“The End of Time” Takes A Time-Out

5:11 AM on December 21^st arrived with its usual complement of massive sleep shortage.  What was supposed to be a globally coordinated candlelight ceremony largely turned out to be a dud in the event Epi-Center at the Hacienda Hotel in Chichen Itza.  The center grounds were not opened to participants as planned. Wind and rain blew out the candles for those gathering instead in the hotel parking lot, staff leadership to open the ceremony never arrived, and other attempts at leading faltered as rapidly as the candles.

Only when meeting with another body softly chanting en masse at the nearby Pyramide Hotel did anything approaching Unity take place.  An inspiring spiritual gestalt then developed amongst two now combined groups, leading to each participant gliding down a path with fellow candle holders forming a supportive gauntlet to either side.  After finishing their journey through its middle, each Spiritual Warrior peeled off to one of the two sides and became part of the gauntlet themselves. From there, it was a deliberate and contemplative 1.5 mile walk to the Archeological Park.

The crowds were large, the press badgered everybody who looked wildly dressed or sufficiently crazed to make a statement related to “Aren’t you disappointed that we didn’t experience The End of Time?” And the expected gathering of up to 60,000 for the course of the day never materialized.  Once again, the hosts showed a unique Mexican approach to Park entry.  No organized entry lines at 6:30 AM.  Just follow a throng where people appear to be pressing in the hardest.

You buy one ticket – eventually.  There are no signs in English describing what you are getting, or why, or how much it costs.  I swear four different people pay differing amounts, depending on what their assessed net worth and attire rating might be.  I smile to myself.  “The Vertical Scan,” so redolent of life in Venezuela.  You pay, depending on what you appear to be worth and can afford.  Once having obtained a ticket, we head for the Park entry.

We are stopped.  “No, Senor.  Necessita una pequena billete” (you need a little ticket).  Not “you need a little ticket, also.”  Did I buy the wrong one?  I know there will be no refunds here.  Somebody has already pocketed my error.  Baby has milk for next week and Mama has new shoes.  I find out after repeated inquiries that, no, I need an additional small ticket this time.  But where?

I look for another throng.  It is a Darwinian free-for-all.  Those not willing to persist or who lack physical stature are pushed off to the side.  I don’t know if they ever got in.  I return minutes later and some recognizable bodies are no closer than when they had begun, as if spun into a whirpool vortex from which there is no escape.  But eventually one comes to the fore, softly grabs the attendant’s attention, and says “Billete.”  You have no idea if a third ticket will be required still, what this is for, or how much it will cost.  Of course, it is twice as expensive.  Cautiously, I finally proceed to the Entry Gate for the second time.  After being lectured about my candle not being allowed, I am eventually ushered inside.  Ah, Chichen Itza …

I can not describe all that took place once facing the impressive Mayan stone monuments inside Chichen Itza starting about 7:15 AM.  Operating on one hour of sleep in the prior 36 led me to be description deprived.  I can say there were no fights, there was peaceful if not complete harmony, the “come one, come all” dances led by Indigenous Natives were very well attended, and participants repeatedly created their own spontaneous ceremonies over an extended period of time throughout the day.

 And oh, yes, Time Did Not End.  It did not even hiccup.  There were no eclipses nor earthquakes nor giant condors flying overhead nor pole shifting nor Rapture emigrations throughout the vicinity.  None of the other spiritually significant sites chosen for a simultaneous Web Cast of the moment, such as Stonehenge, Ayers Rock, Lake Atitlan in Guatemala, or Easter Island manifested any indication of a Doomsday scenario either.   Whether a new blueprint existed or not, The Mayan Calendar merely moved on to its next phase, quietly and without fanfare, like a phantom retreating into the shadows.

Subsequent celebratory activities consisted of continued dancing, music, workshops, free massage and healing presentations of various sorts at the grounds of the Hacienda Hotel back in town.  Filling in what void was created by the peaceful procession of events were rumors of a LSD trip gone dramatically south with a young woman from the campground ending up in the middle of the road.  Descriptions of interference from police authorities apparently miffed at not getting their assumed  baksheesh (payoff) money followed.  Many of the locals thought the event to be a cash cow, and wanted in on their share of the unlimited lucre supposedly flowing into Synthesis 2012 coffers from the 2500 or so projected participants.

The evening was topped off by a wildly successful dance (back at the campground once again) at a spectacularly designed stage setting reminiscent of a pyramid-shaped funeral pyre.  I will fill in details later about those responsible for such a positive outcome.  For now, let us agree it is difficult to track all of what occurred when venues are so disparate, events are moving so fast, locations are constantly changed, no timetable is adhered to, and some scheduled events don’t take place at all.  What announcements that are made relative to these changes, are typically drowned out by music.

A signature for the event might best be illustrated through an interview I attempted to gain with Synthesis 2012 Founder Michael DeMartino.  DeMartino cultivates a highly praised, fawned over, charismatic persona.  His appearance is very much that of a pious Knight Templar, 1000 years past his prime. My aim was to get an assessment from his point of view what went right and what went wrong with the Festival.

In making the request, I asked for a specific place and time in a mixture that suited his convenience.  He agreed to a sit-down near the pool at the Hacienda Hotel complex, and indicated he would meet me “in about forty minutes and right in this area.  This is where I can always be found.”  He walked past me three times afterward, made eye contact on each occasion, and quickly moved on.  There never was an interview.

Overall, the event lacked similar cohesion and organized follow through.  As summarized by one participant from Los Angeles who regularly participates in The Festival Lifestyle: “We are used to gathering in one central area.  We were all spread out here. The communication was terrible. Things were so disjointed.  As a result, we couldn’t really Do The Work.  We are people who act with a high degree of integrity.  Synthesis 2012 is not the way we do things.”

The dining hall arrangements were a notable exception to most activities at Synthesis 2012.  Meals were served warm, on time, with a full complement of silverware and glassware.  The food was delicious, if somewhat repetitious.  It included Mayan green salad, a full fruit plate, rice, local creamed potatoes, tomatos, beets, chicken, fish, rolls, dessert, black bean sauce, and vegetarian options. A variety of cervezas and soft drinks was offered at a bar adjacent to the food.  Our wait staff was polite and unfailingly efficient.  Their efforts sadly went largely unnoticed.

Similarly successful was the live web streaming event from the command center room at the Hotel.  Whenever I peaked inside, there were beautiful images from around the globe of Solstice and Galactic Alignment type celebrations taking place worldwide.  The process and end product appeared at least to be flawless.  The claims of 20 million viewers tapping in however, were not believed by anybody, given the credibility of the event staff and their other pronouncements to date.

The Festival largely though not officially concluded Saturday the 22^nd of December with a generous daylong offering of workshops, speeches, presentations, music, and dance. Don Miguel Ruiz, the headliner who appeared two hours late and concurrent with long dinner lines, was a major disappointment.  He spoke for only 15 minutes and didn’t visit any new material not already present in his published bestsellers.  Perhaps the heart replacement surgery he had undergone the year prior, had understandably sapped his energy.

The best program was given by Dr. Joe Marshalla.  I will post more on his eye-opening presentation later.  For now, I wish to conclude reports on Synthesis 2012.  Despite the chaos and disorganization present throughout the four days, I believe the Festival to still be a success.  Sure, there were numerous talks about class action lawsuits over failure to deliver on promised (and paid for) services and performances.  Many said they would call their credit card company immediately upon return home to dispute paying $500 for a campground, missing transportation, meals which did not materialize, etc.

Ultimately, however, with changed hearts and minds and the connections made during the event there really appeared to me to be an internal shift within the participants which might support this success.  In the case of Synthesis 2012, the participants finally took over.  They made things happen themselves.  The inmates took over the asylum, and found out they were the keepers of the flame all along.  They made things work.  They connected and bonded without assistance from the organizers.

I witnessed much evidence of changed hearts, stilled minds, answered prayers, and realized intentions leading to potential healing, transformation and personal growth.  It was as a transformative event that Synthesis 2012 can stake whatever claim to success that it might.

 

CHICHEN  ITZA, MEXICO

My first challenge after arrival was to obtain a room.  Craig & Donna had been “swapped out” for less desirable quarters further from the Archeological Park, but closer to the Synthesis 2012 activity center.  At first, I attempt to negotiate with their same Chichen Itza Hotel for quarters, which proved useless when the bidding started at $500 nightly.  I later found a room to share with a young man from Seattle who had two beds to his room and a working shower, but never utilized the opportunity.  Too much work to do, and too little time.  Just stayed up all night on my first evening in Chichen Itza.

Next challenge was to get in to Synthesis 2012.  I had arrived with no tickets, no meal plan, and no room.  The ultimate freestyle approach landing. The organizing group intended to hold a pre-solstice press briefing at 4 PM.  I quickly joined in discussions with their planning group.  In discussing why I was here, much of the previous conversation Craig and I had engaged in re: the meaning of 2012 was conveyed to the event executive staff.  Surprisingly (to me at least), much of it made its way into their introductory remarks at the subsequent Press Briefing.

To make a long story short, as a result of that conversation and proof of the publication of “True North” (and intention to write Volume 2 with their Festival as the lead story) I got handed Press Credentials.  This came about by explaining in pithy terms what their event was all about from the POV of an outsider, leading to spiffs for free food and free daily entry to all organizational events.  The tickets otherwise cost from $250 to $500 to $2800, depending on level of access to various Festival venues, and whether hotel rooms and transportation from Cancun was involved.  Already, I felt like the gouging from our van ride from Cancun was being mitigated.

At the Press Conference, in addition to quoting heavily from the joint conversation with Craig, Synthesis 2012 Marketing Director Giselle Bisson quoted Bolivan President Evo Morales:  This event, she said, “Is about the end of  Fear and the beginning of Love.”  The goal of the event was to celebrate and activate the Mayan prophecies related to 2012, so that with “intention, focus and love we will manifest a new era of peace and harmony on the planet.”

It proposed an ambitious schedule leading to a global awareness convergence and candlelight winter solstice service on Dec 21^st celebrating the previously described concurrent events.  Event organizer Michael DeMartino, had begun envisioning the event as far back as 1989 when he produced the worldwide “Unity” Gathering.  It was to include a “Burning Man” style campground (after the folklife rock and party soiree that attracts 50,000 annually in the Nevada desert), and numerous rock bands with widespread reputations.

The purpose of this gathering was to bring together some of the top international music groups, dynamic visionary leaders, spiritual teachers, shamans, the local Mayan community, teachers of healing arts and practitioners of  healthy & eco-conscious living to awaken global awareness and promote global change.

The event had the support of an experienced major California production team working directly with local Mayan elders, wisdom keepers and event producers in Mexico with the cooperation of the UNESCO recognized Mayan Cultural Organization and International Mayan Council.  An international webcast coordination of galactic alignment celebrations taking place worldwide was also planned.

Major speakers were to include New Age Luminaries such as Don Miguel Ruiz (author of the bestselling “The Four Agreements” and “The Mastery of Love”), Mayan Wisdom Keeper Humbatz Men, Caroline Casey, Nicki Scully, Foster & Kimberly Gamble, Dr. Joseph Marshall, Nick Edwards, and Patrick Flanagan – among others.

Problems become obvious before the Press Conference is even concluded however.  A campground set up for attendees (to offset price gouging in local hotels) has had to be moved from in-town, to a clearing six miles outside town.  A shuttle service to ferry Festival Goers back and forth never materializes.  Most who don’t have rental cars must pay $8 one way for taxi rides into town and to visit the Archeological Area with the Ruins – if a taxi is available.  Volunteers who are told they will get free meals, are shut off from the dining hall.

A music truck with over $30,000 of equipment on it is either hijacked or waylaid just south of the Texas border – the stories differ depending on who you talk to -- and returns to Oregon after gulping nearly $5000 worth of fuel and repairs.  It never arrives at the festival.  Much sound capability is therefore cut off.  Hotels are changed for VIP customers without notice.  Van transportation from Cancun does not materialize.  Staff are not being paid and often have to put their own funds into various Festival functions to make them work.  Many bands that have paid their own way down to the happening, are told their services are no longer available and tickets promised for meals are not distributed.

I start making subtle inquiries about how this situation has come about.  I need not tend such care.  The anger level even amongst staff grows by the hour.  It becomes obvious there is a command and control problem.  All command is centered at the top.  Very little authority flows downhill. Decisions – even petty ones – can’t be made without the personal imprimatur of Michael DeMartino.  Funds suffer the same restriction.  Nothing goes out without the visionary’s okay.  Chokeholds abound at every decision nexus point.  DeMartino, meanwhile, attends to self- satisfying but organizationally crippling duties as personally handing out meal tickets.

But the festival proceeds nevertheless.  This is partly due to the abundance of freewill present.  It is due to the huge hours of donated time and focused intention of the volunteers and staff.  Most of the invited luminaries still attend.  Moving speeches are made the afternoon prior to “The End of Time,” referring to nursing each other into a new consciousness, converging and rising up spiritually to overcome the existing world order in a quiet revolution, and celebrating new awareness with conscious connection into a new soul community.

A song initiated spontaneously by teenagers becomes the anthem for The Festival: “One People, One Creation, One Love, One light.”  It earns much enthusiasm from among the attendees.

Many well-intended folks have clearly done the work to prepare themselves over an extended period of time.  These people refer to themselves as The Rainbow Tribe, those souls who are present now combined in spirit with all those who have preceded us.  These are the serious spiritual seekers.  The purposed soul work heavy lifters.  Others appear hobbyists, looking for an emotional peak experience.  These are the ones who bear the feint miasma of “we are the ones we have been waiting for.” 

Others merely seek a lark, and want to be happy.  They are often found in the campground, and more often than not under a cannabis cloud.  Their theme song would more closely resemble “Kumbaya.”   Another set, the evolved version of the Hippie Movement, might be characterized as having a “Brother Son, Sister Moon, Everybody is Part of Me” mentality.  Their primary mindset seems to be a fairly deeply embedded Peace consciousness.

In any case, Peak Events no matter how spectacularly infused with tradition, emotion, or ceremony are sometimes merely … just events.  The spiritual Warriors who gather for four days of Peace & Harmony, nevertheless return to lives as doctors, promoters, students, businessmen, firemen, sanitation workers, and all cross-sections of humanity.

In a knowing scene from the movie Willow, famous (midget) actor Billy Barty plays the part of a very short wizard.  He is helping the decision making of the movie’s hero and his companions, when they must make a difficult crossroads choice as to which way to proceed.  He makes great ceremony of rolling the dice, a set of ancient runes.  He goes about his duty with great solemnity and agonized deliberate pacing.  There is much suspense.  He finally tosses the bones.

“Well,” cries out Willow, with more than a little nervousness.  “What do they mean???”

The Wizard looks at Willow, and gives him a sly wink.  “What do you want them to mean?”

Such is the way with movements.  And events.  And anthems.  We always look for a new message.  We desire a new way of connecting. We are attuned and even hopeful about fresh ways and hopeful outcomes.  We need change and renewed possibility in our lives.  Many things we initiate or respond to, has the cultivated interest of: “What do you want them to mean?”  Sometimes, the level of hope and optimism and caring we emotionally invest in our initiatives, pre-determines the outcome.   Input equals output.

Over and over, I hear hopeful cadences of intent such as “We are at the crossroads of the past, the present, and the future.”  Or “We are anchors for the coming shift.”  Or “The End of Time is really a New Beginning.”  Or, less objectively and much more energetically, “We are the Hope of The World and the Means of Its Transformation.”

Despite these occasional stretches into fanciful hubris, and all the snafus with Synthesis 2012, on the alleged Eve of the End of Time and Conclusion of the Mayan Calendar and windowpane to the Galactic Alignment, there was much loving and well-intentioned input taking place all throughout Chichen Itza.

CANCUN
 

This entry may just be a flyby, as I really have two days worth here and really just want to get around to the zenith of Mayan culture and architecture, the still not completely unearthed archeological wonder of Chichen Itza.

Flight out from Phoenix and then Dallas very routine.  Took advantage of the five hours of flight time, to catch up after receiving only two hours of sleep the final night in Phoenix.  Packing, writing, and excess excitement will do that to you.  I muse on the fact I’ve landed at Dallas-Fort Worth Airport probably ten times in my life, and never actually stepped foot in Texas.

My third landing in Cancun runs smoothly.  Off the plane, through customs in an hour (following some clever Aussie rope jumpers), and out to the taxi area.  Taking a transport van reduces the cost to get into the Zona Hoteleria to only $16, instead of the projected forty.  Shades of  Lima!  The trick is generally to name your own price, and not take orders from the carnival barkers trying to push you into their yellow sardine cans.

There is nothing redeeming about the tourist area of Cancun.  Except perhaps that it is safe.  This, when contrasted with dodgy areas of Mexico now where tourists have to worry about being robbed, assaulted, or worse.  Formerly iconic areas such as Acapulco and Mazatlan, where drug gangs rule the roost and a tourist unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time can end up gaining their proverbial 15 minutes of fame through grisly postings on the internet displaying various parts of  their body online.

Otherwise, the 13-mile Hotel Zone, is nothing but a bit of the Texas or Georgia coast transplanted to Mexico.  The prices are hardly different.  The culture barely raises its hand.  There are accents among the wait staff, to be sure, but most of them speak English.  They are unfailingly polite.   I’m not sure what the draw is.  Why not save yourself an expensive plane flight south and just drink heavily in a warm and sunny clime at home?

Regardless, I join my friends Craig and Donna Murphy from Jackson, California at the Coral Mar Condos on the smaller of two major lagoons inland from the  Caribbean coast.  Jackson is my hometown, from long ago and far away, and the storied site of the two richest gold mines in US History – the Argonaut and the Kennedy Mines. Craig and I and I go back to 6^th grade together, and he remains my longest standing friend. 

The Murphys – among others – are among the victims of a hotel snafu where their bungalow at the Mayan Ruins in Chichen Itza has been (re)sold to the highest bidder, forcing them to change to a hotel at the last minute.  For Craig, who is a seeker, the change is beneficial.  It puts him closer to the events center for a group called Synthesis 2012 that is the clearing house worldwide for events related to the celebrations taking place locally to great international public fanfare.

These include convergence of the Winter Solstice, the so-called “End of Time” Prophecy related to the final versions of the Mayan Calendar, and 26,000 year cycle wherein the planets in our solar system line up through the earth like cherry tomatoes on a shish-kabob skewer.  At the same time, because of this Galactic Alignment, we get a rare glimpse at the “Dark Rift” of the Milky Way, or the exact center of our galaxy.  We are headed toward unique circumstances.

Donna is alternately disadvantaged.  Whereas she had been located right across the street from the Archeological Ruins area of Chichen Itza – favorable conditions if one is lugging heavy professional camera equipment – now she will be one and one-half miles away and facing a logistics/strength/endurance challenge.

Our ride in is part of the package snafu.  Not trusting to the give-and-take hotel and  transport arrangements initiated by Synthesis 2012, Craig hires us a private van for the 240 kilometer and two and one-half journey to the ruins from Cancun.  Our driver, Alfonso, is barely conversant in English but we make do and learn quite a bit about nearby areas, what to see, and new Spanish words on the road headed in.  As we should.  The trip is normally normally $150 for a round trip day visit to the ruins, but with the human wave approaching Chichen Itza, it is now $380 … one way!

We ponder the irony of the New Age Thinking & Feeling taking place all around us concurrent with this old-fashioned demonstration of pillaging tourists brought on by that old saw -- the line where an ascendant demand curve crosses a diminishing supply line.

We grit our teeth and decide surety is the better part of valor.  We must arrive early, before the hordes arrive (some estimates put the number of visitors who might be present by December 21^st at 60,000).  To get oriented.  To eat.  To make connections.  And for me to arrange a place to sleep and shower.  The rooms which my friends have been moved to, which normally cost $99 for a Best Western 3-Star Hotel, have been jacked to $500 nightly.  Luckily, Craig and Donna don't have to pay this.  But I travel freestyle, and (intending to be on the road for at least 45 days) would not pay 10% of that regal sum.  So the  risk taker and negotiator part of me eventually must prowl out alternatives.

But first, we enjoy dinner in Old Cancun.  The part of town where all the hotel zone workers and real Mexican personalities reside.  It is difficult to tell if prices have been jacked to coincide with the Dec 21^st celebrations, but there are no bargains here.  Prices are the same as Seattle and any other major US city.  For both food and drinks.  There are no bargains.  It doesn’t feel like Mexico.

I do however get to experience a Michelchada for the first time.  It is a relatively new phenomenon in this part of Mexico, I am told.  The mix combines your favorite beer, and black pepper, lime, maggi juice seasoning, and salsa tipo inglesa sauce.  Craig spits his test sip out.  “That tastes like steak sauce on the rocks,” he growls.  I like it, and find the concoction – like any acquired taste -- gets better with a bit of thinning and persistent guzzling.

Next morning, along the way to Chichen Itza, we see mile-after-mile of scruffy (like a marine flat topped  haircut) low-canopy jungle, colorful pueblos with their proverbial thrashed cars and feral dogs, and the decidedly ethnographic darkened chocolate faces of the Mayan people.  We also see periodic displays of blue agave, the source of premium tequila.  A prominent sign reads:  “Blue Agave Tequila: The Future of The Yucatan!”

The plants are very sharp, with needle points and serrated leaves.  Craig gives one a casual rub and pops the rhetorical question, to nobody in particular: “Tequila?  Or To-Kill-Ya?”  He also pokes fun at me for some graying of my temples beyond our last visit.  Whereby, I serve up the Grizzly Bear gambit on him.

“You know Murphy, when in the vicinity of annoyed Grizzlies, I don’t have to be fast.  I just have to be faster than you.  Same thing with hair.  Mine may have a little more sheen to it, but it is still darker and more plentiful than …”  I love playing the trump card.  Craig seems to enjoy it also.

But most of our trip in is given over to a serious discussion about 2012 and the worldwide event we are fast approaching.  Who are we, really? Why are we here?  What does it mean?  Why do people care about being here at this particular time?

We decide – from a combination of our personal quests, a lifetime of learning, and what we have deciphered about the collective vision for this convergence – that we are all here in support of the affirmation that things can’t remain as they are on this planet.  It is necessarily a time for change.  We will exercise our free will to manifest being a part of that change.  We feel drawn to a collective purpose.  Like a funeral or a rivalry football game, we are at least temporarily drawn toward synchronicity of intention and a united mindset.  We are mistreating the planet and each other, and Things MUST Change!

We also agree we have become detached from our authentic selves as humans, and must find our way back .  We are not mere physical beings, occasionally having a  spiritual experience.  We ARE spiritual beings, occasionally and temporarily assigned to physical bodies, and that our essence carries over from lifetime to lifetime.  Luckily we are just now coming around as soul entities to remembering who we really are.

Collectively, the human race is on the cusp of learning to relate to each other from the heart, instead of the mind.  We are being restored – like finding our way back to Shangra La – to soul spontaneity and balance.  Including balance between male and female energies.  A transition between the male and brain-centered energy of the age of Pisces, and the female-centered and feeling oriented  Age of Aquarius. 

I personally liken the transition to a finely engineered bridge contrasted with a waterfall.  The bridge may be a piece of calculated genius.  It may even be a work of art.  The Golden Gate Bridge comes to mind.  But it is necessarily flawed.  At some point, all calculations break down, and its shortcomings become palpable.  It fails, and no longer serves the purpose it once upheld.  A waterfall, on the other hand, is a heart matter.  It is always beautiful.  It needs no purpose.  It is perfect at any given moment.  When in heart mode, we see and feel as if a free-flowing waterfall.  There is no flaw, no effort, no artifice, and no need for change or adjustment.

Craig and I have discussed “heart mode” for months.  Our particular definitions – and there are many – boil down to the following:

Intentioned tolerance, an emptying of the judgmental mind, voiding oneself of expectation (and being Happy For What You Get), “holding space” to wait situations out and having the patience to observe what is really happening (without attachment to a pre-determined connection or result), practicing detached compassion, getting outside your own ego, and having the courage and work ethic to offer up your authentic self when connecting with another member of our species.

True North – Central America: “Whirlwind!”

Advance Preparations

Episode Two of another epic international tour finally begins.  With a whirlwind.  Unlike my lengthy trip to the far reaches of the southern hemisphere of a bit over a year ago there has been very little time to prepare for this episode.

Despite long-term planning for this journey, the money has only come forward in the last three days, and there has been no time at all to obtain necessary shots, get added pages for my passport, get a new camera or a battery charger for the old one, or do any of the myriad things one must attend to in order to prepare for an extended trip abroad.  I am uncharacteristically unprepared.

As I depart Seattle/Tacoma International Airport on a Sunday morning with less baggage than ever before, I haven’t a clue what is in my backpack and light carry-on.  No idea if what is there is adequate, how many things I’ve forgotten, or where critical items might actually be located.  All I know is TSA always finds my bag worthy of “another look” and routinely pulls me over to the side for a hands-on inspection.  And that I am able to travel much lighter compared to the 85 day sojourn of last year, since current travels don’t include the necessity for cold weather gear for Antarctica.

My objective this time, is to fill in the gaps between the comprehensive map filler of 2011 – which included Antarctica, ALL of South America, Easter Island, and four islands in the Caribbean --  and the home turf territory of the United States, Canada, Hawaii, Alaska, and neighboring Mexico. That leaves us with The Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico – which is very familiar territory, Cuba (offering the allure of forbidden fruit!), Belize, Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and finally Panama. 

As I researched potential trip highlights, I am most drawn initially to Cuba for the tenacity of its people and culture despite a 50 year embargo placed against the island by the US government and their odd, lingering fondness for the Fidel Castro led “Revolution” of 1959. Guatemala beckons, for its Mayan temples and profound geography.  And Costa Rica calls, for its draw as the “Switzerland of Central America.”  All in all I will get 45 more days of bliss and discovery and the chance to satisfy an omnipresent curiosity about all things.

What also beckons however, is The Yucatan.  Home of Chichen Itza, the perigee of Mayan civilization and site of a Dec 21^st  celebration commemorating the End of the Mayan Calendar and what is portrayed as the beginning of a new spiritual age on this planet.  Due to Mayan petroglyphs which have been interpreted as predicting the so-called “End of Time,” many folks will be congregating in 2012 in the Mayan Temples of the former Mayan Empire.  “End of Time” parties and spiritual enclaves in these locations are sprouting thicker than flies at a gypsy wedding.  My desire as I head south, is that this celebration in whatever form it transpires would be far superior to that yearly bacchanalia in Rio de Janeiro that is otherwise known as Carnival.  That was the ultimate disappointment, as far as parties or celebrations or cultural events might go.

My objective for three days blanketing December 21^st and the Winter Solstice is to join my best friend from high school, Craig Murphy and his wife Donna, for a “be in the moment” spiritual observance.  We will simply see what happens.  We have no plans.  Only to be in the now and to be very observant of what occurs and to try to experience the event on a Heart Level, and not with our western-trained and oriented minds.

A slight pall hovers over the journey.  Namely, the passing of my beloved Father in October at age 80.  Without Lawrence Arthur Cenotto IV, the trip might not have been possible.  At least to this extent.  And yet, while we did not specifically discuss visiting Central America, it was the type of trip we were contemplating making together.  I have therefore decided to take his hiking jacket, walking stick, a number of  other personal items and his camera along, so that Dad can vicariously enjoy the trail with me as I pass through Central America on a quest now dedicated in his honor.

I notice before departing Seattle my passport is full.  No more room for additional stamps.  I have the world’s greatest parking karma and unreasonable luck in most things, and figure most challenges can be overcome or talked past. The National Passport Center advises me however, I can be refused boarding at the ticket gate level, or at the arrival gate on any of the destinations I am bound for to travel to -- whether I have previously paid or not.

“Of course, we can have you call them and verify the reception details for each country,” was the helpful reply from the national office.  I couldn’t imagine the wait time, let alone any other distraction.  So two days work – in addition to getting medical shots that now seemed beyond my reach on short notice – to get additional pages for the passport goes for naught.

Finally, while intending to get in a little spiritual re-entry practice time in vortex laden Sedona, I am advised the Tucson office of the National Passport Center will do an overnight passport renewal for me.  Instead of the Red Rocks and spiritual basking of stunning Sedona, it is south two hours and wait in line.  And they double the price for expediting my requests. But the staff there is great.  Methinks they are auditioning for some federal service award role, and go completely out of their way to accommodate my last-minute needs.  This is not the way I am used to seeing the feds operate …

While waiting overnight for the passport to be issued, inquiries are made about a good local Happy Hour bar.  Enter the Kon-Tiki on Broadway.  Built in 1962.  Blessed with original bamboo from the Philippines that would take $1000 per square foot to duplicate today.  Adorned with original characters, all.  Home of the best local complimentary hors d’ oeuvres and greatest lineup of original drinks this side of Singapore.  One couple, Scott & Tina, speak of their pre-60’s cars and an abiding shared interest in travel.

Tina regales those of us at the bar with tales of her Navy days, when new swabbies would be hazed upon crossing the equator during a grueling 8-hour initiation rite.  The type of humiliation  not allowed today.  She described an endurance ordeal of  wearing clothes inside out, denied shoes, being plastered with grease and peanut butter, being forced to crawl about the ship on all fours, performing fawning menial tasks, licking jelly beans out of the lint-encrusted belly button of a 400 pound hirsute gunnery mate, and eating swill from a communal bucket.  I’m just glad I signed up for 36 hour days in the forestry service at that age instead …

Picking up the passport after a day of preparation, the to-do list never ends.  Buy camera attachments.  Empathize with horror stories from Cancun of hotel reservations (with confirmation and down payment ignominiously ignored) suddenly being jerked from friends and sold to the highest bidder.  Buy travel insurance.  Make sure my phone will take international calls and texts from all nine countries along the travel path.  Similarly, inform the banks that are holding my credit cards where I’ll be and to allow both debit and credit transactions without the normal interference or security verification calls.  Somewhere in there, caloric requirements and a growling stomach demand their due.

The evening closes with a light dinner at a local watering hole in Phoenix.  Again, my theory is that the best travel intel is obtained at bars.  Sometimes the best war stories.  And usually the best bullshit.  The “share this tripe at cocktail parties” variety, that everybody can moderate and pass on in ever expanding circles.  Got to listen to a bloke named Matt, speak about his best friend crossing over the Iron Curtain in the 60’s after getting an impossible-to-obtain visa from a friend who dated a gal at the Russian Embassy.  His aim was to dispense Hippie Culture in Russia.  And introduce Western capitalism.

The friend drove a flower festooned Volkswagen camper from Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin to Red Square in Moscow, and openly sold Playboy magazines and Beatle records opposite the GUM Department Store in Red Square.  He took the substantial profits, and graduated from there to transiting the Straits of Gibraltar in Spain to sell alcohol in dry Muslim African countries.  All this before détente, and modern visa arrangements.  As they say, Cheeky Lad, that.

And with that, I am off.  Have an early wakeup at 3:30 for a 6 AM flight to Cancun and the prelude to the first (hopefully among many) of the “End of Time” parties.

 

A Rebuke to Jon Winokur’s Travel Introduction from “The Traveling Curmudgeon”

Definition of Curmedgeon: [ Historically ] A crusty, ill-tempered, churlish old man.  [ Modern ] Anyone who hates hypocrisy and pretense and has the temerity to say so; anyone with the habit of pointing out unpleasant facts in an engaging and humorous manner.

In his amusing reading companion for experienced travelers, Jon Winokur points out that travel writing is the literature of complaint – and that bad trips have always been the seed of good material, from the Odyssey to Robinson Crusoe.  Very few want to read about a sun-kissed cruise on glassy seas, flying first class with your own bottle of Dom Perignon aboard a half empty 747, or a sumptuous stay at a first class hotel with incredible food and obsequious service.  Comfort and luxury are forgettable, he says.  “Misery is memorable.”  Your audience wants to hear about the train wreck.

A bad trip is guaranteed to rivet listeners at a party.  And result in a situation sure to induce reciprocity.  You will have to endure listening in turn to their travel horrors also.  Winokur suggests experienced travelers revel in their misfortune, as a form of snobbery.  “Look what I endured,” he opines, “because I love to travel.”  He points out certain parties assume one can’t be cultivated without extensive travel, and this particular set is determined to “broaden” themselves in the face of adversity.

Winokur questions however, whether there is really any broadening going on.  “What have they learned other than how to operate the shutter delay, tip the concierge, and file a lost luggage claim?” he asks.  “What have they seen besides the usual tourist traps on an increasingly beaten track around an ever more crowded and homogenized world?”

He goes on to suggest travel isn’t what it used to be (if it ever was).  Endless security checks, jet lag, homesickness, loneliness, strange beds, strange food, unpleasant seat mates, the shocking realization the US Constitution has no authority outside the United States— “the hardships are hardly worth the rewards.”  Slyly, he goes a bit further and notes that “Travel” derives from travail, early French for arduous toil.   We are told that if you trace the etymology back even further and you find the word for torture.

Tongue firmly in cheek, Winokur questions the need for travel.  “Why travel when you can experience almost anything in the world vicariously, in the comfort of your own home,” he asks.  “With the advent of streaming video, HDTV, and sooner or later, virtual reality – why go anywhere?  Let someone else do the work while you reap the rewards without the hassle and the risk.”  Winokur claims The Traveling Curmedgeon as an anti-travel book, to explode the myth that travel is some sort of cultural tonic necessary for mental, spiritual and cultural growth.  “Avoiding travel will liberate you from the tyranny of the travel-industrial complex,” he concludes, “and I trust persuade you to make all your journeys imaginary.”

I think it more a poke-in-the-eye artifice to increase his streams of income.  But who is to say?

Okay, I know he’s spoofing.  He’s globetrotter himself several times over.  But I’ll bite.  Here is why we travel via train, plane, automobile, dugout canoe, on foot, by donkey cart and all other available means instead of hopping the nearest computer and getting our travel jollies in the sedentary – and safe -- way.

And that is, primarily, because travel is our planetary lab.  It gives us perspective beyond a 17” screen.  It enculturates us in a way that no piece of hardware ever can.  It gives us a chance to practice and perfect those lessons we have begun at home.  And to display talents (such as languages) we dared not try under the watchful eye of friends and family.  Or did not have time for …  It allows us to experiment and make mistakes, and to correct them, in a less competitive and at times more forgiving environment.  It allows us to cement relationships begun by mail, or over the internet. The virtual world is for whetting the appetite and planning your endeavors; travel is for satiating them.  Ultimately, travel allows us to connect with others from different cultures in a hands-on way and ensures that we do not become myopic in our world views.  Paraphrasing Sting in a song he wrote years ago, once you have traveled to Moscow, you realize “Russians love their children too.”  We are more the same in this world than different.  Travel allows us to celebrate what we share in common (universally: a love of family, a desire for amusement, a thirst for higher knowledge and a relationship with a higher power, and a hunger for freedom).  At the same time, we get to explore our differences in a manner that allows you to see “up close and personal” why these differences exist.

Come to think of it: The adventures and scenery and food and company involved along the way aren’t often bad, either !

I could go on.  I won’t.  This just about handles what I wanted to convey.  Jon is wrong.  He knows it already.  He manifested a straw dog for us to beat up on, and is undoubtedly laughing all the way to the bank.  But thanks for serving up the softball pitch, amigo, and offering us the amusement of “Traveling Curmedgeon.”

--Larry Cenotto

Bogota, To Close ...

The return flight to Bogota is over before it begins.  Takes less than an hour.  Columbia is once again, beautiful from the air.  Had all manner of activities I was going to engage in upon arrival.  But we took off an hour late due to equipment difficulties and I missed the prime afternoon tour hours.  Tried to see a few things on my own – such as the  Museo de Arte Colonial and the Museo de Oro (Gold), which has a sterling reputation as a “must see” visit when in Bogota.  At each location, I was the last person to line up for admission, and the first denied entry.  Could not talk my way in to beat the band.  So took the nearby tramway, to the top of Montserrat Mountain, and the monastery there.  Primary reason is the incredible territorial view looking from east to west back over all of Bogota from nearly 8500 feet.   The capital city of Colombia is not what you call beautiful, but its population of 8 million ensures a wide spread, and this alone impresses.  It is much like looking at the Los Angeles basin from Mt. Wilson, only from a higher trajectory.

My last night on the continent was all about choices.  I chose to have a wonderful meal instead of mucking about exploring.  Some of this has to do with the lingering cold I am laboring under.  Naturally I chose Italian.  As nearby as I could find. Tried to make it seafood as well, to complete the daily double, but … well, the veal called to me.  It was an incredible meal, worthy of being eaten slowly, and worthy of further description. Started with a glass of Malbec, and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon (at the same time).  Wait staff looked at me oddly and tried to segregate them, arranging the two to be consumed sequentially.  I smiled, poured them both anyway, and lined ‘em up.  Then for starters, Carcofi  Soup.  For anybody who has been to an Italian Panini shop and custom ordered their own sandwich (try mozarella, tomato, carcofi, and thin sliced cured jamon with olive oil) this is to die for!  At any rate, it is difficult just to find artichoke soup.  So when it appeared on the menu I knew there would be something very special at hand.  It was served hot with a puree base and chunks of artichoke sliced from the heart.   Cream and pepper and a sprinkle of mizithra cheese completed the flavoring.  This beauty lingered on the tongue like the taste of accomplishment after participating in a grape harvest and getting to barrel sample the previous season’s maturing crop afterward.  For those who are not artichoke fans, this is not comprehendible.  But it was heaven.  Could have been a complete meal as a solo dish.

The veal itself took up an entire plate.  No room for garnish.  It was cooked to a golden brown, almost like trout almondine, then rolled in oregano, pounded down to about 1/8” thickness, and simmered in olive oil.  A sprinkling of mizithra cheese and lemon pepper completed the seasoning.  Was so tender you could cut it with the edge of a piece of paper.  It too, was delicious.  Chose to eat it very, very slowly.  And next, the colorful side plate.  No parsley filler here !  It had the greatest variety of vegetables I’d ever seen accompanying an entrée.  Consisting of an arugula bed, fried zucchini, steamed asparagus, fried eggplant marinated in olive oil, fried onions, cooked red pepper, and baked mushrooms loosely arranged into “salad” form. I guess you could call it a salad.   The whole dish if you will was cooked Mediterranean style and garnished once again with grated cheese – Parmesan this time.  Finally, dessert.  Italian coffee and crème brulee.  Perfecto ! Only thing missing was lemon gelato.  And good company …

Took the short hike back to my hostel, encountered the usual computer problems (data dump, somebody was obviously trying to invade the computer, as I was on a Wi-Fi network) and so just kicked it and went to sleep.  Probably best.  This nasty cold still has a terrible grip on me.  Wakeup call set for 3:30 and the return flight to the US: Miami, to San Francisco, to Seattle.  Eighty-five days, come to to an anti-climatic and somewhat sauntering end … and this year, for the first time, I missed the Rose Bowl, the Super Bowl, and the Academy Award.  As Bob Dylan would sing: “Things They Are A Changin’ … “

Next: A Rebuke to Jon Winokur’s Travel Introduction from “The Traveling Curmudgeon”

Cali -- Former Drug Capital of The World

Cali is of course famous in recent decades for being the Drug Capital of the World.  Cartels controlling the cocaine and heroin trade, inspired fear and even admiration throughout this hemisphere.  Names like Pablo Escobar (eventually killed in a well publicized drug raid) were famous both north and south of the equator.  Due to drug interdiction money paid for by US taxpayers and a concerted effort by the Colombian police and military, the drug trade has largely been pushed up into isolated pockets in the highlands.  It is not that a thriving business does not take place still in the cities.  What is missing is the element of ostentatiousness.  Dealers no longer play their trades openly on the street.  They don’t wear ornamented gold chains the size of boat anchors. They drive plain cars.  They don’t run up bank accounts, but deal in cash only and horde it in caves in their lairs.

While in Bogota on the way over to Cali from Barranquilla on layover, I had several hours spare time in which to read and obtain a final ticket home.  Have gone over my allotted return date, something I knew would happen in advance.  I had to pick a date three months ago for my return, as a round-trip ticket is $700 less than a one-way ticket.  If I simply choose my date of departure later based on actual location and time for departure it is considered to be two one-way tickets.  My choice of March 29^th to return was completely arbitrary.  And way too soon.  American Airlines tried to play hardball with the fact I am going to be later than that by a week.  They want $700 additional, for a combo penalty of the change fee and fare differential.

At first, they can’t even find my fare code from 90+ days ago.  I won’t go into exactly what I did to effect a change, as I might want to use the formula again.  But suffice it to say it involved having long discussions with everybody at the ticket counters, doing my best to tie them up, demanding to speak to supervisors, returning to the original counter jockeys for a secondary appeal, using their phones and tying the lines up for extended periods, crowding out other people with problem inquiries, and then finally making the ultimate appeal directly to American Airlines HQ in Dallas.  After very extended and terse negotiations, the penalty was reduced to only $200 – a number I could live with and in fact celebrate.  I do thank American Airlines for this bit of generosity.   

When I am picked up at the airport in Cali by Doyler Mosquera Jr on March 30 in the afternoon, I am surprised to learn that – once again – the city is much larger than anticipated.  It has a population of 2 million, about half of them poor and concentrated in barrios.  This follows a pattern in South America, where the population is concentrated in capitals and major cities, and the campesinos have long left the contryside for jobs with better payment prospects in the metropolis.  Was surprised also, to see how verdant Columbia is from the air, with miles of jungle and grasslands and many navigable water sources reaching high up into the mountains.  Cali itself was very green and clean.  A few barrios had the usual piles of rubble, seedy denizens, scattered trash, graffiti and unkempt appearance, but the city was decidedly middle class and appeared no differently than most US suburbs.  Malls, restaurants, traffic congestion, housing, and all.  Only noticeable differences are in the Spanish construction style with stucco and red tile roofs, and a virtual constant: security features with wrought iron bars over every window, fence, and exterior courtyard (or driveway).  The cars are also smaller.  Gas is $4 a gallon here.

We go to a restaurant 17 kilometers outside of town in the foothills overlooking the city for an introductory drink.  Cali spreads out well below us with its yellow-orange network of lighting grids extending clear to the horizon.  We are perhaps 100 miles inland, but only because the roads are twisty and must clear a gritty little mountain range before dropping down to the coast.  I am introduced to Aguarmiente, a sugar cane based alcohol that is omnipresent here and available in every facsimile of bottle size.  You buy the bottle for economy (or a half, a media) and then sip it slowly out of shot glasses.  Accompanying the liquor and side-car lemonade drinks are potatoes, chorizo sausage, bits of steak, bits of chicken, limes, green platano (fried banana cousin) and other basics of the local diet.  They were adorned with green chimichuri sauce (made of garlic and parsley and olive oil) and aji sauce (made of coriander, onion, vinegar and chiles).   Our drive back into the city reveals Cali to be one of those late-night towns I relish so much, even during a weeknight.  The usual tiendas are open, the restaurants and clubs doing a busy late-hour business, and the streets are alive with purpose driven traffic.  We talk well into the night about my travels, and I get a chance to learn how much things have changed for the better in Colombia since the drug trade was brought under control in the last decade.

On Thursday, my strep throat that I thought had been beaten down in Trinidad reemerges.  We spend the day attending to Doyler’s business (wholesaling hair products to vendors and distributors) and touring the city.  Occasionally we seek a remedy for my throat in the form of various local cervezas, for which no prescription is necessary.  We also take an extended visit to his empty lot twenty minutes outside the city, on which he will build another home in about three years.  The view from this perimeter circle is regional – and very impressive.  Cali is a combo of the verticality of La Paz, the large buildings of Rio de Janeiro (and once again, some of the favelas are on the high ground rather than the flats as one would ordinarily expect), and the spread of Lima.  Our evening consists of chasing down food – a beautiful piece of Filet Mignon for only $9 US and an American style salad, rare here and especially with suitable or recognizable salad dressings.  We also seek out a Western Union outlet to pull in some much needed cash for the final leg of my journey.  Later we go clubbing, something Cali is famous for.  Too many outlets to discuss them individually at length.  It is a livewire, thriving town to be sure.

Suffice it to say, the club scene is on steroids here.  No shortage of crowds, some exotic food bits to munch on and new drinks to familiarize myself with to power them down with.  Cali’s reputation as generally having the world’s most beautiful women is not distinguishable yet, though there is plenty of evidence this city at least deserves a seat at the head table for this subjective classification.   One of the reasons why, is artificial.  More plastic surgeons in Cali than probably anywhere in the world.  Years ago, it was a surplus of drug dollars chasing limited good and services.  Everything was a game of “show and tell” and one upmanship.  Women started having plastic surgery at 16, whether they needed it or not.  Butt lifts.  Face lifts.  Breast implants.  Liposuction.  Body sculpting.  Men too.  Pec enlargements.  Penile implants.  More liposuction.  Today the freewheeling money is not as present as previous times.  But the focus on appearance is still quite clear.  It is an embedded part of the culture.  It is most unusual, for example, to see any woman walking the street without fresh adornment from both a pedicure and a manicure.

Once again, I find myself lucky (and grateful) to be in a family hosted situation where I have a secure place for my things, the internet is available without limit, I can wash my clothes, and English is regularly available though I continue to attempt practicing more Spanish.  The fact Doyler can accompany me to a doctor finally, is a huge bonus.  Have tired of waiting this thing out.  After going to the doc on Friday afternoon, all hell breaks loose.  Become sicker than a dog overnight.  The heavy meds we obtain by prescription from the pharmacist have chased this ogre out into the open.  I awake Saturday terribly congested, with a sore throat, runny nose, fever, coughing, an ear infection as a bonus – in short, the whole Medusa Gargoyle.  First picked this up three weeks ago in Rio, thought I’d beaten it down in Trinidad with help from the St. James Clinic, and the strep and other nonsense has come back now with a fury.  This is the worst I have had it in probably 25 years.  Have no ambition to do anything at all, but get off this final post re: Cali before heading out to Bogota tomorrow.

However there is one last field trip in us for the afternoon before cashing in our chips for the day.  We take a two hour ride through hideous weekend traffic in Cali, to Lake Calima.  It is beautiful location, with a powerful hydroelectric facility at its snout.  Take the entire perimeter drive.  Very scenic, highlighted with an interesting variety of gated Drug Lord casitas ringing the lake.  I am largely indifferent (except for the verdant jungle surrounding the lake) and going into La La Land much of the time.  The following conversation takes place internally:

Me: Awesome, this is memorable.  We ought to get some photos.

Jocko Yaqui Boya (my alter ego):  Give it a break. It’s not like we haven’t observed some scenery in SA.  Let’s plan some ways to kick ass and take names in Bogota.

My Ego:  Can’t you two see we’re sick?  What is it with this scenery obsession?  We need to go back to sleep.

Me: Yes,  but I need something for the blog.  Haven’t posted for awhile.  We have an impatient audience.

Ego: I ?  I need ?  Since when were you handling this thing alone?  I … ?

Jocko: Let it be, Id.  He’s weak.  Probably wants attention.  Sympathy.  That kind of shit.

Me: Why are you always so crude and head on?  I’d love to see you finesse something for once in your … er, our … life.

Jocko:  Methinks it best for us to concentrate on being robust for Bogota tomorrow.  You know, finish strong and all that.  You can always write a postscript later.  Pass on the blogging.  Be practical.

Me:  When have I ever been practical? I’m entitled to …

Ego: Well, there you go with that “I” stuff again.  You keep forgetting this is a committee.  According to the latest charter anyway.  My job is to keep us in the best light.  You are interfering.  Care to take another scan of the latest boundaries agreements?

Me: Well, isn’t that ironic?  You bringing up the “I” issues and boundaries.  What a crock.  Stuff it.  I’m sick.  It is too hard to listen to you two head cases.  And you always play mind games with me anyway.

Ego: You sound like Jocko now.  You need more meds.  How did I ever get paired with you two to begin with?

Jocko: Don’t loop me in with him.  I may even take a different seat on the plane.  He’a acting daffy.  It might be infectious.  Don’t want whatever he’s got rubbing off.  And I’m not talking about the flu …

[ Editor’s Note:  The three of them went to sleep shortly thereafter, oblivious to the scenery, and so we don’t which is the most reliable source for ascertaining the subsequent internal conversation, if any …]

Next:  Bogota, to close …