- Last night I danced until sunrise.
- I cook. A lot. And I’m working on my baking skills!
- Possibly because I cook (a lot) and because I’m learning how to bake, I eat (a lot) and am constantly forcing food on my roommates and friends.
- I work with the Fundación Buenos Aires SIDA, where I’m part of a team that is designing a comprehensive (we hope) health project that will serve trans women in the city. I’m pretty stoked about it.
- Technically I'm an undocumented migrant. My visa expired in February. I joke about this in full acknowledgment that I can joke about being an 'illegal immigrant' in Latin America without any real fear of persecution, whereas if I were an undocumented Latino in the United States I may be subjected to arbitrary arrest, police brutality, detention without due process, jail-time, and swift deportation.
- Buenos Aires is getting EXPENSIVE. I now pay exactly double what I paid in 2007 to wash a load of laundry. Our rent, which we pay in US dollars, is now 22 % more expensive (measured in Argentine pesos) due to the exchange rate in May of 2008 vs. now.
- I’m currently trying to muscle my way into the moneda mafia here in Buenos Aires. Coins, which everyone is always in need of but nobody ever has, requires cunning and a firm NO. No I don’t have 30 centavos to give you. No, I’m sorry. I don’t have any change. Then they look at me with eyes of fury because they hear my pocket jingle-jangle as I walk away.
- The first three months of my life in Buenos Aires consisted of waking up at noon (on an early day), cooking huge meals, drinking good wine, and dancing until the wee hours of the morning. Don’t worry mom and dad; I have since expanded my list of extracurriculars.
- I’m living in the chic barrio of Palermo Soho, where the tree-lined streets are dotted with cafés and fashionable boutiques, and where foreigners have injected English to the street banter and inflated real estate prices (guilty—except not on the real estate prices—girl I’m on a budget). It is definitely a change from the streets of Constitución, and—I’m not going to lie—I feel like a bit of a bougie sell out; but I’m not going to lie—I really like living here. What really surprises me is that some Argentines still have the nerve to tell me that I live in a sketchy zone, because I’m a little too close to the train tracks. I smile, shake my head and tell them they are treat constructionists.
- I sleep on a mattress on the floor. This is a step up.
- I have successfully managed not to go anywhere near one of the four new Starbucks that have invaded the country. I was told during the week of the first store’s grand opening that the line was literally around the block. While my parents may now feel relieved that will be able to order their soy, no whip, sugar-free, vanilla late when they visit, I feel a little sad.
- Some of my friends down here poke fun and say that I’m living al pedo, but despite the fact I don’t have a ‘traditional’ job (i.e. one that pays me and requires me to go to an office every day) and despite the fact that I’m not in school, I’m learning a lot about life and what I want out of it.
- I'm really anxious for someone to come a visit me.
- My mother wants me to fly home in July to see the new Harry Potter film with her.
- My father wants me to move back home and sleep in my old room.
- I realize I haven't yet explained why I'm still in Argentina. You'll have to wait another week for that info--I don't want to jinx anything...
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Some tid-bits about my life in Buenos Aires
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
I have not dropped off the face of the planet--I just went missing for a bit.
Che tanto tiempo! I know, I know—it's been too long. I'm a slacker,
a procrastinator. But really, I was just waiting—waiting for
something I felt was worthwhile to write about. While traveling in
Mexico and Cuba, I was on the move every four or five days. I was
hiking gorgeous mountains, experiencing new cultures, struggling to
maintain a healthy vegetarian diet, and getting myself into ridiculous
situations. In short, I had new blog material nearly every day. Life
didn't move quite as fast once I arrived in Buenos Aires. Apartment
hunting, reconnecting with old friends, making new friends, and
negotiations with the roommates just didn't seem as exciting as
illegal travel, clandestine drag shows, and solo hikes in cloud
forests. Moreover I think I was waiting until I could write about
triumph here in Buenos Aires, but academic or professional
accomplishment was slow to come by, and I hesitated to publicize my
nightclub romps and romantic trials for my all to see. Much has
happened, however, in between dancing wildly until 7 in the morning,
long runs, lots of experimental cooking, and springtime reading in the
park. And so I will try to start catching you up to speed.
I sleep on a pullout couch. It's a futon, actually. It's in the
living room. But it's cheap and in a beautiful neighborhood. Enough
said. (I found out today that the owner of the apartment is the son
of a one-time Argentine general who served under the dictator and
directed the Malvina's (Falkand Island) War. After the dictatorship
fell he struck a consolatory note and said that nobody in the army who
violated human rights could claim innocence under the hierarchy or
chain of command, because nobody should have carried out orders they
deemed immoral and unjust. For this rarely seen public apologetic
tone he was awarded an ambassadorship. Yes, I do feel a bit dirty).
I recently started working with an organization called the Buenos
Aires AIDS Foundation (I say working with rather than working for
because they can't pay me). It's a great organization that does a lot
of amazing work in HIV prevention, treatment access, civil rights for
people living with HIV/AIDS, sex education for vulnerable youth, and
sex worker outreach. Right now I'm helping doing development work
(i.e. looking for money from the global north). It's challenging and
slow-moving. In this economy few organization are looking to grant to
new organizations and it's further complicated by the fact that
Argentina is an upper-middle income country and not considered a
high-priority by any international donors despite high rates of
poverty and soaring rates of HIV in marginalized communities. But I'm
happy. I enjoy the people who I'm working with, and I'm continuing to
learn and develop skills.
Rather than write a long entry, I'm going to keep this short with
hopes of writing more frequently.
Much love and many kisses,
tucker
a procrastinator. But really, I was just waiting—waiting for
something I felt was worthwhile to write about. While traveling in
Mexico and Cuba, I was on the move every four or five days. I was
hiking gorgeous mountains, experiencing new cultures, struggling to
maintain a healthy vegetarian diet, and getting myself into ridiculous
situations. In short, I had new blog material nearly every day. Life
didn't move quite as fast once I arrived in Buenos Aires. Apartment
hunting, reconnecting with old friends, making new friends, and
negotiations with the roommates just didn't seem as exciting as
illegal travel, clandestine drag shows, and solo hikes in cloud
forests. Moreover I think I was waiting until I could write about
triumph here in Buenos Aires, but academic or professional
accomplishment was slow to come by, and I hesitated to publicize my
nightclub romps and romantic trials for my all to see. Much has
happened, however, in between dancing wildly until 7 in the morning,
long runs, lots of experimental cooking, and springtime reading in the
park. And so I will try to start catching you up to speed.
I sleep on a pullout couch. It's a futon, actually. It's in the
living room. But it's cheap and in a beautiful neighborhood. Enough
said. (I found out today that the owner of the apartment is the son
of a one-time Argentine general who served under the dictator and
directed the Malvina's (Falkand Island) War. After the dictatorship
fell he struck a consolatory note and said that nobody in the army who
violated human rights could claim innocence under the hierarchy or
chain of command, because nobody should have carried out orders they
deemed immoral and unjust. For this rarely seen public apologetic
tone he was awarded an ambassadorship. Yes, I do feel a bit dirty).
I recently started working with an organization called the Buenos
Aires AIDS Foundation (I say working with rather than working for
because they can't pay me). It's a great organization that does a lot
of amazing work in HIV prevention, treatment access, civil rights for
people living with HIV/AIDS, sex education for vulnerable youth, and
sex worker outreach. Right now I'm helping doing development work
(i.e. looking for money from the global north). It's challenging and
slow-moving. In this economy few organization are looking to grant to
new organizations and it's further complicated by the fact that
Argentina is an upper-middle income country and not considered a
high-priority by any international donors despite high rates of
poverty and soaring rates of HIV in marginalized communities. But I'm
happy. I enjoy the people who I'm working with, and I'm continuing to
learn and develop skills.
Rather than write a long entry, I'm going to keep this short with
hopes of writing more frequently.
Much love and many kisses,
tucker
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Photos of Cuba...At Last!
I just finished uploading my photos of Cuba. Sorry it took so long. Also my apologies for sucking at keeping this a regular blog. I had an unplanned trip back to The States for a couple of weeks (it's a long story), and during that time I didn't blog. I am however back in Buenos Aires now. I've settled into an apartment in the beautiful and chic neighborhood of Palermo Soho. The next step is to do something with my life!
I'm still working on all of my photos from Mexico. But until I get those up, enjoy these: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tuckerlandesman/
cheers and besos
I'm still working on all of my photos from Mexico. But until I get those up, enjoy these: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tuckerlandesman/
cheers and besos
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
A bit of fresh air and exercise in Santiago de Cuba
One does not jog in Santiago de Cuba. One may rush, walk quickly, trot, or even run if they are hurrying from point A to point B; if they are avoiding a speeding car, motorcycle, or horse and buggy, if they are competing to hustle a tourist for a few dollars, or if they are retreating from said tourist, who is fed up with hustlers and threatens to call for the police. But one does not job for exercise or recreation. It simply is not done.
I know this, but I go for a jog anyways. I know that people don`t jog because it`s too hot, I know the sun is too strong, I know that many Cubans don`t consume enough calories to waste them jogging in circles. I know all of this and yet I still go jogging. In Cuba I eat white rice, white bread, personal pizzas that cost 20 cents (yes they really cost 20 cents and yes they taste like it), and multiple ice cream cones daily. I need to go jogging.
Never in my life have so many people stared at me so blatantly and so hard. I`ve walked the streets of St. Louis, Colorado Springs, Madrid, and Washington, DC in miniskirts. I`ve gone to breeder-bars and hetero-clubs in full drag face. I`ve been known on campus and the boy (?) with pink hair. I`ve been the only foreigner in rural Mexican towns. And still, I promise you, never before have I been stared at like I am while jogging in Santiago de Cuba.
People freeze in mid-step, their ice cream cones rapidly melting, to watch me pass. Twenty people congregating on the corner, all engaged in spirited conversations as they wait for the truck--once used to haul livestock but now used for public transport--suddenly become silent (all of them) and collectively watch me cross the street while dodging bicycle taxis, motorcycle taxis, car taxis, horse-drawn taxis, and the train. Old men engrossed in a game of dominoes look up from the table (unheard of unless it´s to argue) as I streak by. Small children point as I near them and ask their mothers, "what is he doing mamá?" Too confused themselves to chastise their children for pointing, they respond, "I don´t know. I don´t know." I feel as if I don´t pass a single person who doesn´t momentarily pause to ponder what the hell I am doing.
Maybe it´s my outfit, I think to myself. I´m wearing hiking shorts and my blaring white chest is bare. Around my left arm is my iPod, blasting reggatoón remixes to keep me motivated and running on-beat (Gywau, I find that Beyonce keeps me on my stride). My head is covered with a bright yellow bandanna to keep the sweat from my eyes. I have no illusions of blending in, but when I stop running to have a breather, I only get half as many stares. Half as many stares is about normal, I calculate I start running again and the stares redouble.
Jogging through the streets of Santiago is like running cross-country or an urban obstacle course. The sidewalks rise and fall dramatically. I rather run in the street where I only have to jump over pot-holes every third or fourth stride, but the constant passing of dump trucks keeps me hopping from the poorly maintained streets to the ever poorer maintained sidewalks. I come upon a pot-hole so large that it no longer can be called a pothole. This crevasse stretches the width of the street and is six feet long. It is one-foot deep with brown water. I climb a pile of rock and rubble to avoid the moat.
As I run I can feel the grit collecting on my face and up my nose. When a car or truck passes it spews out thick black exhaust that hangs in the air, refusing to dissipate until I run, wheezing, through it. I think to myself that breathing in the exhaust particles is doing more damage to my lungs than all the cigarettes I smoked in high school combined.
I stop to cover my mouth and nose with my bandanna and look at the soviet-style apartment complexes surrounding me. I´ve been passing these hideous structures (classic community style architecture is actually quite rare in Cuba, which is known for gorgeous neo-classical and colonial buildings) for ten minutes and haven´t a clue as to where I am (the communist living blocks some how didn´t make it into the guide book). Beginning to tire, I decide it would be best to ask for directions back to the city center. I approach a friendly looking middle-aged woman and politely ask if she could point me in the right direction. She looks at me, her mouth slightly open, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She stares at me for a good 30 seconds, looking me up and down to take me all in before making me repeat the question.
"El centro?" she responds, "ooohhh its far away. You can´t walk from here. You have to find a truck along the highway."
"Oh, no, I`m going to run to el centro," I tell her.
"You are going to run there?" she asks, furrowing her eyebrows even more.
"Yes. Run. For excessive."
"Aaahhhh OK. It`s that direction, over there." She points straight down the highway. I smile, thank her, restart Chamillionare on my iPod, and continue, chuckling softly.
When I arrive back at José`s, I tell him about how everyone stared at me as if they had never seen anyone out for a jog before. He nods his head in an understanding and almost sympathetic manner. Today he is wearing camo shorts, a fitted camo t-shirt tucked in, and a camo bandana wrapped tightly over his head. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing.
"Siiiii," he says, "they probably think you are a little crazy, but pay them no attention. You`ll have a cuerpo diez (ten-body--as in a body rated a ten on a scale from one to ten) and then what can they say? NADA!" He slaps his hands together and then throws his arms up in the air. I smile, nod my head in agreement and repeat "NADA" also throwing my arms up in the air.
I return to my room and giggle while imagining how people would react if they saw me during my cardio striptease routine.
I know this, but I go for a jog anyways. I know that people don`t jog because it`s too hot, I know the sun is too strong, I know that many Cubans don`t consume enough calories to waste them jogging in circles. I know all of this and yet I still go jogging. In Cuba I eat white rice, white bread, personal pizzas that cost 20 cents (yes they really cost 20 cents and yes they taste like it), and multiple ice cream cones daily. I need to go jogging.
Never in my life have so many people stared at me so blatantly and so hard. I`ve walked the streets of St. Louis, Colorado Springs, Madrid, and Washington, DC in miniskirts. I`ve gone to breeder-bars and hetero-clubs in full drag face. I`ve been known on campus and the boy (?) with pink hair. I`ve been the only foreigner in rural Mexican towns. And still, I promise you, never before have I been stared at like I am while jogging in Santiago de Cuba.
People freeze in mid-step, their ice cream cones rapidly melting, to watch me pass. Twenty people congregating on the corner, all engaged in spirited conversations as they wait for the truck--once used to haul livestock but now used for public transport--suddenly become silent (all of them) and collectively watch me cross the street while dodging bicycle taxis, motorcycle taxis, car taxis, horse-drawn taxis, and the train. Old men engrossed in a game of dominoes look up from the table (unheard of unless it´s to argue) as I streak by. Small children point as I near them and ask their mothers, "what is he doing mamá?" Too confused themselves to chastise their children for pointing, they respond, "I don´t know. I don´t know." I feel as if I don´t pass a single person who doesn´t momentarily pause to ponder what the hell I am doing.
Maybe it´s my outfit, I think to myself. I´m wearing hiking shorts and my blaring white chest is bare. Around my left arm is my iPod, blasting reggatoón remixes to keep me motivated and running on-beat (Gywau, I find that Beyonce keeps me on my stride). My head is covered with a bright yellow bandanna to keep the sweat from my eyes. I have no illusions of blending in, but when I stop running to have a breather, I only get half as many stares. Half as many stares is about normal, I calculate I start running again and the stares redouble.
Jogging through the streets of Santiago is like running cross-country or an urban obstacle course. The sidewalks rise and fall dramatically. I rather run in the street where I only have to jump over pot-holes every third or fourth stride, but the constant passing of dump trucks keeps me hopping from the poorly maintained streets to the ever poorer maintained sidewalks. I come upon a pot-hole so large that it no longer can be called a pothole. This crevasse stretches the width of the street and is six feet long. It is one-foot deep with brown water. I climb a pile of rock and rubble to avoid the moat.
As I run I can feel the grit collecting on my face and up my nose. When a car or truck passes it spews out thick black exhaust that hangs in the air, refusing to dissipate until I run, wheezing, through it. I think to myself that breathing in the exhaust particles is doing more damage to my lungs than all the cigarettes I smoked in high school combined.
I stop to cover my mouth and nose with my bandanna and look at the soviet-style apartment complexes surrounding me. I´ve been passing these hideous structures (classic community style architecture is actually quite rare in Cuba, which is known for gorgeous neo-classical and colonial buildings) for ten minutes and haven´t a clue as to where I am (the communist living blocks some how didn´t make it into the guide book). Beginning to tire, I decide it would be best to ask for directions back to the city center. I approach a friendly looking middle-aged woman and politely ask if she could point me in the right direction. She looks at me, her mouth slightly open, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She stares at me for a good 30 seconds, looking me up and down to take me all in before making me repeat the question.
"El centro?" she responds, "ooohhh its far away. You can´t walk from here. You have to find a truck along the highway."
"Oh, no, I`m going to run to el centro," I tell her.
"You are going to run there?" she asks, furrowing her eyebrows even more.
"Yes. Run. For excessive."
"Aaahhhh OK. It`s that direction, over there." She points straight down the highway. I smile, thank her, restart Chamillionare on my iPod, and continue, chuckling softly.
When I arrive back at José`s, I tell him about how everyone stared at me as if they had never seen anyone out for a jog before. He nods his head in an understanding and almost sympathetic manner. Today he is wearing camo shorts, a fitted camo t-shirt tucked in, and a camo bandana wrapped tightly over his head. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing.
"Siiiii," he says, "they probably think you are a little crazy, but pay them no attention. You`ll have a cuerpo diez (ten-body--as in a body rated a ten on a scale from one to ten) and then what can they say? NADA!" He slaps his hands together and then throws his arms up in the air. I smile, nod my head in agreement and repeat "NADA" also throwing my arms up in the air.
I return to my room and giggle while imagining how people would react if they saw me during my cardio striptease routine.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
¡Saludos Boludos!
I am writing to you from the land of boludos, che, chamuyeros, chetos, parillas, and porteños. In order words, I am back in Buenos Aires, and I couldn´t be happier. In the next week I´ll reconnect with friends, find a place to live, stroll the streets of my Buenos Aires querrido, stuff my face with Cumaná, and dance all night at Plop. I will update you on all of that in due time, but first I have a promise to fulfill.
Many of you have asked to hear "all about Cuba," and I think my initial post left many of you scratching your heads or concerned (however I´m glad to see that at least a few of you got the joke). Rather than explain it, let´s just move on. I think for many of us, Cuba holds endless mystery. Few countries have survived the cold war, a missile stand-off, a CIA-backed invasion, dozens of attempted presidential assassinations, sporadic acts of terrorism, and a strict US-trade-and-travel embargo, especially countries whose leaders boast (quite forcefully) of revolution and socialism so close to United States soil. For those of us who like to consider ourselves ´travelers,´ Cuba is in a class of its own. It´s forbidden and therefore intriguing. Cuba is the land of salsa, mambo, Hemingway, mojitos, daiquiris, resistance, and above all, perseverance.
I´ll be honest--to date Cuba has been the most difficult place in which I´ve ever travelled. Nothing I had read (and I had read quite a bit about Cuba) and no one with whom I had spoken (and ya´ll know I like to talk) about Cuba adequately prepared me for this country. There were many times I felt frustrated and that frustration turned to anger because I thought that every moment in Cuba was supposed to be adventure-filled and spectacular. A few afternoons I felt lonely and helpless even, and I slept for hours locked away in my private, air conditioned room. There was even a day I thought about changing my ticket and flying to Buenos Aires early.
It wasn´t until two days before I left that I added it all up--frustration, anger, loneliness, helplessness, irregular sleep--and realized I was experiencing the classic symptoms of culture shock. I had only experienced culture shock once before and that was upon returning to the US after studying in Argentina. Never had I been culture shocked in a foreign country. The reason? I can´t be sure, but I think it is because I usually do a fairly good job of clearing my mind of expectations when I arrive in a new place. If I expect nothing, than I am open to everything, and ready for anything. But I realized that I was so determined to fall in love with Cuba, so eager to connect with Cubans, to see their country through their eyes, that I didn´t recognize all the expectations I carried with me. So there I was, culture shocked and only a marathon swim away from the Florida Keys.
I don´t want to lead you to believe my trip to Cuba was a bust, because it was anything but. It was rewarding, refreshing, adventurous, and enlightening. I learned years ago that we learn and grow the most when we are uncomfortable, which means that I do not regret even the times I found most difficult. I just want to be honest, and I am going to write about all of my experiences in Cuba, not just the travel brochure moments (which don´t come too often considering my travel style). My first blog will be a series of shorts from my journal beginning at the beginning and ending at the end. In that way, I can write about Cuba from many different angles, and then expand on a few themes in later blogs.
As far as photos go, I hear you all clamouring, but I can´t upload them until I have my computer, which is currently in transit to Buenos Aires. Once I am able to sort through all of them, I´ll put them on my Flickr page, and let you all know.
As always, I love hearing from you all, either through email, gchat, or through comments on my blog.
much love and many kisses
tucker
p.s. maybe i should just say that all of this is based on what i THINK cuba would be like if i had actually been there.
I am writing to you from the land of boludos, che, chamuyeros, chetos, parillas, and porteños. In order words, I am back in Buenos Aires, and I couldn´t be happier. In the next week I´ll reconnect with friends, find a place to live, stroll the streets of my Buenos Aires querrido, stuff my face with Cumaná, and dance all night at Plop. I will update you on all of that in due time, but first I have a promise to fulfill.
Many of you have asked to hear "all about Cuba," and I think my initial post left many of you scratching your heads or concerned (however I´m glad to see that at least a few of you got the joke). Rather than explain it, let´s just move on. I think for many of us, Cuba holds endless mystery. Few countries have survived the cold war, a missile stand-off, a CIA-backed invasion, dozens of attempted presidential assassinations, sporadic acts of terrorism, and a strict US-trade-and-travel embargo, especially countries whose leaders boast (quite forcefully) of revolution and socialism so close to United States soil. For those of us who like to consider ourselves ´travelers,´ Cuba is in a class of its own. It´s forbidden and therefore intriguing. Cuba is the land of salsa, mambo, Hemingway, mojitos, daiquiris, resistance, and above all, perseverance.
I´ll be honest--to date Cuba has been the most difficult place in which I´ve ever travelled. Nothing I had read (and I had read quite a bit about Cuba) and no one with whom I had spoken (and ya´ll know I like to talk) about Cuba adequately prepared me for this country. There were many times I felt frustrated and that frustration turned to anger because I thought that every moment in Cuba was supposed to be adventure-filled and spectacular. A few afternoons I felt lonely and helpless even, and I slept for hours locked away in my private, air conditioned room. There was even a day I thought about changing my ticket and flying to Buenos Aires early.
It wasn´t until two days before I left that I added it all up--frustration, anger, loneliness, helplessness, irregular sleep--and realized I was experiencing the classic symptoms of culture shock. I had only experienced culture shock once before and that was upon returning to the US after studying in Argentina. Never had I been culture shocked in a foreign country. The reason? I can´t be sure, but I think it is because I usually do a fairly good job of clearing my mind of expectations when I arrive in a new place. If I expect nothing, than I am open to everything, and ready for anything. But I realized that I was so determined to fall in love with Cuba, so eager to connect with Cubans, to see their country through their eyes, that I didn´t recognize all the expectations I carried with me. So there I was, culture shocked and only a marathon swim away from the Florida Keys.
I don´t want to lead you to believe my trip to Cuba was a bust, because it was anything but. It was rewarding, refreshing, adventurous, and enlightening. I learned years ago that we learn and grow the most when we are uncomfortable, which means that I do not regret even the times I found most difficult. I just want to be honest, and I am going to write about all of my experiences in Cuba, not just the travel brochure moments (which don´t come too often considering my travel style). My first blog will be a series of shorts from my journal beginning at the beginning and ending at the end. In that way, I can write about Cuba from many different angles, and then expand on a few themes in later blogs.
As far as photos go, I hear you all clamouring, but I can´t upload them until I have my computer, which is currently in transit to Buenos Aires. Once I am able to sort through all of them, I´ll put them on my Flickr page, and let you all know.
As always, I love hearing from you all, either through email, gchat, or through comments on my blog.
much love and many kisses
tucker
p.s. maybe i should just say that all of this is based on what i THINK cuba would be like if i had actually been there.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
This is not Cuba.
This is not Cuba. I am not in Cuba. I did not arrive safe and sound. I am not having a grand time. Havana is not a city unlike I have ever experienced in my whole life. I am not obsessed with trying to figuer out how it "works." Last night I did not see a Cuban drag show hidden away from the meddling police officers in a far away park. I will not write lots of blogs and posts hundreds of photos once I arrive in Buenos Aires Oct 7th.
I am not sending much love and many kisses
tucker
I am not sending much love and many kisses
tucker
Friday, September 12, 2008
My name is not Moguely. Get me the hell out of the jungle.
In Tziscao the roosters have formed a chorus. One rooster crows "I´m a big bad rooster," and another rooster across the way responds, "I´m a bigger and badder rooster." Then a rooster down the road interjects, "well I'm the biggest and baddest rooster there ever was." It continues like this. If you are under the impression that roosters crow only at sunrise, let us remedy that now--they crow all day...and all night...even when I plead with them to shut up at 3 am. In Tziscao camping at on the lake with access to bathrooms and showers at the ecotourist lodge cost 80 pesos (USD 8). Camping down the road in someone´s back yard with the same services cost 30 pesos. In Tziscao vegetarian food at the comedor with the sign that reads: Hay Comida Vegetariana--Vegetariant Foods" means they serve cheese quesadillas.
In Frontera Corozal my hatred for perspiration is reaffirmed. I sleep with a sweat band around my wrist to more easily catch the drip, drop, drip of sweat from my nose in the middle of the night. I normally don´t use bug spray--its bad for the body and for the environment and it smells bad and makes you sticky--but in Corozal the mosquito bites (for which I normally have great tolerance) leave welts. I reapply the OFF every two hours. As I fall asleep in my tent I listen to the squeaks of animals that resemble rats but live in the trees above. I hope that the hundreds of wolf spiders I saw while pitching my tent don´t find their way inside. I tell myself that I was made for the mountains.
In Yaxchilán I can see Guatemala across the River. I feel like Lara Croft in Tomb Raider. I´m alone on remote jungle paths to Mayan ruins deep in the Lacandona Jungle. Above me are family groups of howler monkeys lazily strewn about branches of tall and sacred Ceiba trees. The males are screaming at each other. My Angelina Jolie fantasy continues until I get a face full of spider web and see the biggest spiders I´ve ever had the misfortune of seeing. I continue, but walk cautiously, waving a stick in circular motions in front of me in order to avoid attempted spider attacks. Now I just feel nelly.
In Palenque the ruins are spectacular (if considerably more crowded with tourists than Yaxchlán), but it is so stifling that I worry about heat stroke. I decide not to take the tour to the waterfalls of Agua Azul and the swimming hole of Misol-Ha--there are waterfalls in Argentina (big ones) and a swimming pool at the campgrounds, I tell myself. The US$15 I save by not taking the tour allows me to splurge on a large lunch at the restaurant rather than the cookies and tortillas I would have eaten otherwise. I suck on a fudgesicle for desert, and I am happy. I lounge at the pool for as long as I can tolerate the heat. I liberally apply sun-block but worry it doesn´t soak in, because I´m sweating profusely. It´s useless anyways as the sun is so strong it doesn´t tan before it burns, it just jumps directly to the latter.
After I skip Agua Azul and Misol-Ha, I skip Ocosingo and Toniná. I also skip Bonampak, in my hurry to get to Cancún (what are a few skipped ruins? I ask myself. They´ve survived 1,000 years. They´ll survive until my next visit (assuming I survive for my next visit)). I tell myself that my willingless to leave Chiapas early and thus decrease my chances of running into Subcomandante Marcos, my beloved Zapatista rebel leader, is evidence of travelling for too long of a stretch.
I sit in the bus station waiting, reading Cuba In Mind. I think to myself that it´s possibly the most appropriately titled book of all time. In Cancún I will rest. I will prepare. I will buy a skimpy bathing suit with the money I saved by skipping the waterfalls, the sinkhole, the ruins, and the other ruins. I´m excited to arrive in Buenos Aires on October 7th. But I have one small stop--one giant stop-- before I get there. When I get to Cancún, I´ll visit the bookstore and buy another book about Cuba, because it´s still on my mind. It´s all I can think about.
As Marcos says, vale and salud. As I say, much love and many besos.
tucker
p.s. I am sad that my low tolerance for jungle heat and jungle sweat and jungle bugs means that I can not live happily ever after with Subcomandante Marcos. Perhaps he will consider a vacation home some place more agreeable to my sensibilities and keep me as his mistress there.
In Frontera Corozal my hatred for perspiration is reaffirmed. I sleep with a sweat band around my wrist to more easily catch the drip, drop, drip of sweat from my nose in the middle of the night. I normally don´t use bug spray--its bad for the body and for the environment and it smells bad and makes you sticky--but in Corozal the mosquito bites (for which I normally have great tolerance) leave welts. I reapply the OFF every two hours. As I fall asleep in my tent I listen to the squeaks of animals that resemble rats but live in the trees above. I hope that the hundreds of wolf spiders I saw while pitching my tent don´t find their way inside. I tell myself that I was made for the mountains.
In Yaxchilán I can see Guatemala across the River. I feel like Lara Croft in Tomb Raider. I´m alone on remote jungle paths to Mayan ruins deep in the Lacandona Jungle. Above me are family groups of howler monkeys lazily strewn about branches of tall and sacred Ceiba trees. The males are screaming at each other. My Angelina Jolie fantasy continues until I get a face full of spider web and see the biggest spiders I´ve ever had the misfortune of seeing. I continue, but walk cautiously, waving a stick in circular motions in front of me in order to avoid attempted spider attacks. Now I just feel nelly.
In Palenque the ruins are spectacular (if considerably more crowded with tourists than Yaxchlán), but it is so stifling that I worry about heat stroke. I decide not to take the tour to the waterfalls of Agua Azul and the swimming hole of Misol-Ha--there are waterfalls in Argentina (big ones) and a swimming pool at the campgrounds, I tell myself. The US$15 I save by not taking the tour allows me to splurge on a large lunch at the restaurant rather than the cookies and tortillas I would have eaten otherwise. I suck on a fudgesicle for desert, and I am happy. I lounge at the pool for as long as I can tolerate the heat. I liberally apply sun-block but worry it doesn´t soak in, because I´m sweating profusely. It´s useless anyways as the sun is so strong it doesn´t tan before it burns, it just jumps directly to the latter.
After I skip Agua Azul and Misol-Ha, I skip Ocosingo and Toniná. I also skip Bonampak, in my hurry to get to Cancún (what are a few skipped ruins? I ask myself. They´ve survived 1,000 years. They´ll survive until my next visit (assuming I survive for my next visit)). I tell myself that my willingless to leave Chiapas early and thus decrease my chances of running into Subcomandante Marcos, my beloved Zapatista rebel leader, is evidence of travelling for too long of a stretch.
I sit in the bus station waiting, reading Cuba In Mind. I think to myself that it´s possibly the most appropriately titled book of all time. In Cancún I will rest. I will prepare. I will buy a skimpy bathing suit with the money I saved by skipping the waterfalls, the sinkhole, the ruins, and the other ruins. I´m excited to arrive in Buenos Aires on October 7th. But I have one small stop--one giant stop-- before I get there. When I get to Cancún, I´ll visit the bookstore and buy another book about Cuba, because it´s still on my mind. It´s all I can think about.
As Marcos says, vale and salud. As I say, much love and many besos.
tucker
p.s. I am sad that my low tolerance for jungle heat and jungle sweat and jungle bugs means that I can not live happily ever after with Subcomandante Marcos. Perhaps he will consider a vacation home some place more agreeable to my sensibilities and keep me as his mistress there.
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