In love with Chilera

The tastiest preperation in all the lands is Chilera. It's a type of vegetable-chunk-heavy salsa prepared in vinegar, and I've enjoyed it in Belize (topping stewed chicken, rice & beans) and Guatemala (topping everything on my plate), and I'm comforted by the knowledge it's available at least as far south as Costa Rica, maybe further. I know for a fact a mountain of Chilera is the ideal condiment for Salvadoran papusas.

Take chunks of chili peppers, onions, green beans, cauliflower, and anything else you might want, soak it in vinegar (and probably a number of other spices) and presto, the best tasting condiment in the world. In fact, I often eat it alone when I've cleaned my plate, bulging inside a fresh tortilla.

(Image stolen from this blog, with a recipe!)

How to Clean Everything (out of your intestines by introducing worms)

This morning at my Spanish School I scooped a fallen orange from the grass, shoving it in my pocket for an after-lunch snack. >The fruit's exterior was almost flawless, a few hints of green at the gnarled pole where the orange disconnected from its tree swirled into the predominant orange hue. A sticky mist sprayed as my fingernails penetrated through and peeled back the skin, fat orange droplets spattering on the concrete beneath my feet. My fingers detected a soft spot on one side of my prize, so I halved the orange and first devoured, section by section, the unblemished portion.

Delighted, with sticky juice-tracks meandering from the corners of my mouth down my chin, as always concerned by the perceived lack of vitamins in my diet, I chomped into the half deemed less appealing. My foray into the rotted area proved fruitful, but a quick examination of the newly tooth-torn cavity in the hunk hemorrhaging juice into my palm revealed a teeming mass of squirmy white worms, with little black freckles for faces, burrowing throughout. Immediately I emptied the contents of my mouth into my hand, but whether I'd first swallowed or anything had wriggled down my throat are mysteries I'm attempting not to ponder.

This is a regular Slither scenario...without the comedy.

I can't believe I'm writing this: There's a good chance I might have ingested any number of maggots or whatever kind of goddamnfuckingawful worm colonizes oranges. I'm left convinced nothing is sufficiently offensive to make me throw up, the probability to having swallowed worms insufficient even to induce nausea. And because the trade secrets of bulimiacs yet confound me, I can do nothing but wait to see what interesting illness arises or parasitic invasion manifests in my digestive tract.

Guess I'll be watching the toilet to see if it turns into a fishbowl.

Student-Teacher Conduct

Haunted by a lingering American lingering perspective, it's cien por ciento awesome crushing on my spanish teacher. Now of age, the chase retains a deliciously illicit feel without the impending prison term and pervert reputation that I'm convinced deterred various vixen teachers from succumbing to my schoolboy charms. (And I'm not referencing their miraculous supression of the urge to lean down and pluck with their lips Lucky's stray, spoon-diving made-sticky-by-milk-saturation marshmallows and grainy stars that adorned my face and clothes each morning.)

Christmas Eve, Noche Buena in Guatemala, I accompanied Mildred to her Evangelical Church, unaware earplugs are a requisite accessory. I staggered out two hours later, shellshocked, and deafened after an aural assault perpetrated by a handful of musicians flailing without regard to time or rhythm -- as if names were drawn and instruments assigned as the congregation arrived. I think I understand why so many people in the audience were crying.

But the churchgoers were exceedingly friendly, anxious to greet me, and the kid-carried tunes were cute and hilarious, the youngest performers standing at ankle's-height, picking their noses and yawning, contorting their bodies and faces, oblivious to their on-stage responsibilities.

Afterward I passed time juggling homecalls, stuffing three dinners into three hours, concluding with the traditional midnight tamale feast with my suddenly swollen host family, Melida having returned from la ciudad with extended family in tow. When the clock struck midnight I occupied high ground, overlooking San Pedro with an unobscured view of the other pueblos across and around Lago de Atitlàn. Armageddon was gorgeous, rockets launching from every alleyway and rooftop citywide, exploding rainbows of color casting shimmering sprinkles across the water, like the Mayan Gods were skipping rocks with giant, luminescent Skittles. Belts of firecrackers machine-gunned incessantly, which coupled with the heavier booms thundering down built a wall of war so uniform the cacaphony coalesced into it's own form of screaming silence.

By three AM the town was quiet again, the streets littered with exploded confetti and blackened sparklers, a breath of sulfer hanging in the air, the odd drunk veering through the alleyways, mumbling to himself as he lurched from wall-to-wall, confounding stoop-sitting couples with unintelligible gestures and monologues. One special drunk, who moved with the fluidity of an animation missing 90% of its frames, alternated between dancing with lampposts, arguing with an unoccupied car, and patrolling the strip of cobblestone in front of Mildred's home, admonishing us with a finger to his lips and whispers.

Christmas Day was low key, almost like any other day but gathered with family. A town-attended convite in the central cancha de basquetbol lasted the afternoon, throngs of Pedranos ringing the court, licking ice cream cones purchased from the many vendors pushing three-wheeled wooden iceboxes, wheelbarrows fashioned into coolers, the jingling belss signaling rushes of open palms stretched up and out every parent's pockets. Lines of dancers costumed as random stars of American cinema and world history (including two of the Nutty Professor, one Batman and one Catwoman) dipped and swiveled through choreographed routines, and every fifteen minutes another drunk would stumble into the middle, a mess of incoordination weaving about until the police could escort him away.

Bkicjs (I was trying to type something else and missed the keys. This title seems somehow more appropriate.)

Fine as wine, I'm aged a quarter century. To celebrate, I've buzzed my hair back to 1/4 inch, paying an outrageous Q$25 (US$3.50) for the 5-minute shearing, but at least I'm free of the fledgling mullet that always sprouts as my hair grows thicker and longer, the only consistency as my headtop shrub blooms with cowlicks and curls.

Transportion in San Pedro has improved significantly since I arrived in October, steady construction transforming the rainy season's rocky-river-roads to level cement pathways. With the road running in front of Mama Meli's house recently reopened, the town has inherited unexpected gifts: Free Speedbum(p)s! Specifically, the unconscious alcoholics, splayed across the road just down the hill from the church, in front of El Rinconcito.

Last Friday Ricardo and I trekked the lakeshore, skirting water, scaling rocks and mounds of tide-deposited basura, working around obstacles from crops to cows, on the way to San Marcos La Laguna. We strayed from the road after warnings from numerous Chapins that we, tall, pasty extranjeros, are walking targets for the machete-wielding ladrones in less foreigner-friendly San Pablo La Laguna.

Closer to San Marcos, the lakeside is suddenly peppered with massive estates resting a half football-field's length back from the shore in perfectly maintained, flower-, tree- and fountain-filled yards. These foreigner spectacles are offensive, flaunting wealth greater than neighboring townships possess collectively, and these private residences have hogged the beachfront, rendering Atitlàn almost inaccessible to actual Atitlànians.

Worst of all, the white invaders are hippies of the fruitiest sort. San Marcos is a town populated by dreadlocked backpackers practicing every sort of "art" and "technique" except basic hygiene. Alternative practices run the gamut of "seriously, you're an idiot" from spirituality-on-superhippy-steroids yoga to ESP. We chatted up a space cadet couple who were renting a room in their lakeside castle a kilometer shy of San Marcos, interrupting their -- and this is not a joke -- "Cranial Mayan Massage" session when we appeared. "We practice alternative sciences," they droned. "I do a little mind reading," informed the woman, amongst a litany of other "sciences" I can't remember for the vomit and laughter I was struggling to surpress. We agreed to wait fifteen minutes for the "cranial massage" to end so the guy could accompany us to town, but for all their practiced powers the pair was unable to detect our deception. The moment the resumed chanting and rubbing we dipped, impervious to the "ancient energy fields" running directly from the mountain through the property into the lake, tractor beams to filthy rich foreign loonies.

We caught the last daily lancha back to San Pedro, and I hummed Death By Stereo's "Hippie Holocaust" as we skipped across the choppy waters. After dinner Ricardo and I enjoyed a light cocktail of mota and rum, then embarked on an entirely stereotypical mota-affected evening. Our every lazy movement was dictated by munchies, intentions frequently derailed by hysterical fits of laughter, as we proceeded to patrol back-and-forth the town central strip, zombie-stalking snacks, making laps to re-up the moment we'd licked the last crumbs or flecks of icing from our hands. In between we were accosted by an unusually hilarious array of english-butchering drunks and a guy -- who may not have been especially poor -- who asked for (and received) bites of our food. How I wish I'd been eating carrots instead of coconut cake...

A mean Patìn

I almost killed a precious child on Saturday. I was standing on Mildred's doorstep when I rocked back into the street, taking a small step down and catching just enough of a sprinting doll's toe with my heel. She entered a flight parallel with the ground, challenging Guatemalan Olympic long-jump records before she skidded across stones on her forearms and face. I felt awful, especially because I'm useless at comforting kids in Spanish. A teen sitting on a moto who'd witnessed the collision transpire grinned at me.

Sunday's lunch was typical San Pedronian fare called Patìn. A hunk of flank steak marinated and cooked in a tomato salsa with lime juice was served beside a multiple avocados-worth sized mound of perfectly mashed and seasoned guacamole. Tortillas and tomalitos served hot from the comal were provided as modes of plate-to-mouth transport for mountains of the lumpy green, onion-studded condiment-turned-side. Patìn is pushing rellenitos for el mejor comida tipica.

Completing a delicious day, I spanked out my first few tortillas, several using less common but more durable (and thus more resistant to beginners' blunders) blue corn masa. For dessert, school-and-housemate Ricardo baked a killer, cumpleaños commemorating strawberry-peach cobbler. The suspense: will my birthday strike unexpectedly again?

Change

Why is making change in Guatemala so difficult? I've handed business as little as Q$10 for a Q$3 or Q$5 purchase and put them in panic mode, some daughter summarily summoned from the next room to skamper across town begging other businesses to break my bill. Q$10, mind you, is less than US$1.50. No less than half the time, San Pedro La Laguna's bank is unable to change any bills, suggesting people holding the essentially-unspendable-unless-you-want-to-buy-the-whole-store Q$50 and Q$100 denominations spit out by the ATM "try again later." The stories I've heard about severe cash shortages sweeping Guatemala in years past were, I believe, not exaggerated.

Saturday I was lucky to find a tienda that could change Q$50, picking up four packages of then ungobbled galletas for Q$8.50. Chiky-brand variations cobertura de fresa, de vainilla, and the new Chiky Blak, galletas con sabor y cobertura de chocolate, were all tasty and standard, but the star of my in-room cookie fest was Arcoiris. Each of the eight cookies had a square butter cookie base, topped with four colored mini-marshmallow humps, alternated so as to be diagonally consistent punk and white, edges slightly melted together to form a unified marshmallow mound. Not only were the marshmallow puffs topped with coconut flakes and colorful sugary specks, but inside the foil package was a fast food condiment squeezepack filled with chemical-red fresa-flavored goo, to be smeared or dotted atop the cookies. A perfect interactive cookie experience for those wowed by processed sugars. A dream come true.

At night, speaking of dreams, I dreamed about moonpies.

Birthday surprise!

Saturday morning while running my usual footpath out of San Pedro toward a tiny coffee farm -- its stone huts and giant concrete clearing for trying harvested beans alien interruptions in the volcano-base jungle growth, the jagged path an imperceptible scar of humanity cutting through the vegetation, winding the hills above the shores of Lake Atitlàn -- I passed a peculiar sight: a middle-aged man, whom I've passed before and whose vacant eyes never register our encounters, was trudging though the dirt toward town. A taut string ran from his right hand, his dangling right arm trailing his body ever so slightly, leading a handfashioned wooden dumptruck loaded with mandarin sized rocks. Five hours later we crossed paths again in San Pedro's center, the dumptruck still in town, clattering over cobblestones, having emptied its load, the man's eyes downcast as he muttered to himself (perhaps about the presumably incredibly slow progress of whatever construction project he's undertaken). Where he materializes from and where he goes I've yet to discover, but he was wearing clothes so I assume somebody is looking out for him. (Or maybe the listless wanderer was just shellshocked from the daily and nightly firework bombardments that keep Guatemalan skies filled with flashes, pops and booms reverberating through alleyways. Usually I can't identify any particular occasion, so maybe some Guatemalans just enjoy preserving, reliving their war-marred recent history?)

Midafternoon I was summoned downstairs for a birthday cake five days early, Mama Meli having mistaken the dates. Which is better, actually, because she'll be in the capital on the 18th, so I got to hug and thank her in person. The carrot cake -- unfrosted yellow cake interspersed with carrot shavings -- reminds me that even though I'm having at least as much fun as (The return of Choose Your Own Analogy!):

a) ...kids (before bedtime) at Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch...

b) ...the pleasantly mentally handicapped for whom smiling and giggling are as involuntary as heartbeats...

...there's no substitute for Mom's homecooking (and Dad's twice-yearly homemade pizzas) and my family and friends freezing back home.

(Keys To) The Other Bible Belt

Another day, another pastry orgy in my dreams. Through three months of traveling, I can recollect two dreams, both featuring casts of pies and cakes. Not Heidi Klum. Not Heidi Klum covered in pies and cakes. Just spreads of delights baked with love by aproned geriatrics.

Won't it be cute if I end up dating an Evangelical Church youth group president? Firmly infatuated with my Spanish instructor, my flirtations reciprocated in full, I'm now a devotee to Chapin courtship, passing evenings posted in the doorstep of my maestra's house, a doubletake worthy white oddity for the gawking and whispering enjoyment of passerbys.

This is territory with obstacles more daunting than any supposed divine wrath. Not a man of bastante patience, Evangelical principles demand a man of demasiado patience. Some cravings even pastries can't cure.

Ah, well, if the biggest stress in my life is wavering between practicing my corruptions on a 22-year-old angel or entertaining eager streetstalkers on the short path to motherhood, that's a damn fine life.

Don't worry, Mom, no "surprises" for Christmas.

Mas Hermanitos

Rarely do I remember dreams -- twenty times a year being a generous estimate -- but yesterday I awoke from a midafternoon slumber with images indelible: In my slumber I was attending some sort of college reunion attended by nobody I knew, in a long, L-shaped arcade framed by food stands. The meal itself of no consequence, at some point while I was cleaning my plate the hall magically transformed into a dessert bazaar, walking space sandwiched between stands serving plated portions of every sort of pie and cake and orgasmic imaginary hybrids of pie and cake, pie crusts filled with cake, covered in neon-colored icings. Ice creams and cookies, brownies and lemon bars begged to be piled together in sink-sized bowls.

When I awoke I was still in feverish, a rude porcupine rambling about my stomach, my mattress an oversized sweatsponge, sheets and blankets wrapped around my shivering body like coverall sweatbands. My return to San Pedro La Laguna, until this morning, was tortured, night and day tossing in bed, unable to purge whatever demon plagued me (in what, although contrary to my beliefs, may be a divine reprimand for my return to false pre-meal prayer, my thrice daily ode to the Carolina Panthers and Davidson Wildcats). Yesterday I feigned focus in my four hour return to Spanish class, hoping the Ciproflaxacin would keep calm my screaming bowels until noon, pushing tortilla-tinted burps out the side of my mouth, away from Mildred.

I know my perception of Guatemala City is skewed for having passed my stay with the monied few, chauffeured about -- and thus kept clear of public buses which, statistically speaking, are as likely to lead you into armed robbery as they are your intended destination -- pampered as though wholly incapable, but I loved to contrast to San Pedro. Major cities are fascinating beasts, hubs where gang-controlled corridors of cracked concrete and graffiti and razor wire border zones of plush highrises and residences -- and the requisite razorwire!

December 7th, national event Quema Del Diablo is another Chapin excuse for drinking, fireworks and burning trash in the streets -- much like sports celebrations in West Virginia. At 6pm our party of adults and kids -- gathered at Ana Maria's for an unrelated fundraiser - congregated in the streets where several paper-machè devils strapped with belts of firecrackers were torched, flaming and exploding until only crude wire frames remained, kids running wild with sparklers, bottle rockets launching in quick procession. This, as was transpiring on our block, transpired across Guatemala, and Roberto assured my with considerably more mayhem (and excitement) when perpetrated by the less safety conscious.

Ana Maria and Roberto were gracious and accomodating beyond reason. Juanita cooked up delicious eats and her son, Hector, was quick to interrupt me and correct my Spanish pronunciation, help most adults eschew giving for fear I'll never complete a thought. Groundskeeper Simon's stable of loving youngsters (Neddy, Karin, Esmeralda, y Liliana, names as interpreted through conversation), plus Ana Miriam, the cute and sarcastic daughter of one of Ana Maria's school's working staff, are my newest adopted hermanitos. The days of escondidos, futbol, and tickling (which is great fun until a gang of kids incapacitate you with their fingers) flew past. If only I hadn't been so well sheltered from the harsher realities of Guate, perhaps I could've been mugged of my passport and thus required to linger longer, in proximity to the US Embassy. As it is, I promised my hermanitos I will return, and that was before Monday morning when I departed, Esmeralda, Neddy and Karin peeking from behind a window near the stairs descending into the carport for who knows how long, waiting only for my appearance to hug me goodbye. Adorably, Karin gifted me a Spongebob action figure, a gesture of kindness unquantifiable. From a family of less means than I'll ever know, from children who can't afford to simply replace toys, a gift I certainly don't need but with which I'll never part.

Guate on the spot

Post-Aruba I'm back in Guate, again in the many caring hands of Ana Maria y Roberto, her hilarious preacher husband, and the saintly housekeepers and their shy but playful kids. Again imprisoned in their classy fortress each night, barred from venturing outdoors lest the ladròn-fed hounds gnaw and chomp off my limbs, this is containment I'd not mind never escaping. Ana Maria y Roberto are a kind and patient pair, lugging me through the city, introducing me to coworkers, friends, and family -- a number of whom are chicas bonitas! -- worried every ten minutes that I might be bored or hungry, prepared to go to any lengths necessary to return me to a state of perfect satiation. The price of admission into this charmed life: Me dijo Ana Maria, "Que intentas platicar."

And I do nothing but. Chatting days away with any of the legions of females Ana Maria forces to expend time entertaining me, I haven't glanced at my notes on Spanish tenses and conjugations and usages and exceptions in two weeks, instead content to butcher the language and hope my conversation slaves find it "charming." And sometimes I'm actually funny, like when I forget that Spanish is a gendered langauge and casually disclose my deepest secrets: "Cuando era niña..."

I'm returning to San Pedro La Laguna Monday morning to further my studies and flirtations, but I'm going to miss Guatemala City. As is customary in Central America, and just as in San Pedro, in Guate I've been catered to like a long-lost and limbless war hero son escaped from the cruelest of POW camps during his first day home. (If you're wondering how a brainy torso escapes from a POW camp you're missing the point.) I wouldn't be permitted to spend a dime if I torched the residence with a flamethrower.

Everyone in Guate is impressed with my eating prowess, both the sheer quantity I can hide inside my lean frame and my unwavering appreciation of everything edible. I've been introduced to more of natures' exportation-eluding gifts, orange-fleshed tropical fruits nisperos y sapotes; today I encountered my favorite brand of enchilada, a la tostadas, served openfaced and piled high in pyramidal reverence to Tikal with layers of lettuce, seasoned beef, onions and beets, topped with slices of hardboiled egg. Taking advantage of a household where alimentation isn't limited by economics, I'm eating weeks' worth of fiber at every meal, cleaning bowls of black bean tracks with every last crumb of flaky toasted bread, feeding my so-far resultless routine of pushups with slabs of protein stacked to small animals stature. And during an afternoon outing to Antigua I was encouraged to pacify my pastel pangs, ordering a cold two layer beauty: the upper layer fluffy yellow cake, the lower moist-to-the-point-of-oozy and fruit-filled, a juice saturated cakebase bleeding blackberry purple onto the plate with every silver prong's puncture, all wearing a dense offwhite cream cheese coating, a separatory slab splitting the layers as well.

These perfect memories -- coupled with my broken conversations and games of futbol and escondida with the housekeepers' kids and those at the Colegio -- are enough to outweigh my thirteen pound nightmare: Boliche. Until two nights ago I hadn't bowled in ten years, that distant assault on my confidence consecutive losses to goobers I was babysitting, managing to miss the pins even with the gutters buffered by bumpers. The recent debacle was worse, turning to face a table full of cute girls after each and every gutter-bound throw, forcing a thin, quivering smile, all the while praying a bowler worse than me in any adjacent lane would lose his ball in back swing and, with luck, that its trajectory would mercifully crush my cranium. After the first game, Patrick USA's on-screen scoring row displayed a doubletake-worthy 59. Four frames into the second game -- aware the bowlers in the surrounding lanes were operating sans ball-flinging spazz, instead spinning balls into strikes, maneuvering their legs on release with professional flair -- I'd unseated just 19 pins. All hope evaporated, having failed to pick up even a spare all evening, I unleashed consecutive strikes. Wearing my first genuine smile of the night, time on the lane expired and we exited. Unlikely to ever again throw consecutive strikes outside of Wi Sports, I've officially retired from bowling.

But that's not to say you won't catch me at a bowling alley chugging pitchers of brew, maybe hovering around some kid's birthday party begging for crumbs of cake, lumps of icing stuck to the serving tray.

"Does it say slavery?"

Aruba’s first world finery is two worlds ahead of Central American anything, the disparate locales linked only by gargantuan tropical fruit, each home to freakish papayas larger than any infant not scion of Shaq. And, I guess, relaxed standards of public toileting: exploring Aruba we passed a cute, naked three-year-old girl, standing on the side of the road, hands on her hips, pelvis thrust slightly forward, almost sassily, like a professional model at practice, at first glance presumably peeing, actually taking a standing dump.

Aruba is almost perfect: sweaty weather and turquoise seas; unlimited drink-and-eat access spanning a ½ mile of beachfront resorts (“Yes, I need six White Russians made with Stoli, and fourteen of the seared tuna appetizer. Make it snappy and you might land two Washingtons.”), including dietary essentials lacking in my Central American diet: vegetables, protein, and soft-serve ice cream; big screen TVs with multiple sports and movie channels; and my beloved parents and brother, aunt, uncle, cousins and a boyfriend. The only imperfection in the fantasy for our trio of single twenty-somethings is that were not twelve, the Divi All Inclusive crawling with families toting preteen princesses but nothing legal for us, even by possibly permissive Aruban standards. We’ll see how many days and drinks it takes to transform sun-wrinkled, pudge-bellied tourist moms into eye candy.

The last few days in Guatemala leading up to Aruba saw changes of scenery. There was a shuttle bus connection to Chichicastenango’s sprawling Sunday market, a massive, tourist marketed maze of vendors selling some essentials and many more lengths of intricately patterned fabrics and traditional clothing, bags and crafts, all fashioned by impoverished hands and all accompanied by the same shouted encouragement to purchase (which is the official phrase of Chichi and, traditionally, the first phrase spoken by infants): “¡Buen precio!” The competition between vendors and the necessity of feeding one’s family make Chichi a bizarro eBay, sellers undercutting each other's already low prices to win access to tourist wallets. The ride to Chichi also featured an incomprehensibly heavily guarded checkpoint, randomly placed on a mountain road, at which an armed man among many threw open the sliding van door, bent at the waist until his head was even and parallel with the floor, and demanded, while his eyes scanned beneath seats, “Algunas frutas?” Not drugs. Not weapons. Not children we might be smuggling for international slave trade. Grapes. And if you don’t give 'em up, you’re gonna need ‘em to plug the holes in your chest.

After Chichi I spent a final night in San Pedro La Laguna, enjoying as usual the variety of death metal shirts international aid services have distributed in hyper-religious countries, leaving legions of young men oblivious to the irony of their satanic Sunday’s finest. And after a brutal four-hour chicken bus ride across unpaved Guatemala highway and mountain passes -- the driver testing every bolt in the bus’ construction by hitting every meteoric-crater-sized “pothole,” enduring a lengthy sermon from one of the all-too-common obviously mentally tortured travel-preachers, always exhibiting at least one serious physical defect as well, who suddenly stand up in the middle of a packed bus, holding a bible in one hand and an overhead rail in the other, arching their backs and embarking on an animated screech fest, “Jeeeeeeeeesus Chriiiiiisto!” – I made it to Guate, La Capital, where, again, thanks to international aid, it’s not unlikely to be robbed by a thug wearing a neon-colored Looney Tunes hoodie.

For a family friend’s thoughtfulness and her friends in Guatemala, I landed in the generous care of Guatemalan elite, living in an every way modern and first world palace just outside the city. My bags were carried and my meals prepared by the live-in family of house- and groundskeepers. The huge garden- and tree-filled property is surrounded by a military-grade brick wall topped with razor wire, five or six massive, trained attack dogs prowling the premises at night. In order to keep my throat from resembling a platter of pulled pork bathed in tomato sauce, I wasn’t allowed out of the house once the roaming killers were released for the night.

La Capital is unlike rural Guatemala, it is modern, marred by US fastfood, marked with malls and at least one Hooters too, and the people, on average, stand taller than my waist. I indulged in Guatemala’s most popular street eats, pollo frito y papas fritas, at the ubiquitous Pollo Campero chain. And I drained a few hot mugs of homemade Atol de Elote, a delicacy with the color and consistency of snot from a winter cold, spotted with bits of corn kernels, a liquid version of Pan de Elote. I toured the city with a family friend, Eddy, and enjoyed sights like El Mapa en Relieve, Plaza Mayor de la Constitución, a museum documenting and displaying historical artifacts and another tracing the history and evolution of ropa tìpica.

Then I flew away, but not before tormenting everyone in my smell radius at the Guatemala City airport’s security checkpoint (and again in Miami) when I had to remove my one well-past-well-used pair of all-purpose sneakers. (For the benefit of everyone I have encountered since, I succeeded in washing my well-exercised, sweat-stiffened wardrobe here in Aruba, the first wash in a month.) Family fun commenced immediately upon reuniting in Miami International Airport, the extended family waiting for the same connection to Aruba. As reports were breaking about the outbreak of coordinated and deadly terrorist attacks in India, CNN was reporting the rather unnewsworthy in a bottom-scrolling text bar: “President Elect Obama Condemns the Attacks.” Kerry, Tony, and I exchanged “No shit” glances and discussed headlines that would actually be newsworthy: “President Elect Obama claims responsibility for the terrorist attacks!”

On the flight to Aruba, while we were filling out our immigration cards, my cousin Tony and I wondered aloud where the “Slavery” checkbox was located in the “Purpose of Visit” section, our stated purpose finding a Venezuelan slave trader interested in purchasing my brother. My cousin Lindsey, in one of those classic lapses of thought everyone -- save the blessed mute -- experiences from time to time to the delight of anyone in earshot, asked, quite concerned, “Does it say slavery?”

Since landing, we’ve enjoyed sun, sand, snorkeling, and, for the three young-lads searching for an elixir to induce hallucinations halving or quartering the age of drunk tourist moms and grandmas dance-lurching as nightly entertainment, a horrible day-after blackout, for me a Top 20 all-time hangover that even endless bowls of soft serve burying mounds of chocolate cake couldn’t cure. As reported by my aunt and uncle with whom I reportedly shared a lost conversation -- while awaiting a pizza and panini I’d ordered in a fit of B.A.C. overwhelming consideration for my stomach’s next-morning wellbeing -- a few minutes into our exchange I suddenly raised a hand to my lips and began poking and tracing the flesh, slurring, “Are my lips moving? Can you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?” Meanwhile Kerry milled around, holding two drink cups in one hand, one upright and filled, the other parallel to the ground, empty. All this after an impressive day of productivity and exercise and avoiding the bar; I'd remained alcohol-free and vegetable-full until 8pm, yet I was unconscious and bloated on greasy junkfood by midnight. I blame it on SoCo and lime. I'd ordered two Soco and limes and two White Russians for me and Kerry to share, and when the bartender asked if we'd like ice in our SoCo and limes, of course I replied no. Who puts an ice cube in a shot glass? When he returned with two cups filled with warm SoCo and a wedge of lime hanging from each rim, I realized I'd missed obvious clues.

I’ve only been quick and sober enough to document a few of the hilarious conversations and exchanges in my omnipresent pocket notepad, like my mom’s description of the daily lives of scallops: “They go around clappin’ their clams.” And her imaginative extension of logic, concerned because my father hadn’t informed the credit card company he would be vacationing in Aruba: “They’re going to call the house (to verify a foreign purchase), nobody will answer, and they’re gonna think we’re stabbed.” Or when Tony and I argued age-appropriateness in the pursuit of females, Tony claiming he, being twenty-one and three years younger than me, is subject to different basements and ceilings in target ages; I countered with typical sleaze, adamant we share the same basement and ceiling ages, coining my new mantra in the process: “Eighteen to the grave.”

Como siempre, time with my family is absolutely priceless. Now back to Guatemala, enjoying my occupational travel and Spanish language acquisition, counting the days until the next reunion.

Leaving the Lake Life (for a moment)

I'm finally preparing to leave my school, host family, and beautiful and impoverished town and home of more than one month, San Pedro La Laguna, Guatemala. If Chocobananos will be more difficult to hunt, at least I can end the premeal ritual of blaspheming deities whose existence I deny anyway. And I can avoid the occasional, always uncomfortable hours of post-dinner preaching, exponentially expanded explications of three words I can summarize in a breath, "Todo es dios."

I'm going to log a few more checkmarks in the tourist ledger before I arrive in Aruba next Wednesday: Chichicastenango and Guate, la Capital, where, even if I get robbed six times in two days like the statistics predict, I'm still going to have a Q$50 bill stashed beneath my insole with which to indulge the gods of high metabolism at Patsy, a chain of Guatemalan pastelerias.

My spanish is progressing faster than the digested tortilla-paste tube through my intestines, which means that I can now name a few more doughy foods I've tasted and then rub my belly and nod my head enthusiastically, repeating "muy" for upwards of a minute and then concluding the imposter oraciòn with "rica." If I'm feeling especially authentic I might skip the foreplay and just drop "¡Calidad!" Speaking of, the most recent additions to my international foods digest include chuchitos: balls of masa, oil, and salt, the same mixture from which tortillas are spanked into shape, filled with a spiced tomato salsa and chunks of chicken; and extra-crisped tortillas filled with a simple black bean paste, almost a Salvadoran papusa. Simple and exquisite.

And, after a few confidence-crushing attempted-conversations marred by sudden onset inability to form, much less string, syllables, the last few days have been promising. I've been visiting my 22-year-old teacher in the popular 'Teco night hour pastime of doorstep conversation; and, no, I haven't changed instructors in my four weeks of study, even though I know exposure to different speech patterns and teaching methods would prove beneficial. I've been playfully conversing with groups of inquisitive youngsters all over town, in particular a gang of boys who ask for endless vocabulary translations from spanish to english and a group of shy, smiling maybe 10-year-old girls from whom I buy grilled bananas sprinkled with sugar or homemade Chocobananos from their store-and-homefront alleyway-dustyard arrangement of closed-lidded pots clouded with steam and a sixpack sized cooler. Like the Guatemalan equivalent of American kids with lemonade stands. Except that lots of adults run juice stands in Central America, but fresh squeezed as opposed to lazy American kids and their from concentrate jugs.

The teens and adult-aged hoopers know me, most by name, and I've met a few of their sisters, who may or may not me married and/or with children. I caught a ¡Que guapo! from two cute and of-age 'Tecas while walking down on of my regular alleys the other night. I've also earned smiles and waves and playful accusations ("¡Eres mentiroso!") from the Sarita (Guatemala's Ben & Jerry's) ice cream attendant.

When I return to the third world from Arubian excess, I expect I'll make my way back to San Pedro shortly, maybe after a week of studies in Xela (Quetzaltenango), to study here at least a few more weeks, maybe longer. But I do, I promise, intend to keep traveling. Don't fret friends and family and cousins who plan to visit. I'm responsible enough to make sure a combination of cuties and ¡Que guapo!s and Quezalteca Especial don't strand me in San Pedro La Laguna with a Surprise! infant-anchor. Anyway, let's be honest: I can't settle in a town without the daily waking assurance of an available array of fruity goo-filled delicacies and icing-stacked layer cakes.

Whatta pisser

Where it has ended up costing me $850 in legal fees to have a UIP (Urinating in Public) citation expunged from my permanent record -- thanks to an alert crime fighting police duo working latenight undercover in an empty Charlotte parking garage last spring, and who, ignoring my cordial compliance with their every inquiry and demand, indulged in the powertrip of constantly reminding me, "We can take you to jail right now. Wanna go to jail for the night?" -- in Guatemala any place a man can plant two feet is a public toilet. Everyday I see the phallically-endowed suddenly veer from their paths and, shielded by turned backs, relieve themselves roadside. And yet half the population radiates scorn should I run past barechested.

Keeping with reminiscence, I just had a classic American moment. Not quite eating an entire Trader Joe's frozen carrot cake in one sitting, and certainly not a repeat of representative feat of good ol' American gluttony nonetheless: upping my daily consumption of pastel de coco to two hefty, indeed already Texas-sized, portions. The type of $8 slices dates share after a nice steakhouse dinner, hefted into my to-go back for Q$6 each. It's a heavy cake, literally, with a dense cake portion and sufficient frosting, but not the inch-thick layers necessary to satiate a frosting-fiend like me. The solution: eat all the cake from one slice, leaving an L-shaped surface of frosting, then tip the untouched slice on its side and layer the extra frosting atop, effectively creating a side-and-top iced slice of bliss, a triangularly-cut piece that is frosted like a corner chunk from a rectangular cake. Or, another option I haven't tried -- maybe tomorrow -- is draping the lonely layer of icing directly over the icing of the slice still intact, like an icing-armor upgrade or a vanilla-frosting cape.

Taming the Lion

I have only to endure one additional five day deluge of mind-cluttering conjugations until I can catch a bus to Chichicastenango for the city-sized Sunday market, then waste a few days in Guate dodging armed robberies and seeking out the Patsy chain of pastelerias with tiered cakes beore I jet to Aruba for a mini family reunion, trading third-world struggles for first-world excess. Resort life: prepaid drinks and eats during a week of beachside splendor. I'm salivating for cakes sliced into American proportions with blizzards' accumulations of fresh white frosting, longing for menus where "steak" signifies a hunk of meat thicker and tenderer than a t-shirt. Stiff mixed drinks and hoppy imported beers will feed a steady stream of clear urine belying the dehydration I'm suffering in the sun.

I doubt I'll be able to find rellenitos though, my new favorite Guatemalteco snack, an alternative take on the popular plates of planatos fritos con frijoles y crema: rellenitos are platanos mashed and then reformed around a thick paste of sweetened refried black beans, then fried until crispy and golden brown. The final product resembles a fresh foods Twinkie summoned from Dimension Unprocessed and Unchemically Altered (which is nearby but securely separate from Dimension X, so there's no risk that preparing rellenitos will transform your frying pan into a portal for Armageddon, General Trag, Bebop and Rocksteady not a threat to burst into your kitchen in a spray of spattering oil).

Until Aruba I expect my vision will be blurred and judgement impaired by the pursuit of a woman: the traditionally garbed bottlefront sketch adorning every bottle of Quezalteca Especial. Friday night she led me and two fellow gringos into the neighborhood den of seediness: La Cantina el Rinconcito. Mildred, my maestra, had advised against our patronage, suggesting instead the nearby La Estrella, reasoning, "It's safer and cleaner. La Estrella doesn't allow borrachos to snort coke off its tables." But already swigs deep into the Quezalteca, carrying a half can of Cola to chase gulps from my next 1/8th liter bottle, el Rinconcito was a fated adventure.

When we entered three or four drunks were slouched against walls, balancing within a lurch of the bars from behind which are dispensed bottles of beer and liquor. Not drinks. Bottles. We ordered our bottles and before I could clear a chug a diminutive man who was watching at least three of me sidled up and said something about Jean Claude Van-Damme, then Chuck Norris. As usual in San Pedro, the bums speak the best English, always enough to ask you for a drink or a few Quetzales and recite the names -- accompanied by the requisite handchops and halfkicks -- of the butchers of acting and bad guys who dominate American superaction cinema.

After I passed the bottles of liquor and Coke to Devin, friend and fellow student from Denver, a blue t-shirt clad man stumbled into the room, spouting nonsense as his eyes pinballed about his sockets, his hands and arms disassociated entities rising and falling, waving and gesturing without any discernable pattern or motive. His fingernails appeared to have been cultivated for years, his fingers permanently mangled, like crooked and bentback remnants from a hobby of slamming them in heavy wooden doors. Afraid anything could rile the man further, his finger-and-fist assaults on his own cranium increasingly violent by the second, I turned around to talk to the bartender, hoping his eyes might indicate were I about to be impaled by knife or fingernail.

My drunken spanish exhausted itself after the usual introductory probing and I turned back to the floor, where the maniac was removing his shirt, staring down my other friend, Florian. Suddenly he turned to me, dropped his shirt, raised both hands with fingers fanned and fashioned into crude claws and began roaring like a lion. With a hybrid gulp-laugh I stepped past the drunk and exited the bar, as did Devin, and shortly Florian too, followed by the manimal still babbling ominous nonsense in Florian's face. The beast kicked at nothing like Bruce Lee in super slo-mo, much to the delight of the short kung fu fanatic who'd likewise followed the action into the street. The bartender ever materialized from behind his barricade, poking his head out of a doorway into the street to motion that we should leave, alternately pointing toward the raving Guatemalteco and aiming the same finger at his own temple, air-tracing invisible cones in the swift rotations thereof.

And we walked to La Estrella, where an extra Quetzal per bottle is the price of safety.

Fresca como una lechuga

The house has emptied out, Mama Claudia popping in from Guate to recollect her rascals, Melida and Mariori. When Mingito and Jacueline are at home with Ana Maria and I'm lounging in the hammock enraptured by Cormac McCarthy's Border Trilogy, the only sound to break the silence is the soft slapping of palm on dough, the gentle spanking of barely resistant fistfuls of dough into flat, round tortillas to be fired on the comal the ritual premeal toll.

It's when we sit down for meals that -- if I were a God-fearing man -- I'd be concerned about my soul. As it is, I'm content to respect the religious beliefs of friends and family and enemies too while reserving my Sunday mornings for worship at the waffle iron, especially when I can get my hands sticky with authentic Vermont maple syrup. Guatemala is like home in that Bible-beltish kind of way. Which is fine and well, except I'm uncomfortable attempting to explain my lack of religion to a wonderful and devout family that prays before every meal. I think admitting "Soy ateo," would have me ostracized faster than a pedophile at preschool. (If that analogy is too much to stomach, substitute "Christian Laettner at a 1992 UK basketball reunion.")

As it is, I've adopted Davidson College Presbyterian Church as my place of worship, because I once entered for a wedding during the proceedings of which God was invoked or mentioned at least. For now I can rely upon my lacking language skills to circumvent discussion of the finer points of Presbyterianism, of which the only components I'm certain are the Bible and God. I've found myself engaged in two animated ¡Gracias a Dios! for all that has and will pass conversations, compelled to join to the fervent nodding and gesticulating toward the heavens. And I bow my head premeal and mumble thanks for Obama and the success of various sports teams and the wonder of peristalsis, continuing to thwart my strict diet of bowel cloggers if somewhat irregularly, and sometimes just strings of gibberish, my brand of speaking in tongues.

I'll admit, it feels wrong. But funny too. Like the other day when Melida and Melani decided to click buttons on my iPod and split earbuds. I started them on Smashing Pumpkins, unconcerned they could unwittingly navigate to Project Pat's X-rated glamorizations of Memphis street life, their English vocabularies limited to a short game of point-and-mispronounce-this-facial-feature. When they air-guitared my way, mock headbanging toward whiplash, I was a little startled they had discovered Aborted, a Belgian death metal band every bit as brutal and inappropriate for children as the name implies. I redirected them to Mountain Goats, locked the iPod, and found myself spewing sincere thanks to a subject unspecified: that Mama Melida wasn't around to witness the pumping of Satan into her angels' heads, and at eardrum rupturing decibels to completely destroy my credibility as a responsible guardian.

For the Babies

Families in Central America accumulate children like I used to collect baseball cards. Like babymaking is a pastime. This is partly due to religious condemnations of contraception and, I think, to a severe lack of education and foresight which allows the poverty-stricken to ignore the enormous costs of raising children for the money-making potential inherent in every breathing body. But every American adult knows there's only one good reason to birth a barnful of tots: more goodiebags to riad come Halloween! There's no Halloween in Central America, however, and as far as I know cannibalism is still condemned by Christianity, so I'm not witnessing some widespread stockpiling of protein snacks the way disaster-wary Americans load up on canned goods. But maybe the Mayans are taking those 2012 catastrophe predictions a bit more seriously than I'd realized...

Feeling Desserted

Despite the fact that I've compiled a pagelong checklist of foods I intend to gorge myself upon in a self-inflicted binge that might well end like a particular scene in 7even, I'm hardly dissatisfied with Central American dining. I still love the tortillas that appear fresh from the comal the moment the cloth-wrapped and basketed stock tablecenter begins to dwindle. My hostmom's version of tomalitas, essentially surfboard shaped bars of ground maíz moistened, compacted and cooked, are a delicious sometimes substitution, though I do prefer tortillas.

I've enjoyed chuchitos, which are small tamales, thus made from maíz, filled with a tomato-based sauce and chunks of meat wrapped and cooked in corn husks. Paches are phenomenal, papas-based cousins of tamales, thickly mashed potatoes mixed with a tomato sauce then packed around combinations of meats, vegetables, and the mandatory hot chili, then wrapped in giant green leaves and cooked. And dobladas are a deep fried delight, fried tortillas stuffed with, in Mama Meli's kitchen, papas o arroz, then served smothered in shredded cabbage, salsa, and jalepeños.

But Mom's carrot cake, thickly spread with rich cream cheese frosting, Grandma's Thanksgiving strawberry pies, and Aunt Lily's skyscraping Pineapple-Coconut cake, not to mention Landmark Diner's entire dessert case and Cuz Jamie's Michigan blueberry pie, are never far from my mind when I attempt to appease my sweet tooth with snackpacks of cookies.

Getting to know San Pedro La Laguna: Cantina El Rinconcito

Cantina El Rinconcito is one hundred meters from my host family's home, the liquor dispensing establishment favored by San Pedro's drunks. El Rinconcito defines "drinking establishment": two concrete-floored rooms with doors to the street barren save a single small plastic table stashed in a dirty corner each, both with an interior barred window too, which divides the drinking rooms from the third room, with the liquor stock and cantina attendant, from the withdrawing incoherents who stumble in during the AM hours. The dirty cobblestones outside the entrances are usually occupied by slumped, mumbling heaps of humanity, the ones who can keep afoot more likely to accost fair-skinned foreigners for a few quetzales. Eerily, disproportionate numbers of roaming canines seem to succomb to the hopelessness on that stretch of street too, splayed in the dust separated from roadkill only by a faint pulse.

The cantina's charm, I'm sure, is obvious after sufficient hard drinking. And when the doorstep patrons are generous to add a little color. For instance the old man I passed last night, sitting, cradling in his lap one arm that looked like it had been dipped in a bucket of red paint, the dark pool on the cobblestones between his drawnup knees trickling downgrade between his feet, in tiny rivers diverging and converging and diverging to reconverge again in the crevices between the stone dodecagons, slowly fanning into a bloody reef.

Baller Bloggin'

Playing basketball most afternoons on San Pedro La Laguna's new centertown court is a hybrid of fun and frustration. Losing in any competition -- from card games to eating to, especially, sports -- is known to provoke my transition from Smiley to Satan as suddenly and uncontrollably as a muscle spasm. So it's problematic when one's teammates' idea of defense is ball chasing so rabid the only logical conclusion is that the opposing team is tossing an orb that grants immortality upon touch. The inevitable procession of uncontested layups equates to afternoons of one-and-done. Man-to-man defense: such a simple concept. How many times can someone commit the same mistakes without learning?

And then I consider my Spanish studies.

Right.

Otherwise, I've settled into a routine, which suits the order-lover in me. Study, eat, exercise, and sleep. To spice a boring afternoon gouge a shallow, five-inch long gash in my scalp on rusty barbwire, failing to remove all the flakes of grime during the post-injury shower, leaving that up to my alcohol and gauze armed spanish instructor cum sexy nurse the following morning, when the wound had turned greenish. Seriously, what's an adventure without the threat of lockjaw?

Barry: cool, guatemala sounds like squatemala

There are few games uglier than Guatemalan men's basketball. If the women aren't fundamentally sounder, at least their slower, more deliberate pace produces the illusion. It's obvious some Sega-freak implemented NBA Jam as the official tutorial for Guatemalan men because they believe that triple-threat position (a traditionally crouched and grounded stance from which a player can dribble, pass, or shoot) occurs sometime amidst midair contortion.

Where traditional, Gold medal-winning philosophy stresses players never leave their feet without predetermined intent, a Guatemalteco hooper's sole intent is to pluck a pass from the air and sprint the minimum number of steps required to maximize his leaping ability. Presumably, the idea is that his 18-inch verticle will bring him to the height of the average American point guard (or mythical Guatemalteco), from where he'll be able to survey the court and make a play. Yes, Guatemalteco is like NBA Jam minus the fundamentals and played with human physical limitations.

The consequences of faking premeal prayer by mumbling Spanish sounding gibberish

A booming voice startled me from sleep before 5am this morning, eulogizing the dead while locals from all corners of San Pedro slowly converged upon the source. Monologues and sessions of song successively surged through the distant loudspeakers, adjacent the cemetary, commencing el Dia de los Muertos. Shortly, a string of explosions jolted from my dreams any final prayer for sleep, bombas launched heavenward to stir any stubborn soul or diety whose Saturday night acquaintence with Quezalteca Especial was a touch too spirited.

Acquiescing to consciousness, I performed my near daily routine of situps and pushups before I was hailed downstairs for family breakfast, a delicious Sunday spread of carbs: pan de banano, pan de elote y huisquil, a green starch vegetable dispensed by tree in-yard, featured prominently in our diet of sopas, sopes, and today served solo, peeled and boiled. The pan de elote was exceptional, rivaling the subtly sweet perfection of my mom's corn muffins and the complimentary baskets served steaming at my favorite soul food outposts. The pan de banano was delicious too, but I have yet to find a loaf in Central America that approaches mom's. Huisquil is similar to a green potato, better as an ingredient or with accompaniment.

Yesterday was my first hanging solo with Guatemaltecos outside my homestay family. Early in the morning I speed-hiked a mountain in neighboring San Juan La Laguna, to Mirador Rostro Maya. The middle-aged father of my language school's coordinator was my climb partner, his respect earned after I dictated the speedy completion of the demanding climb circuit in record setting time. Sore quads and megabytes of photos survive as memories from the up and down workout.

In the afternoon Chema, the twenty-six year old coordinator at Corazón Maya language school, invited me to backseat on his moto while we powered uphill past town to San Pedro La Laguna's campo de futbol, an officially-sized and lined megasandbox. We watched parts of two league games, action-enveloping duststorms spawning from frantic footwork following scattershot toeballs crossfield. At night -- after I strolled through the raucous bewreathed and candlelit cemetary, escaping the circus of special occasion street vendors sandwiching the entranceway with just one Q$3 hunk of pan -- I joined Chema and his wife for sloppy hoops action at its finest: a señoras versus señoritas debacle on the municipality's new cancha de basquetbol, every whistle signaling a chaotic surge of youth sprinting and screaming and hoisting errant shots with an assortment of balls all over the court, often a scramble that ignored the referees' imploring whistles and returning jugadoras, lingering into the resumption of league play, amusing spectators by further confusing the action.

Afterward our trio parked on tienda steps while Chema and I fended the cold with lukewarm canned pints of Gallo. On the walk home I won the alleyway adventurer's award of spanish practice with two long-celebrating Guatemaltecos, a more or less coherent conversation that the sloppier-drunk of the two kept redirecting to martial arts with flatpalmed convergences of hand held centerchest preceding the signature half-bow, that he could summon his eyelids only halfmoon and his slurred speech I could imagine as any language completed the effect. Fifteen minutes and thanks but no thanks to offers for weed and the opportunity to buy the pair more drinks later, "Hasta luego," signaled the day's final ascent: to bed.

Sorry Mom and Dad

Situated on the majestic volcano and mountain encircled shores of Lago de Atitlán, Guatemala, San Pedro La Laguna exists for most tourists between the two arrival docks, a stretch of colorful storefronts, hippie-owned restaurants butchering international food and offering "special" brownies and cookies, and bars luring tourists with drink steals and American sports and cinema on TV. Townspeople venture into Gringoland to sell fresh-squeezed juices, basketfuls of warm pan, or handicrafts for an extra week's wage surcharge in quetzales. A few natives own and operate hotels, there's the one papuseria and a few Guatamalteco run restaurants. A handful of taxis crowd the docks offering tuk-tuk transport to lazy, bag-laden tourists who'll never do more than admire the steep hills rising into town proper and will be staying in a hotel a flat few hundred meters (maximum) from the dock. A shadier few with hoodies up and signature bloodshot eyes lurk in shadows and alleyways exercising their limited English, essentially the ability to ask, "What you need," and then run through a litany of illicit substances for smoke, snort, or syringe. But a quad-testing hike uphill reveals a different city entirely, closer to the third-world that characterizes much of Guatemala and Central America outside the major cities.

San Pedro above lake level is a grey concrete expanse. The ascending passageways are cobbled in varying degrees of danger to ankle ligaments. Those with a high dirt-to-stone ratio rearrange themselves during heavy rains. Every edifice bears the sharp edges of cinderblock construction and rusty tin roofing protects most homes, thin sheets spanning the poverty rainbow from dry blood reddish-brown to compost heap black. Tree limbs crudely fashioned into fenceposts and strewn with barbwire delineate dirtpatch yards; chimneys puff the breath of fresh tortillas from the moment the first rays of sunlight pierce the crisp morning cool. Men who don't work a farm, construction, or a store are simply there.

Dogs with countable ribs wander listlessly, following anyone holding so much as a candybar wrapper with a stray smear of chocolate or a sugary sprinkle tucked into their bushy mustache. Kids congregated in front of home-businesses kick and toss circular anythings in gestures of sport, donning tattered dusty clothes invariably sizes too small or large for their small frames, a few feet from a mother perched upon the entranceway steps with a basket of tortillas to vend. Traditionally dressed Mayan women stream by balancing baskets headtop, draped in flowing, intricately patterned cloths, multicolored garments that shame Crayola's suggestions of variety.

Amidst all this I've found a new family. Sorry Mom and Dad. Because I'm not entirely clear on the family surname -- the Spanish language has a tendency to keep things rather unclear for me -- we'll call it the household of Mama Melida (Meli for short) and Papa Mingo (who I see only in the evening, gone to work before my daily 7:30am breakfast). Besides the househeads, Tia Ana Maria, and myself, there are alternately between six and eight others in the household, a pack of tireless kids who love nothing more than wearing my watch and reporting every minute advancement: Mariori and Melani, ages four and five respectively, princesitas who shower me with hugs and kisses every time I reappear from Spanish class or a walk into town; Mingo (Mingito), a cool rascal of seven years who often sports a pair of blue goggles; Meli, eight years old, who communicates with me in words and at a pace slow enough that I can occasionally comprehend, generously accomodating my every "otra vez"; Jacuelin, nine years old, a cutie with an angelic voice who constantly keeps a sly eye on me; and Eric, twelve, a kite-flying professional patiently teaching me the craft, in the rare moments I escape Mariori and Melani's clutches. To be honest, I haven't figured out exactly who belongs to who, but that's the beauty of a Latin family: however tenuous the relationship, it's still family.

Yes, I love my (new) family, communicated through an everpresent smile and bobblehead-nodding which has the family convinced I understand far more of their conversations than the random words I actually intercept from their unbroken strings of Spanish. Thank you active listening. Mini-Meli, however, did write me a note that could heartwarm a statue of Stalin: "Tu eres parte de la familia. Te queremos mucho." I guess it really does pay to sincerely enjoy the insanity of kids. A sampling of the daily play routine: loose the family dog in the streets and run away while he chases; pretend to be various animals and crawl around imitating their sounds; pick up and/or hug Melani and Mariori; chase Melani and Mariori pretending to be a monster, until they face me and cross their arms, at which point I'm magically transformed into a benevolent aficionado of pirouettes, extending a hand to each from which they dangle and spin like ballerinas on a windup toy until they become too bored or dizzy and I momentarily revert to monster; using two dilapitated wooden ladders laid on the ground to simulate American football footspeed drills; and my personal favorite, "El Rey", which involves me sitting anywhere upon an imaginary throne and ordering objects I want, sending los niños scattering in search, the first to return with an object satisfying the requested-item-criteria awarded a point, though at no accumulation of points does one actually win or the game actually end. Tireless, imaginative kids. Much preferred to America's TV-mesmerized french fry fatties are my Guatemaltecos with carb-fed panzitas.

The food, too, is much to my liking. That fresh tortillas are served with every lunch and dinner goes without saying. And that every meal is abuzz with flies is something I came to terms with the moment I hit Mexico in September. With limited resources, Mama Meli does a commendable job. My first meal was homemade ceviche, basically pico de gallo with bits of raw shrimp "cooked" in lime juice. Seriously great stuff. The anticipated fare of black beans, rice, and eggs has been accented by platanos fritos, homemade tamales topped with cabbage, salsa, and jalapeños; some delicious dish combining ejotes, huevos, salsa y chilis; and various other combinations of the usual suspects with meat and a vegetable or two. The unexpected versatility proves the all too common homestayer's culinary complaints and dietary denunciations spew forth from filet-spoiled lips that deserve only a hearty helping of comida tipica fattened pompis.

Living with a family -- and one I believe is slightly more well off than average for San Pedro -- elucidates what closer-to-third-than-first-world actually means. Like almost every building in San Pedro, my family's home is constructed of cinderblocks, but with the luxury of near-Ace Hardware grade planks of wood for fenceposts. The ubiquitous snaggle of livewires powering the waterheating showerhead provides warm to hot water. Drinking water arrives in five-gallon jugs delivered by truck, but I brush my teeth with buckets of water from a stagnant pool floating with insect corpses, a deep reservoir central in a massive sink system.

The central dining and dish-cleaning area is covered but open air, doors to the shower and bathroom stall each opening from one wall. Two bedrooms and the kitchen/prep closet open along the two walls along and behind the kitchen table. I reside in a separate two-story structure adjacent the kitchen, forming the fourth wall, sheltering the kitchen from the gale force winds gusts that haven't abated since they arrived four days ago, chasing the rain and introducing the cool winter nights that will quickly see my single Davidson sweatshirt out of style. The first floor of my homey concrete behemoth is under construction, eventually providing a handful of additional rooms, but I occupy one of two dorms on the second level. I'm provided a double bed and ample blanketry, a desk, chair, and small shelf, a hammock outside and rooftop access to peer down upon the lake, across and around at the terrestrial undulations of the highlands, or up into the starry nights. I also have a toilet closet immediately atop the staircase, obscured by a hanging cloth flap which the incessant gusts have effectively rendered useless, whipping the flap about so anyone on the street or the courtyard can observe my every piss and plop. All part of a different perspective, no doubt.

Concerning school, I'm still slow at Spanish. The process is trying for someone who born sans a natural reserve of patience and I'm cursed with a beautiful young guatemalteca maestra not averse to flirtation. At twenty-two and single, Mildred is both the reason I've signed up for another week of classes and the reason I can only half-concentrate during session. She's patient and encouraging and part of a traditional family that make it tough for me to torment her outside of class. If I can improve my Spanish and my tan, then maybe, just maybe...

El Dia de los Muertos is Sunday, though the celebration takes place all weekend. I've been spending a lot of time in the cemetary the past few days, which has been crowded with people repainting, cleaning, and otherwise touching up the graves of loved ones. The cemetary is colorful, beautiful, and to be the place of jubilation (and a bit of libation) this weekend. Should be fun...

(And a tuk-tuk blasting DMX just rolled by...what a place!)

Living the Lake Life

The nicest places hide the ugliest faces; at least straight-shooting shit towns can be commended for honesty. Antigua is regarded as Guatemala's jewel, a safe haven for tourists, an upper class enclave sheltered from poverty by looming volcanos. It is, in fact, a rich and rewarding city. By day. Night, however, introduces sinister elements, exaggerated or not by a litany of accounts of armed robberies and shootings targeting tourists and Guatemaltecos alike. The vibrant colors, crowded calles and avenues are muted at dusk, disparate realities that each forswear the other illusory.

Of all the places I've been, nowhere has an after-hours excursion felt so risky. For first impression's sake, it doesn't help that I was abused and intimidated in Spanish by a drunk thirty-plus thug and his crew of midget teenage minions. It is exceedingly uncomfortable when you're the only non-Spanish speaker in a bar after 1am, the streets are deserted and you have blocks to walk to your hostel, and the only word you understand from the rapidfire procession is "narcotráfico." Each repetition of narcotráfico, which is at least once per breath for the speaker, is followed by crazed stares in your direction and the type of chest-puffing that usually indicates an an alien is busy hatching behind the rib cage. Especially when you're accompanying the one female in the bar -- who is quite attractive at that -- the lone circumstance that has drawn the ire of the ponytail and wife-beater sporting wannabe-kingpin having a conversation through your very solid body, a fact proven when he rather forcefully drops a slice of lime into your chest. When you turn in bewilderment because someone mistook your chest for a Corona bottle and meet a stare befitting the next MTV Reality Competition, Ultimate Mad-Dogging, it's truly comically childish. Or so it is in retrospect, less so in the moment you're drinking just to dull the pain of the inevitable beating.

Poala and I emerged unscathed, hardened for battle with active Volcán de Pacaya, frequented everyday by hordes of hikers who, hungered by the steep, demanding ascent, hope for another's misstep, which, in the presence of lava rivers, amounts to an impromptu barbecue. Lava is awesome. It oozes and glows and flows and radiates heat to roast marshmallows and melt rubber soles, or, given a misstep, takes souls. The climb itself -- loose, rocky footing a broken ankle waiting to happen -- was a cakewalk compared to navigating my treacherous hostel room at Antigua's Black Cat. Simply reaching the ladder to my bunk involved more maneuvers than most Olympic gymnasts have in their repertoires, prancing and dancing around and atop bags and bundles stacked and splayed over the rare floor tile not already covered by beds.

The morning after climbing the volcano and conquering the unlit journey into my bunkbed --also after realizing delicious, inexpensive eats by food cart arrive in Antigua only during holidays -- I bused to backpacker favorite Lago de Atitlán, taking a lancha from Panajachel to San Pedro La Laguna. Atitlán is a massive lake in Guatemala's western highlands -- San Pedro sits at over 1600m -- picturesque towns sprinkled about its shores, all encompassed by pristine green peaks and climbing volcanoes, often cloud-enveloped, the dramatic landscape studded as if with prehistoric terrestrial welts from Pterodactyl-sized mosquitos tasked with exaggerating the earth.

San Pedro is an interesting blend of Maya and drug cultures, with more hippies than I'd prefer. Hippies who run restaurants touting renditions of the favorite international food, proving universally bland, but simple appearance on a menu sufficient to convince stoned munchies, thus the proliferation of shit restaurants stealing tourists' dollars from local establishments. I'm pround to report I support the Q$6 Papuseria, which qualifies as international cuisine by a single border, but is authentically executed. Likewise, I support the Bready Bunch, a pair of smiling kids accosting all whiteys with baskets brimming with mini-loaves of fresh-baked pan: de coco, banano, zanahoria y manzana, of which the fruit-chunk-filled manzana reigns supreme.

Since arriving in Antigua, though, I've adhered to a steady 50% bread diet, which is threatening a mid-intestinal traffic jam, not to mention a previously unimaginable indifference to pan. I plan to refrain from loaves for a few days, which should be easier after moving in with a host family today, beginning at least a week of Spanish language instruction (Corazón Maya Escuela) tomorrow morning. Even though the daily meals will invariably feature tortillas, I'd have to eat foot-high stacks with each meal to even compete the pounds of pan I've been downing daily. My banana fix will meanwhile be satisfied by Q$1.50 chocobananos: frozen bananas covered in millimeters of chocolate and affixed with bits of nuts, a healthier, cheaper, regularity-encouraging alternative.

Churrasic Park

Stretching a single planned night into a stay longer than a week, I left my Italian (and Spanish and German) friends and hosts in Cobán, reluctantly departing Guatemala's capital of Churrascerias. Churrasco: delicious plates loaded with slabs of grilled, seasoned meat (puerco my carne of choice) and, depending on the vendor, some combination of rice and beans, hunks of baked potato slathered in sour cream, grilled tomatoes and onions, accompanied by garlic bread sometimes and tortillas always. My favorite comida corrida churrasceria loaded styrofoam plates with all the preceding less the rice and beans, for an absurdly low Q$15. The tough meat worked my jaws, but was so succulent I never ventured into Churrasic Park, the scene of central Cobán's nightly churrasco competition, a series of churrasco-selling carts lining one long side of the zócalo.

I caught a shuttle bus to Antigua yesterday morning, en route enjoying a joint, then a liter of milk and a divine slice of chocolate-caramel cake, reunited and sharing hightimes-hilarity with Paola, a lovely Italian I'd met in Livingston weeks before.

Not only that, but two North Carolinian girls inquired about my Davidson sweatshirt, kickstarting a conversation in which I realized I'd had beers with one of the girls at the Brickhouse, a restaurant-bar back home, a week before this travel began, that she is a good friend of my (currently displaced) fellow adventurer, Jackson, and his sister.

Antigua is a beautiful city, architecturally spellbinding, but it is far from a real representation of Guatemala. Money reveals itself in European sports cars and candlelit dining, a far cry from the favela buildup lining highway hillsides through Guatemala City. Still, my first night here I was offered a job at a restaurant gearing up for tourist high season, so swimming through this volcano-encircled tourist sea for a few months is an option. There is a fabled bakery here, offering an assortment of breads, most importantly pan de banano in cinderblock sized loaves. And cheap dining exists lining central park -- food carts steaming and smoking midday, meat sizzling and tortillas frying, crowded by camera happy tourists and hungry locals jostling for cartfront position. Yesterday's lunch cost me Q$18: a pupusa con queso covered in a colorfully piquant chili of chunked onions, carrots, broccoli, and cauliflower; and two tortillas hidden by black beans and steak, then covered with their own array of sauces, topped off by a generous portion of the aforementioned chunk-veggie chili, a popular condiment throughout Central America, often offered jarred on restaurant tabletops.

Today I'm hiking Volcán Pacaya, Antigua's active volcano. Safety regulations don't exist here, and a tourist in the lava is as quickly forgotten as a stench-free fart, his money collected pre-trek.

Semuc Champey and the Army at Darkness

Perched upon a mattress between five wooden walls, one adorned with a few askew, adjutting nails for hanging, and a concrete floor, I'm coming to comprehend the origins of the term bedroom. The only sound -- besides Guatemala's national music: the incessant chorus of rooster crows, to which I'm finally growing deaf -- is millions of simultaneous gentle thumps, plump raindrops acquainting themselves with the canopy of oversized fauna below, leaves the size of kites.

In The Woods, Guatemala, or, if one must assign a mappable name, Semuc Champey (Kekchi for "Sacred Water"), consists if my basic accomodations (one night at Casa Sapote included in my Q$100 roundtrip shuttle from Cobán); random indigenous persons emerging from the jungle at random, or walking along the 20km dirt road to nowhere, baskets balanced headtop, who presumably take shelter somewhere in the vicinity; and a small army of shotgun-wielding guards protecting the crude and treacherous corridor to Semuc Champey's natural wonder: a 300m limestone bridge, lined with a series of stepped and swimmable pools and waterfalls, water of colors most people experience only through Photoshop, depth-dependent hues transparent turquoise to deep blue.

The serenity atop the bridge, placid pools and short stepping cascades, belies the torrent below. I was one of the few adventurers to follow our tour guide, Renee, toward the point where the raging Río Cahabón, which thrashes through an eons worn cave beneath the bridge, reemerges from its tunnel, rejoining the water flowing from the pools. Mimicking Renee and his small, agile sidekick, we swam, slid, and tiptoed the entire slick limestone bridge. At the end, a 20m high ledge overlooking violence below, sheets of white froth launching from the backs of boulders unflinching through ages of pounding.

Impressive.

Then I noticed the curled rope ladder Sidekick carried slung over his shoulder. Summarily unraveled, Renee secured it to a boulder in that lowest calm pool, and we descended one-by-one, the waterfall rushing into our faces, ladder hidden. From a rocky outcropping 10m below we crawled beneath the waterfall into the cave's mouth, crouching and shuffling beneath stalactites to another ledge, eroded by the river exploding from the darkness stretching back beneath which we'd recently traversed. Semuc Champey's bridgetop pool views are easily worth admission, but the prize is becoming acquainted with the beast snaking below.

Emerging unscathed from the tower climbs at Tikal and a rope ladder excursion through a waterfall with a rocky bed below, quiet death tonight -- gaps in the warped lengths of wood comprising my walls offering free admission to any creature that can compact or contract itself less the width of a human fist -- would be a cruel fate, an entire loaf of banana bread awaiting me at sunrise.

---

(A.M. UPDATE)

A few minutes after handwriting the above journal, a variation of my worst movie-come-true nightmare began. OK, Candyman materializing is actually first. But an arachnid invasion a al Arachnaphobia ranks a close second.

Intending to shower, I rose from the bed and walked toward the door, halting when I noticed the gray floor about the doorway transformed into a swirling black, blooming outward. My peripheral registered black swarms advancing up either wall, toward the ceiling, the door already conquered. Like my room was constructed atop a hill-sized nest of biting black ants that I had offended, stirred from some perfect slumber with my mere soundless presence.

I stretched long and jerked the door open with nervous, dancing fingers before retreating, stamping about like an enraged marching bandee, trying to stem the dark flood from engulfing my bed, my bags, and my body, my only escape blocked by the agitated black tornado already spread to far to consider hurdling. Shortly, nerves fraying as ants began divebombing into my hair from the ceiling, a scattered few landing softly on the bed, Santiago, who lives and works at Casa Zapote, stopped in the open doorway, oblivious to the fury at his feet. "Amigo," I warned, indicating something amiss at his feet with a shaky finger in between the slaps to my head and shoulders. Dancing and clawing spectacle as I was -- probably not particularly startling given the flow of drug-addled hippies traveling the Central American travel circuit -- he glanced at the floor before launching himself back with a yelp, smacking with both hands at his ankles.

He motioned to my bags and indicated for me to follow. I hastily collected my belongings, inhaled deeply, and propelled myself across millions of tinybiters, landing in a soft pit of collected rainwater. The squish of my soggy shoes didn't bother me a bit on the sprint to my comped honeymoon suite, nor did the giant jungle spiders lurking in the shadows outside the door, their presence as insect demolishers finally appreciated.

Engagement Grills

Maybe impertinent to travel itself, but a thought occuring during travel: It's outright unjust when a man in the disorienting throes of love splurges on more karats than Bugs Bunny can dream, for an engagement that disintegrates sometime later, some lucky ex-fiance pawning a Porsche off her ring finger.

Me, if I'm creating the impression that I'm forking over more cheddar than Chester Cheetah, I'm outfitting my future ex with a gaudy grill, alternating imitation silver and gold, with "P's ______(Fill-in-the-blank with a choice as loving or lowlife as you like)" spelled out in lip-bulging cubic zirconium. It'll be so hideous that even if she dumps me and dips with her booty, I can sleep soundly knowing she sure as hell won't be rocking my prize, and pawning it will be near impossible. If she's smart enough to disassemble my gesture of faith, she'll find her precious metals and stones worth a handful of M&Ms. Which hopefully will melt in her hand.

Quicksand Cobàn / Que dia es hoy?

My conception of time has fully eroded, the names of weekdays some vestigial cranial accessory. I remained in Flores for nearly one week, leaving the tranquil island on the morning of my seventh day, a week expired spent shooting hoops and playing futbol with local teens on the town-center court, exploring Santa Elena's panaderias and market with Canadian co-hosteler Killian, running circles around the island (evaluating posted daily dinner specials) or huffing exhaust straight out the only highway into Santa Elena. One productive run revealed a cheap seaside diner where I enjoyed a traditional Guatemalteca soup, Pepián, a rich tomato- and onion-based broth filled with hunks of carrot and green pepper, rice, and a roasted chicken breast. My remaining daily hours were spent promoting my favorite banana bread baker, who beamed when I deemed her pan de banano "el mejor in Flores," a quote she cited the next day, settling my debate between yet another hunk of banana bread or a slice of fresh pan dulce.

I followed a fun crew of girls to Tikal, the famous Mayan ruins, at 5am, led by a pair of Germans to whom Renè had introduced me, Lisa and Lucia, and superchill Spaniard Lu. (The Guatemalteca ticket vendor laughed when we purchased our roundtrip shuttle tickets, a lone American guy with five non-gringo girls.) Tikal's monolithic pyramids and temples tower above the jungle, the terrifying shrieks of Howler monkeys, impossibilities from creatures so minuscule, tearing through the lifting haze as slivers of sunlight sneak past obscuring stone monuments. We visited the central plaza and nearby main sites, choosing to relax overlooking treetops rather than trudging to outlying temples, the seedier Tikal districts, including one the girls affectionately dubbed the "rape temple" based upon Lonely Planet's warnings.

Climbing cloudward to unrailed vantage points tested my willpower and sweatglands, but I successfully navigated the highest towers; the highest with a cruel interpretation of the word staircase, a sequence of narrow steps that rises fifty plus meters while creeping forward maybe two. Safety standards won't permit ladders to be positioned so steeply (though ladderwise one must scale and descend)! (In fact, every Tikal tourist I've talked to since, including Barry who visited years ago, has recalled, "Oh, you mean the tower with the ladder.")

The quivering, lightheadedness and torrentially sweating hands didn't begin until I was atop the monument, seated a few feet from the sheer face of certain death, my back attempting to tunnel into the stone wall. None of that detracted from the stunning panorama, and I was content at least my final vision would be so magnificent and serene. Our descent was precipitated by a guide-led group beginning their climb, in numbers sufficient that, should we remain, at least one person would fall from the overcrowded lookout. When I touched down on earth with a soft step instead of a thunderous crunch, I gushed with arterial enthusiasm to everyone within earshot my new and profound affinity for terra.

I'd discovered Jackson was in Antigua (also, I'd worded extremely poorly an offer of seat exchange to the hostel's middle-aged british employee during the nightly movie: "Do you want to come inside me?") and it was time to move on...so I headed opposite Jackson to Rio Dulce, a river through the Guatemala's coastal jungle swath near Belize and Honduras. When the chicken bus parked in dumpy Rio Dulce town, I forewent plans to spend the night and followed my British escort, Becky, to the main dock, arranging a lancha onward to Livingston -- an isolated, culturally diverse hub downriver known especially for its Caribbean influence. Latins, Mayans, and Garifina, black Caribbean slave descendents share Livingston with tourists, and Betsy and I crashed at the highly recommended Casa de la Iguana. To my pleasure, Renè was camped there too, still trying to shake a messy stomach bug.

In Livingston I made the obligatory trek through the town, jungle and coast, Belize stenciled on the horizon, to Los Siete Altares, a series of spellbinding freshwater waterfalls cutting through untamed jungle. Our tour guide, Francis, was an Air Jordan adoring treat, recognizing immediately NC as the birthplace of His Airness. Francis was hilarious and informative, quick to joke with me about all the curvacious women sauntering along, exchanging dap to celebrate the healthiness of many a passerby, shapeliness ensuring "she´s eating her yogurt." Daps were also exchanged when we agreed a girl wasn't eating her yogurt. Noteworthy as well was a meal of Topado, a soup of sea delicacies simmering in coconut milk and spices, swimming with shrimp, mussels, crab, and a whole fish, boiled but otherwise unshelled and unmolested. It was a welcome departure from tortilla framed tastes.

After a few days with the bugs and Garifuna and the threat of malaria, I decided to embark for Lanquin and Semuc Champey, essential Central Guatemala. Rather than spend a night in drab Rio Dulce township to catch an early morning direct shuttle to Lanquin, I snagged a lancha to Puerto Barrios hoping for a bus to Cobán, where I could find transport to Lanquin. At the bus station, in the panicked moment I realized the particular busline's routes were all direct to Guatemala City and that my random arrangements of spanish vocabulary would be insufficient to mine the ticket seller for information about how and where to change buses for Coban, concerned a miscommunication could prove suicidal, I was saved by three Spanish-fluent Italians, Paulo, Gilberto, and Jenny, the former two who speak conversational English. And just happened to be from Cobán.

They conversed with the ticket attendant then led me across the street, where we hitched a ride on a chicken bus to somewhere, endured two shuttle rides playing Central America's third favorite pastime, "How many people can we cram into a fifteen passenger van?" and presto! Cobán. Gracious and accomodating to Mother Teresian extremes, I was offered a night in their spacious and charming abode: five spacious rooms, a restroom, and a covered, open-aired dining and lounging area behind a metal doored and barred exterior, down some muddy, rutty street. I intended to leave the next day, but I'm still there something close to a week later. Between the encouragement to speak Spanish, delicious home-cooked meals (and the occasional take-out churrascos as well), and the tall-standing marijuana plants, I don't think they resent my extended stay.

PBA's Nuggets on Inanity

My good ol' work buddy, Mr. New York himself, Baby Fetus Craig, recently emailed me the following quote, which I was recorded (soberly) uttering at work sometime during the past year:

"If pancakes had little arms and legs and walked around like little, flattened, circular people, I'd always carry syrup and silverware."

I've been sequestered in a heavy metal door sealed domicile in the dirt-road backstreets of Cobàn, Guatemala for over a week. I sleep on a cot on the floor in a closet. Hardly a kidnap victim, I'm camped out with a trio of generous Spanish-fluent Italians who saved me from bus station blundering in Puerto Barrios nearly a week ago...maybe a week ago...days no longer exist except to distinguish the newspapers I struggle to read with my morning coffees, toasts and breads. The homecooked meals are fantastic, I sleep comfortably, and my Spanish is creeping toward advanced infant. I keep planning to leave, this was initially but a one-night stay, but I haven't made it out yet. A detailed update is forthcoming.

Hasta luego, snorkel dude!

After four quiet days on Caye Caulker, Belize, running the same three main streets more times than a kindergartner can count; enjoying stew chicken, rice and beans, or lobster or snapper at a number of restaurants (the cheaper and superior eateries situated on the poorer backstreets); reverting to bad vacation habits and constructing meals of cakes alone, sampling plastic wrapped pieces of caramel and pineapple upside-down cake from every bikefront pastry-peddler; and reading through the oppressive afternoon heat, passing quiet nights on our hotel's pier with a few Belikin and a little mota, I was tanner and revitalized for travel.

Jackson, the displaced sea-creature that he is, decided around midnight our last prepaid night on Caye Caulker, a number of stiff rum and cokes deep, that he wanted to join a group of nice guys who surely comprise half the population of Isreal and two cute girls we'd met that afternoon for a three day, two night snorkling extravaganza departing the next morning. I, more terrestrially inclined, opted instead to depart Belize for Guatemala, having completed my beach-trip checklist that afternoon, finally wading into the water after four days within a stingray's leaping-kill-radius of the ocean.

We've temporarily parted ways, and I'm sure Jackson's enjoying himself as much as I am. I chicken-bused out of Belize, though not without another history lesson from Prince Charles, who likely can't afford a change of clothing because he invests all his damn money in advanced military homing devices and radar. I made it to Guatemala, running into our Asheville, NC biker buddies at the border, and again once my cabbie deposited me in Flores, Guatemala, a beautiful and tiny island sanctuary in the middle of one of Guatemala's many massive lakes. The ride to Flores was eventful, the driver deftly dodging kamikaze pigs scurrying from the roadside brush, skillfully navigating his Toyota Corolla around what Guatemaltecos consider potholes, and what Americans more accurately describe as meteoric impact craters.

Franklin dropped me off at hostel Los Amigos, which, for $40 Quetzales (less than US$6) per night, provides a dorm complete with two fans, private bath, and an queen bed to complement our bunk, which God might fill with supermodels were I not it signed possession of Barry's soul, my intentions devious. If only I'd made everyone in high school pay with their souls for the right to copy my homework...

Anyway, the hostel is fantastic. Lots of travelers, many personable, some attractive, with clean rooms, a huge library, affordable internet and drinks with a good restaurant to match: the best and cheapest hostel yet, in a city I'd heard was too expensive and hardly worth nothing more than being a base for day-trips to Tikal. Moreover, we're a few hundred feet from a basketball court, and the hostel provides free sports equipment. The town epitomizes safety, midnight walks through the streets without trepidation.

Running, I can circle the island in less than six minutes, but it's densely built. The main street encircles the island, both sides packed with restaurants, hotels, shops and houses, breaks between buildings only for narrow streets leading up to the zocalo and basketball court. There is obviously wealth here, with as many upscale restaurants as cheap eats, and flat-screen TVs visible inside well-kempt houses, and a rare sense of total security, different from neighboring Santa Elena, the gritty city a Barry Bond's steroid-blast across the bridge.

A few days alone is exactly what I needed. I'm forced to swallow my misanthropic posturing and practice my spanish (and negotiating an ice cream deal for three scoops in a cup, which doesn't exist on the menu, is quite entertaining for both sides). I made quick friends with my German roomate René (who accidentally coined my new favorite word, the child of meat and beef, "Meef"; "Doomfuck," also Renè's, is a close second), and two delightful Danish girls, Kit and Cristina. Our quartet ventured for drinks the past two nights, a classyish steak dinner last night as well, for which we were accompanied by two cool Dutch newcomers. The way we laugh, spectators must assume we're steeped in serious substances. Truthfully, we're four afficionados of absurdity, cracking up over lingual mistakes in foreign tongues [Kit: "See you tomorrow morning at 9pm"; "I was sick in Guatemala for 4 years (intending days)"; y "I just love papel (intending pastel!) de chocolate."], slang and obscene phrases from across the globe, the Dutch duck dance and grandpa's glass eye. "Keep it real, pop." Alas, Kit and Cristina split this morning for Rio Dulce, René will be heading out in the next few days, hopefully we'll all cross paths again. ¿Por qué no?

Youth Hostel Los Amigos now holds less amigos, but I'll wait in Isla de Flores, cheap lodging, eats and drinks with good changing company, locals quick with smiles and salutations, chasing hoops dreams overlooking a majestic lake until I hear from Jackson, hitting Tikal before moving on. Guatemala could be home for a while.

Says Price Charles, Homeless Propagator of History: "Unbelizeable"

The moment our bus parked at the station in Belize City, the doorway was mobbed by men and women clamoring in thick Caribbean accents. The motley crew weren't passengers for the next bus to leave, but an array of unofficial taxi drivers aggressively competing for our business and bags.

One grabbed us, convinced us he wasn't a scam artist, and off we drove toward a nearby hostel. The blocks of the city we covered were mostly concrete and dilapidated wood, connected by sandy, potholed roads. Belize City rests on the water, home to an almost entirely English-speaking Caribbean population, some latinos, with a number of transplants from India and especially China, who have a monopoly on Asian cuisine and convenience stores. American hip-hop, baggy shorts and basketball jerseys outfit the culture of youth, and the bloodshot eyes of policemen discredit the posted signs decrying drugs. Every taxi driver and many corner-lounging pedestrians accost tourists with drug-procuring offers, and beggers are aggressive again, hounding tourists, the all too obvious sunburned ghosts gliding at a pace too fast for a rasta-haven.

Our personal leetch called himself Prince Charles, a well-educated homeless man rambling on about Belizean history and allegory. Our denial of his services didn't deter him from leading us to a guest house as light dwindled, we on the Lonely Planet designated less-safe side of the bridge, nor did it discourage his uncanny tracking abilities, appearing with magnetic reliability every time we stepped outside until our departure the next morning, constantly working us for a "little piece of cheese." We ate delectable stew chicken with rice and beans, the Belizean staple, at a nearby restaurant before settling down for the night with a bagful of Beliken, the excellent national beer, entranced by cable TV, making a triumphant return from its fading hold in mythology, cheering USC's upset by Oregon State. (Too bad I've missed every Panther's game since the opener, UM's historic comeback vs. WI, and PSU's defeat of Illinois. Plus hockey season is starting. Ahhhh, fuck...)

Rural Belize has a low-country southern US feel, green, marshy terrain and one story houses on flat lots, others mounted on stilts, people in flip-flops or barefoot, shirts optional. The seedy city rush opposite the beachfront relaxtion we craved, we ferried to Caye (pronounced key) Caulker, a Belizean island, early the morning after our arrival in the city. A forty-five minute boat ride transformed Belize into a sand-paved paradise spotted with reggae bars and small, open-air diners.

It's the down season, so we're the only inhabitants at Tom's Hotel on Caye Caulker, a large, barebones beachfront hotel a few minutes walk from the main strip. Where we paid US$40 for relative luxury in Belize City, we're back to less than US$20 total on the island. Beer in Belize is sold only in single, heavy bottles, however, and never cheaper than BZ$3 (US$1.50), so booze and food constitute larger expenses, even with affordable, filling meal options like stew chicken, rice and beans. Waking up on the island for the first time today, we've already booked an additional three nights, scoped out a handful of eateries and a liter of Belizean rum.

I've wasted no time establishing myself as the crazy white boy (by which locals have several times referred to me), miffing the ganja-gangs huddled in the shade or strolling sans-shirt in the midday heat, scorching sun unimpeded by cloudless skies, as I sprint by on a ill-timed run. "Boy, ya know ya gon' kill ya'self doin' dat," yelled one dreadlocked artist as I sped past a meandering biker, another inquiring, "Boy, where ya goin'?" the second time we crossed paths, inevitable on the tiny island I could cover on foot in less than 10 minutes. The agonizing second half of the run lent credence to their incredulity, and if I wait only a few hours more in coming days I can share the sea breeze at sunset, the island engulfed in total black by 6:15pm, quiet and deserted save a few operational restaurant-bars and Chinese-owned convenience stores.