and me and only a few other souls were unaware of this. It was sunny and the sea/river was a bit rough. It usually cheers me to see the water but the ugly high rises in the distance just did not do much to lift my mood. I was beginning to feel sleepy and decided to just return to the hostel for a nap.

That evening I went out for a free performance of tango being offered at the Montevideo Cultural Center. I found the building just in time and found a seat in a small crowded room. It was like a small chapel in an old school, narrow, with pew-like seating. Again even though I was in a room full of people, I felt as if we were lost in time, in a forgotten era. I sat and waited for the singing and dancing to begin. I sat there for 30 minutes and it never did start. There was an announcer who brought two guys onto the small stage and they sat behind an old grand piano and chatted. Occasionally the audience clapped and I joined in. It was like watching a radio talk show. I started to wonder if I had, in fact, wandered in on a town hall meeting and the tango was going on somewhere else in the building. I thought to ask the guy next to me, but then the game would be up – I would be found out to be a phony, having just sat through 30 minutes of dialogue I could not understand. I just got up and left.

Back at the hostel, I watched a movie with other guests while I planned my escape from Montevideo the following day. My favorite part of Montevideo was NOT the Rambla, but instead two other things – my first exposure to the children’s school uniforms, which seem a cross between a lab coat and a painter’s smock: knee-length white lightweight polyester coats with large pockets, buttoned in front, with pleats on the girls’ uniform, topped by a large blue bow at the neck. Add a black French beret on their heads and they would have looked the part of the quintessential French painter.

The second thing I liked was the horse-drawn garbage carts. Throughout my walk around Montevideo, I distinctly heard the clop clop clop of horse hooves on cobblestone. At night, on the wet pavement and in the semi-deserted streets, the sound romantically echoed of the past. Finally, on the second evening while heading back to the hostel I caught sight of one of them, the driver leaping off the cart to grab bags of garbage and hoist them onto the back of the cart or tie them to the sides. Even though the site of large plastic bags tied all around and piled high is not the most attractive sight, I could not help but feel a little delighted to find the source of the sounds to be something so every day as the garbage man, in the most un-everyday kind of way.

October 3, 2019 by trs

Viva Mexico City – 2004

Every so often I go back into my way-way back machine and pull up a travelogue from my past. Back when I traveled on the cheap, I usually sent back travel stories to friends and family. I am slowly going through them, editing them, and posting them on my blog.

In early 2004 I was selected to take part in an assistantship through my graduate school. Each of the participants would be working at a different international organization; I would be heading to an organization in Honolulu. Beforehand, we all would take part in a three-week pre-departure seminar. I decided to jet off to Mexico City to feed my travel bug in between the seminar and the assistantship.

The weird thing though is that this trip is one of my least remembered. Only a few photos from the trip remain, but they capture so little of my memories. There are none of Frida Kahlo’s house, the Palacio de Bellas Artes, the Palacio Nacional, Xochimilco, the Templo Mayor, and many more major sights, in addition to the Zocalo, the subway, and other every day scenes. Its unusual for me to take so few photos. I searched through my old diaries, but I wrote not a single entry during the trip or even any about the trip later. At least I sent out an email story.

I was a bit hesitant to come to Mexico City. After years of media reports on the dangers of Mexico, especially the capital, and the floods of job stealing migrants (ha!) I had been subconsciously developing a latent fear and apathy towards Mexico. Also, everyone and their brother warned me of the terrible dangers of taking a taxi from the street. The guidebooks. My aunt. The man sitting next to me on the plane. The hostel driver who picked me up at the airport. It seemed a constant mantra drummed into me. I wondered though if there were actually any danger left anymore, with so many people warned off this potentially disastrous act.

Still, I love the taxis, the traditional model of Volkswagen Beetle in bright green with a white top. I recall hearing a story from a few years ago that although VW was discontinuing its production of the Beetle, it would continue to make the car in Mexico. I see VW bugs all over the city, so it seems to be true. Bright new Bugs zipping through traffic with sometimes terrifying velocity. It might just be a good thing to avoid getting into one for reasons other than crime.

Another fear building up inside me in regards to Mexico City was the pollution. I was under the impression considering the altitude of the city and the ring of mountains and volcanoes which surround the one-time lake – now Mexico City – trapped the pollution, leaving it hovering over the city. I imagined asthmatic self, gasping for breath, perhaps falling by the wayside on some heavily polluted street making fish out of water type mouth movements as my lungs fail to suck in enough air for me to go on. At the very least I expected a smoggy dark overcast sky greeting me each day. I expected the air pollution to be visible and tangible, heavy, oily. And yet, for the most part, each day has greeted me with beautiful blue skies with white fluffy clouds. I have hardly used my asthma medicine, and I have not once been winded.

The city is amazing! Mexico City is a vibrant, exciting, culturally and historically, rich metropolis. Its wide boulevards seem to manage the tens of thousands of vehicles traversing the streets daily. I have hardly seen a traffic jam. The metro is a wonder; nine lines of clean, orderly and efficient underground trains zipping some five million people a day across and around town. Considering the city was built on a lake by the Xochimilco people more than a thousand years ago, then built on top by the Aztecs, then on top of those by the Spanish, and is gradually sinking as the lake seeks to reassert itself, that there is an underground metro at all is quite amazing. On top of the millions of people who daily (yes, millions every day) squeeze themselves into the of often overcrowded cars, yet the stations are kept quite clean and the system is easy and efficient to use. I am very impressed.

I suppose I could wax on and on about this, but I have done more here than simply breath the air, avoid taxis, and enjoy the fantastic metro!

On my first day in the city I strolled through the huge market which encompasses the Calle Moneda (Coin Street) in front of the hostel and the surrounding streets, with vendors selling just about every possible thing one might need, from socks and CDs to underwear and sodas, to tamales and batteries, and handbags and electronics. I figured if I were to move to Mexico City, I would not need to bring a thing and could buy everything I need on a long day to this amazing daily market. Then I headed to the Palacio National, just across from the hostel, but facing the Zocalo, or main square, cattycornered from the imposing, but beautiful, facade of the Cathedral Nacional. Inside the Palacio Nacional are the unfinished murals of Diego Rivera portraying the history of Mexico. He planned to paint murals of the entire Mexican history, but due to illness, never completed past the arrival of the Spaniards. A German girl from the hostel and I managed to procure a free guide who told us the history and symbolism of the amazing murals for a full hour! I was entranced.

In the afternoon, I made my way to the Tower Latin America, what used to be the highest tower in the region. My plan was to go to the top, but the building seemed so fantastically ugly to me, I felt repelled to even think of going inside. Instead, I crossed the street to the opposing beauty of the Palacio Bellas Artes. That evening, I walked further up the avenue to the Plaza Garibaldi, the haunt of the mariachi players. I knew I was heading in the correct direction as I followed a man in tight black pants with silver down the pantleg sides, tall white socks, a short bolero jacket, and a guitar slung over his shoulder. The Plaza was full of mariachis biding their time waiting for someone to commission a song from them. Most were dressed in black, but a small group in magnificent green played to a couple in a small corner. I imagined couples driving about the city, when the man suddenly decides a song would woo his sweetheart and he furiously heads over to the Plaza and wins the heart of his woman with a paid song by a smartly dressed mariachi band. There did seem to be classy cars turning into the Plaza like a drive-thru serenade stop.

Me standing with the stone sentries at Tula

On my second day I joined a tour to the Church of the Virgen of Guadalupe and the Pyramids of the Sun and the Moon. The huge church was built on the site where a local named Juan Diego saw a vision of the Virgen of Guadalupe, who told him to build a church in her honor. Like many buildings in the city, the church is sinking, and one side more than the other, giving it the appearance of almost falling forward.

The Pyramids were amazing. How to describe them? They are not like the Pyramids of Egypt, as these have steps to climb up, as they were steps to take the priests to the temple located at the apex of the building for rituals. They were not tombs, but are solid inside. The Temple of the Sun is the third largest Pyramid in the world. They were not actually built by the Aztecs but by a tribe of people who came perhaps 500 years before them, but used by the Aztecs when they arrived to their promised land. Most of the buildings facing the Avenue of the Dead, the main drag down Pyramid row, were places for the higher personages in the society, though little remains of them. I wanted to try and imagine the spectacle of this city as living and breathing, but the stark ruins and the dry countryside made that difficult for me. Besides, the Aztecs were a rather cruel and brutal society, and I am not sure I would want to imagine the trains of people lined up for human sacrifices, their hearts ripped out of them in order to appease the Sun God thus ensuring the sun would rise the next day. There was apparently one time when in the city of Mexico before the Templo Mayor (Major Temple) some four lines of sacrifices, stretching for three miles, awaited their fate to die for the Gods. Though the Aztec art and architecture are indeed beautiful, much seems borrowed from earlier groups, whom the Aztecs admired and claimed as their ancestors, particularly the Toltecs. The German Girl said she did not find the Pyramids impressive because of the lack of scenery surrounding them, but I still found them amazing.

On my third day I headed first to the Templo Mayor, a major Aztec temple now in the center of Mexico City. In the early seventies, some electricians or city water people, or someone doing some sort of digging, stumbled upon a huge disc, several tons in weight, carved with Coyolxauhqui, the God of the Moon. And this is how the temple was discovered. I opted not to tour guide here and soon my head began to hurt attempting to translate the Spanish placards. Mostly, I just walked the excavated portions and then through the museum.

My next stops were Mexican artist Frida Kahlo´s house and the final home of Russian revolutionary Leon Trotsky. I enjoyed visiting Frida´s lovely blue house in a well-to-do neighborhood in the southern part of the city, but I found it odd there were few of her paintings on display. I wanted to buy a postcard of a particular painting of hers, but it was not to be had. In fact, there was not a single postcard of Frida´s paintings on sale at her house. There were a few of her husband’s, Diego Rivera, and some photographs of Frida and Diego, but none of the paintings. Leon Trotsky, who found asylum in Mexico at the insistence of Diego Rivera, an ardent socialist (he often painted Marx, Stalin, Mao into his pictures as well as industrial utopias and the famed ideal proletariat), came to Mexico in the late 30s. He even had an affair with Frida, whose own home was nearby. He was also assassinated in the house. The first attempt left bullet holes in the bedroom wall across from the bed, the second, successful assassin employed the use of an ice pick. I left the two houses with a thirst to know more about Frida, Diego, and Leon and the times and society in which they lived.

On my fourth day, together with a Romanian woman from the hostel, I visited the Museum Antropologica. We spent more than four and half hours in the museum! And I did not see it all as we spent so much time in the Toltec, Aztec, Maya and Oaxaca sections of the museum that by the time we got to the Mixtec/Oaxaca section we just blew in and out. We stepped outside just in time to watch the Danza de los Voladores (Dance of the Flyers). While at the Pyramids, the guide had explained a number of favorite Aztec games and this Flyer was one of them. A long pole is set up, let’s say 100 feet into the air. At the top perches a man who will play the haunting Aztec flute. Four other men, dressed as birds, climb to the top of the pole, wind four ropes around the pole, and then tie the end of the ropes to their feet. A platform at the top rotates and off the platform the four men go, flying around and around the pole, arms outstretched as they are slowly lowered to the ground. The version we saw seemed harmless enough, but from what I have learned from the Aztecs, I can hardly believe they just flew down and nothing happened to them. Surely someone had to die? Surely someone was sacrificed? The other Aztec “games” do not appear so innocuous. But this one was fun to watch…

The following day, I headed out to Tula, again with the Romanian woman. Tula is another Aztec site about 70 kilometers to the north of Mexico City. It too has a pyramid, though it’s in poor condition, but it’s the six magnificent Atlantes, 4.5-meter-tall carved stone statues of Toltec soldiers, which previously held up the roof of the sacred temple, which people come to see. But, boy, was it an effort to get there. First, there were seven metro stops with two changes, then a 15-hour bus ride, followed by a 10-minute mini bus ride, and then a 100-meter walk. And through it all the Romanian woman regaled me, against my will, with the story of her recent tragic love story. The weather was cold and a little dreary, having rained in the morning, and with continual dark clouds threatening to do it again. The setting was lovely, though it would have been more so had the sun been out, but the dark skies and the purple mountain and what seemed like an extinct volcano in the backdrop gave the place atmosphere, though it was all overshadowed by the trials of a failed Romanian romance.

Mexican medallion — I may not remember much of my Mexico trip, but this necklace, my one souvenir, reminds me

On my final day I headed to the Xochimilco, the floating gardens, remnants of the original innovative means early settlers employed to create islands and finally the land over the lake, providing the foundations to build this amazing city. At Xochimilco the gardens and homes are crossed by canals. I had imagined flowers everywhere, something of what I had seen at Lake Inle in Myanmar, but I was disappointed. Today Mexico City got to me. The canals were choked with garbage, and I felt the strangle of poverty. Though many of the homes were pretty nice, most had dogs, there was something dejected and dilapidated permeating the place. Maybe it was just my mood. I took a small launch for one hour. Mariachis played on another boat; the sellers of sweet potatoes and tamales and roasted corn floated by. It sounds idyllic, but I felt cold and disappointed, but most of all defeated. I felt a great weight.

On the way back to the hostel, I saw more and more. I saw traffic jams. I noticed the presence of the hawkers on the subway cars. I had seen them before, but today there appeared legions of them, a never-ending chain of them boarding every car, one at a time. They would board, hawk their wares, CDs, children’s books, candy, crossword books, maps, tool kits, etc, ride one stop and then off they went to the other side to try another car. A blind man boarded and sang on his karaoke machine. Two youths perhaps 13 or 15 dressed in shabby and dirty clothes, who lay on glass shards.

I changed my larger money and began to give out small change to just about everyone I passed. The pretty young girl in gold earrings selling bubble gum for one peso. The old man with his fiddle, not playing too well because he is bent over and it seems a strain for him to play. The old woman in a nondescript brown dress sitting in front of a church, her one leg bent at an odd angle. The smartly dressed organ grinders. The mother with two very small children bundled up in a blanket awaiting the night chill.

I headed toward the large market in front of the Zocalo and my hostel. The crowds choking me. Before, I had not been too impressed by the crowds, I have been to other countries with crowds to rival, but on Saturday the masses swelled. The drums on the Zocalo reserved for the evening practice of headbanded people dancing to old Aztec steps had burst to an all-day frenzy of dancing with costumes. I saw a shaman of sorts. A bare-chested man with rough cotton trousers belted with a red sash, and a headdress of feathers cascading down his back, was exorcising the bad from people. With a grey stone cup with a design of some sort, a person or an animal, with steam or smoke rising from it, he passed the stone and the smoke, whispering some words to the devotee. The line grew to go through this ritual. I jumped into line as well, and for a donation of five pesos I had my soul, or whatever, purified, receiving a small pink pebble in return. Afterwards I did indeed feel better. A placebo perhaps, but my heart felt much lighter for it.

Another great trip already at an end. But my rusty Spanish improved slightly, I saw some amazing sights, and I have been cleansed.

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