It’s better than a mass e-mail

We are now certified open water divers, which I suppose is kind of surprising considering that less than a week ago, I had never considered diving before and even when we got here, I was sure it didn’t interest me at all. Now, we are pretty much hooked.

I must admit, though, I don’t think I am a natural at it. I was the one in the small class of four that was slowest to pick it up. For the few few dives, I found myself close to panic attacks, struggling to feel comfortable breathing and not feeling like my head was going to explode. Really, I had a hard time getting over the idea that we were breathing air underwater (even though I was strapped with a heavy ass air tank). It all feels a little counter-intuitive. Also, it felt much like learning to drive a stick shift – as you descend you have to remember to breath deep, exhaling fully to allow yourself to sink, equalize the air in your nose and ears constantly so you don’t blow your ear drums, go slow and relax and don’t forget to use all the appropriate hand signals.

The first day or so of diving was mainly a bunch of underwater skills, the worst being the one where you drop to the bottom and then have to take off your mask then put it back on and clear the water out of it. I am not sure why, but that was one of the hardest for me. We also got to do fun stuff like hover over the sand – which the first few times more closely resembled flailing about – and taking out your respirator to use your buddy’s, in case you run out of air.

Yesterday afternoon was our fourth dive, and the final dive of the course. We didn’t have to bother with skills, so we just got to go down about 60 feet and swim along the coral and the fish. It was amazing. We saw turtles, crabs, vibrantly colored parrot fish and trumpet fish and entire schools of fish that seemed to be swimming with us. A couple folks even saw a massive eagle ray. And more than looking around and identifying sea life, the whole experience of slowing moving along with them underwater just feet from the intricate and delicate coral was just breathtaking.

But it kind of took me a while to relax, which for those that know me well, is probably not surprising. See, I tend to be a little high strung, perhaps a bit tense. Rather than just let go and enjoy the experience, I find myself preoccupied with worst-case scenarios or slight discomforts. It was hard for me to shake the concerns of making sure my airspaces are equalized or that my mask wasn’t going to fill up with water or that my head wouldn’t explode. I did get more comfortable with each dive, and I expect the fun dive we have planned for today will be fine.

A self-reflective note: With all my anxieties and inabilities to relax, this trip has been good for me. I might be a little slow on the uptake with new experiences, but there have been a few times in the past two months that I have really pushed my boundaries and been pleasantly surprised. For example, the first time we went horseback riding, every single muscle in my body was tense and all I could picture was me flying forward head first and smashing out all of my teeth. By the second and third ride, I was ready to move to the country and buy a horse. It was similar with diving. The first few times, I was convinced my head would explode or I would drown or have an underwater come-apart. The third and fourth dive were progressively more enjoyable, and I am excited about getting in the water today.

One more thing that’s tough about diving: you can’t really laugh underwater. You can’t talk or giggle, and signaling for your buddy to see what you are seeing is tough (which is why we are incessantly chatting and smiling the second we get back in the boat, after saying “that was fucking amazing” a few times the second our heads are above water and our respirators out of our mouths).

It seemed that everyone we talked to told us that if we were not diving here in Roatan, we’d have nothing to do. We thought that would be fine, but then I realized that I am the kind of person who needs an activity, some kind of outside stimulation, rather than simply sitting in the hot sun for the entire day.

So we decided to get certified to dive. Apparently this is the cheapest place in the world to learn and has some of the best conditions for diving. Not that I know a thing about diving, or even considered it until about 9 a.m. yesterday when sitting outside drinking a cup of coffee, we began chatting with some of the divers and decided maybe this is something we should do.

By 5 p.m. yesterday, we had our books and three chapters of homework. Today, we watching videos and I guess tomorrow we get in the water.

The only catch is that I don’t have the most ideal sinuses, which I understand could be a hitch in diving. Filling out the questionnaire yesterday, I had to answer “yes” to a couple questions, including one about sinus surgery and allergy medications. This prompted orders from the dive instructor for me to visit the local dive doctor, which as expected, was something of an adventure this morning.

First of all, this doctor sounded kind of like a wack job when the instructor was describing him. For example, the instructor’s brother has severe asthma and his doc at home warned him against any form of underwater activity. But this doctor here said it was fine, just ascend a bit slower. In fact, that was his advice for another woman whose condition was infected bug bites on her legs. No, I agree there’s no connection between ascension speed and bug bites, but that was this doctor’s advice.

So I went to see him this morning and paid $15 for him to look in my ears and nose and tell me I am good to go. He explained a few things about what can happen to my ears if there is too much pressure, but that I should just equalize more frequently (holding your nose and blowing out so that your ears pop a bit) and, of course, ascend slower.

Por fin, we are at the beach. We made our way to the Bay Islands of Honduras on Thursday, which turned out to be yet another adventure. Here’s a rough sketch of the day’s events:

6 a.m. – Wake up, pack, order some breakfast, pay for our room and suck down some fruit and granola.

7:15 – Run out of the hotel and down the street, lugging our packs, with little knowledge of how we are getting to Roatan, save for a recommendation that we hitch a 7:30 speed boat ride to Puerto Barrios, Guatemala. This was to avoid ever having to set foot in Rio Dulce again (which was the original plan, return to RD and catch a bus to La Ceiba…. then on to Roatan).

7:25 – Make our way to one of the docks, where some man asked us where we were going. We say Puerto Barrios, and he hurries us into a speed boat, which was empty except for three open buckets of fish and three locals. About 30 Q and a few seconds later, we were speeding to Puerto Barrios.

8:10 – Arrive at PB. Off the boat, we tell another stranger where we are trying to get. He says there is in fact no direct bus to La Ceiba (where we know we need to be to catch a ferry to Roatan). He says we first have to go to this tiny border town, then to Puerto Cortez, then to San Pedro Sula (a total shithole that we were hoping to avoid) and then to La Ceiba. Geez. So we agree and pay an inordinate amount of money for a less-than-an-hour shuttle ride to a nothing border town.

9 – The driver pulls over and tells us this is our stop, but it looks more like a construction site with a few school buses parked along the road. This, we suppose, is the border crossing. He points to the line of buses and says they will take us to Puerto Cortez. After paying the immigration guards an exit fee, stamping our passports and hovering around the pseudo bus depot, we board one of said chicken buses – this one painted white and green and souped up with booming speakers mounted above the back door and a blinking license plate cover mounted near the front door.

About 10:30 or so – We arrive in Puerto Cortez, after having traveled through some tiny coastal towns, each marked by a blue Pepsi sign with the town’s name under the logo. We talked with a few people (including a police officer from San Pedro Sula), and just sat back and enjoyed hearing the much-welcomed blaring Reggaeton and seeing Port Royal signs out the windows. (If I have not already mentioned Port Royal, it’s the best beer ever. Honduran and awesome. More on that later.) We felt relaxed, like we were on our way home, sort of.

Sometime after 11 – I lose track, but at some point around 11, we arrive in PC, board yet another bus, this one a smaller shuttle, for an hour long ride to San Pedro Sula. Pretty uneventful, but yes, to answer your question, we went from riding along the coast to them back tracking inland down to SPS in order to go back up to the coast. That’s just how it’s done, I guess.

12:15 – Arrive at the bus station in SPS, buy ticket to La Ceiba and then wander across the street for cheese empanadas from a street vendor. We had been talking about empenadas (and baleadas and Port Royals) since we left Copan, and were really craving them. We inhaled them just in time to board the final bus of the day. About four hours later, we got to La Ceiba.

The next morning, we left one of the many danky hotels we have stayed in to catch a 10 a.m. ferry ride to Roatan. Yesterday was gorgeous: clear blue skies over sandy white beaches, lush tropical plants and palm trees, and of course cold Port Royals. The only catch here is that it is inordinately expensive. First of all, most prices are listed in American dollars, which I find annoying since last time I checked we were in Honduras and I was trying to experience the country and the language. Hotels, food, shopping – all of it is close to American prices (OK, except for lodging but $10 a night each feels like a lot after spending mere dollars to crash). But really, I can’t complain. We are settling in for a week of sunning and relaxing.

I will end this entry with an open letter to Port Royal. In Spanish.

Querida Port Royal,

Te amo. Cuando yo viajaba en Guatemala, te extrane. Tu estas la mejor cerveza en todo el mundo – delicioso, fresco y mas barrato. Me gusta tomarte con limon y sal. Cuando estoy tomandote, me recuerdo nuestro viaje en Honduras y estoy feliz. Espero que nosotros podamos tomarte en los Estados Unidos cuando regresemos. Pero ahora, nosotros vamos a tomarte mucho. Gracias.

Con amor,
Sara

If you are every considering going to Rio Dulce, Guatemala, don’t. We arrived by the insane chicken bus and checked into probably the worst hotel on the face of the planet. For 35Q each (way too damn much for this shithole), we got a bright blue concrete room with three beds – one of which was more like a warped wooden palet with a sheet – no blankets, no running water, no flushing toilets and a night filled with a cacophany of noises. We woke up, or rather, we sat up after laying in this dump for most of the night, and promptly left Rio Dulce.

After a two and a half hour boat ride up the river, we arrived in Livingston, a place unlike any other in Guatemala. (Sidebar: the boat ride was billed as a tour, with stops at a bird island, hot springs, and a random oasis of lily pads, but calling it a tour is pushing it. The boat driver would pull over, say nothing, we would all take pictures of what we guessed were hot springs or a bird sanctuary, and then the boat would pull away. Strange, but the scenery was breathtaking.)

First of all, the people here in Livingston are mostly black, which we haven’t we haven’t seen much of since traveling in Central America. The majority of the people are Garifuna, which is decendant from African slaves and Caribs here. Livingston is on the mouth of the Carribean, and at one point we were standing on the Guatemalan beach looking out at Belize to our right and Honduras to our left. The Garifuna call it La Boga which means The Mouth, since it’s the mouth of the Carribean. It’s incredible. Anyway, the people are beautiful and kind and laid back and everywhere you turn, there is fish frying and drum music playing. Oh, and the landscape is much more tropical than we have seen so far, complete with lush jungle-like brush, palm trees, white sandy beaches, and crystal clear water.

We are staying at this gorgeous little hotel complete with thatched hut cabanas and fresh fish dinners. Today we wandered down the beach today (for about an hour and a half) and made it to Siete Altares, which were seven waterfalls… really today they were like five pools of cool water and a ton of rocks since it hasn’t rained in so long, but it was amazing. This place really is unbelievable.

This morning, we also met a man on the street named Polo, who suggested we eat at a Garifuna’s house to get a real authentic experience. He then proceeded to lead us down the beach, stopping into his friends’ houses until he found a friend who would cook us dinner tonight. So we went back this evening and had grilled red snapper and rice cooked in coconut milk. The meal was amazing, mainly for the experience of being in these people’s home and talking with them. Polo told us all about the Garifuna, the lifestyle (really, really laid back), the history, racial tensions between the blacks and the Hispanics here (some things are univeral around the world, I guess.) It was a good way to really get a better understanding of Livingston, the people, the culture.

As much as I have fallen in love with every place we have visited (besides Rio Dulce, that shithole), Livingston really struck a chord with me. Just walking down the street and feeling the energy… this whole town feels alive and happy, and the people just seem to be enjoying their lives. It’s been nice to experience a culture so vastly different than what we have been living in the past month or so. I understand it’s similar at the beach on the Bay Islands, which si Dios quiere, we will be heading tomorrow… that is if we can tear ourselves away from this place.

About ten minutes into our bus ride from Guatemala City to Rio Dulce, my friend leans over to me and says, “Sara, if we make it through this bus ride, you have to write about it on your blog.” We lived, so here goes.

We paid the gringo price for a shuttle from Lago de Atitlan to Rio Dulce, and we expected to take a shuttle the entire way, with a change in Guatemala City. Well, we did change, but rather than the posh tourist shuttle, we boarded one of the infamous and god-forsaken chicken buses. Without knowing entirely what was going on, we trusted our bags in the trunk of the bus, seriously wondering if we would ever see them again. The bus was packed (or so I thought it was to capacity when we got on) and we filed to the back row. This said back row was slightly elevated from the other seats, giving us a clear view through the windshield, sharing the same line of the site of the driver.

Ah, the driver. For the entire four and a half hour ride, he had this scary maniacal smile on his face (which we were able to admire from the rear view mirror). Like the other drivers we have seen so far in Central America, he wasted no time to pass the slow drivers, but I think this guy took it to a whole ´nother level. For each turn, he would throw his whole body into it, like he was playing an intense game at the arcade, sitting in one of those car seat booths with a large steering wheel and a screen in front of him. He´d lean to one side and throw his arm all the way across his body to make a turn. And it was quite interesting to see just how fast he managed to get this massive school bus-turned-chicken bus to go. It was equal parts terrifying, thrilling and nerve-shattering to watch as we sped past trucks, heading straight head on toward another truck, and then swinging back into the proper lane. None of us knew whether to laugh or cry or scream, so of course, we giggled incessently.

Even though every single seat was taken, we stopped every once in a while to pick up some folks. At first, we thought maybe he was looking out for his friends, and giving them a ride, since he would wave and smile and then bring the bus to a screaching halt. Then, as people began to pile into the isles, it clicked. This must be why they call them chicken buses. At one point, we saw a few guys get on, one of which had a gun. It was at this time that I had to take a few deep breaths, and just resign myself to the fact that whatever was going to happen was going to happen. Maybe we were going to get robbed blind, or shot up, or go flying above the 30 rows of seats and through the windsheild after colliding with one of the many 18-wheelers we were playing chicken with. Or maybe everything was just fine, and this is how it´s done.

It does appear that the latter was the case. But not without some pains. For one, Senor Know-it-all sat down next to me, and after telling him that we were from Alabama, he proceeded to give me the history of the state´s name, and then list all the states, towns and rivers in the US that were Native American in their origin. That´s a lot of names, folks. My friend was ready to scrap with him after he insultingly told us we were dumb for going to a travel agency and that as three young women traveling alone, we really were safe and shouldn´t worry about anything. Right. I managed to ignore him for most of the trip, but that´s just because he fell asleep and allowed his arm and leg to flop about, sqeezing me into half of my oh-so-comfortable bus seat. At least he wasn´t talking to us then.

Then we pulled over for a few women to hop aboard and sell food. Gallinas con tortillas y salsa. Despite the fact that I was starving, it didn´t seem right to gnaw on a hen leg in the back of a bus (especially next to my vegitarian friend…. and I am trying to go veg for the rest of the trip), so I asked for just a few tortillas. The woman promptly said no, gallinas y tortillas. OK, no thanks. There were a couple other stops, at which point men and women would swarm around the bus holding up baggies of cut fruit or bread for passengers to reach out the window and buy.

Somehow, I managed to snag a nap amongst this death-defying, video game of a bus ride. As we approached Rio Dulce, we began to fantasize about the cold beer, cold but much-needed shower and perhaps a plato tipico for dinner that awaited us, assuming we stepped off the bus in one piece. And we did, with our bags intact as well, and I think I am a little surprised we made it alive.