SAN JOSE, COSTA RICA

 

 

You didn’t really think I was going to enter Paradise, and continue writing at the same pace, did you?  No?  Sorry for the delays, but I have hit my Nirvana for this 45-day adventure.  As expected.  Costa Rica is everything is it cranked up to be.  I have budgeted 10 days here, and wish I had allowed for 100.  This beautiful country – “The Switzerland of Central America” – will definitely get a return engagement some day.

 

The first thing I notice in my journey south from La Cruz to the capital of San Jose (located smack dab in the middle of Costa Rica in the central highlands) is the varied topography.  Over a five-hour bus leg, I am able to enjoy multiple shades of green extent in low canopy jungle, grasslands, savannah, farmlands (primarily coffee and bananas are harvested), coastal mangrove swamps,  and pine forests amidst several pass-through National Parks along the Pan American Highway.

 

The road is of fine quality but slow due to being single lane most of its length.  Costa Ricans (or Ticos) are very safe and considerate drivers.  They brake early, don’t ride the bumper of the vehicle in front, let others turn in front of them, and let other vehicles pass.  They do however, have the alarming addiction of being glued to their mobile phones and using them constantly in the course of driving.  Bus drivers especially.

 

I arrive in the city about 2:30 in the afternoon, and immediately get a reasonably priced $6 taxi ride to a hostel that had been recommended by HostelBookers.com about six kilometers away, The Costa Rica Guest House.  It has huge rooms (more than I needed), each with multiple beds, clean bathrooms, hot water on demand, breakfast included, concierge travel services, and bi or tri-lingual attendants who help with every imaginable question.  All for about $32 nightly.  The rest of the evening is spent catching up.  Admin duties and a need for blogging discipline never seems to take a break.

 

I am here during the High Season.  The time from December to April when cooler temperatures prevail (average temperature year round in San Jose, about 72 degrees farenheit) and tourists take their sun lizard vacations south of the border.  Prices are higher than normal now, then settle down with the summer heat.  The weather is sunny, and delightfully cool in the nights.  As usual, crowds emerge then, and restaurants do most of their business later in the evenings.

 

The late meal (supper, with heavier “dinners” taken more at mid-day) is enjoyed with newly arrived special company at a brand new Italian eatery several blocks distant.  The new kitchen had only been in business for ten days.  I am treated to the best meat lover’s calzone I have ever experienced.  A caprese salad is accompaniment, along with a generous portion of garlic bread.  Local beer (Imperial) acted as the wash-down.

 

The next day (Sunday) is an orientation day.  And ordinarily, I have only one of these -- in metropolitan areas especially.  Large cities are generally to be avoided, unless there are an abundance of architecturally significant cathedrals, castles, or quality art museums.  Then it is off for an activity in the hinterlands.  Not so with this town.  My immediate goal becomes getting used to San Jose, which at 350,000 is a relatively small town for a Capital City.  The public and tourist areas are centered about intersecting Avenida Central, and Calle Central.  Surprisingly the usual concentration of Catholic churches and public squares are not evident in this central shopping district.

 

Hours are spent, snacking on local foods such as ceviche and guacamole and chips.  Then shopping for potential gifts back home.  Visits are made to the Museo de Oro (Gold Museum), and then followup jaunts to the uninspired Contemporary Art Museum and finally the riveting Museum of Costa Rican Art.  Given that I arrive 15 minutes before closing, the ticket taker at the door lets me in to tour for free.  “Whirlwind,” again.

 

During this entire afternoon of wandering and snacking and shopping, getting a map of all of Costa Rica and obtaining both timely plus relevant tourist information prove surprisingly difficult to obtain, without retaining the assistance of a booking agency.

 

My second night’s meal is enjoyed at a Peruvian restaurant close to my hostel.  Simply put, the food is extraordinary and well valued. It includes a Pisco Sour (the Peruvian national drink), a caipirinha of course, Peruvian potatoes in crème sauce, a bit of red wine, spiced ceviche, and Peruvian spaghetti verde con pesto.  It may have been the best I’ve ever tasted.  Or at least the best in years.

 

A second full day in San Jose begins with a two-hour session with Miriam, a charming tri-lingual French attendant at my hostel who explains all the primary attractions within reasonable commuting distance of the capital.  Most of these attractions are in Costa Rica’s fine collection of National Parks which dominate the central highlands and both coasts – Caribbean and Pacific. Those include volcanoes, beaches, canopy-cover platform tours, scuba diving, snorkeling, waterfalls, hot springs, bungee jumping, caving, river rafting, bird watching, and animal watching.

 

She carefully and patiently explains the features of each attraction, the cost of getting there, multiple transportation potential timelines, and the cost of the attraction itself.  There are simply too many demanding choices.  I must narrow down the field, in order to see a broader spectrum of the country.  More sightseeing travel in a rental car (which Miriam helps with also), and less in the way of focused nearby activities.  I decide on an overall route which still includes river rafting, animal viewing, a volcano viewing and hot springs daily double, canopy cover platform tour, beach time, and a possible bungee jump.  Or two.   

 

The afternoon excursion is to an artisan’s market in the areas traversed repeatedly the previous day.  So many clever, colorful, creative, and compelling crafts are exhibited!  If only I had room and the will to display them all.  But I am in a mindset at this point in my life, where I am trying to get rid of things, and not acquire more.  If not purchased for others, arts and crafts remain items that are admired either momentarily or only at a distance.  None will be taken home.

 

Sunday evening’s entertainment consists of a most welcome soccer match, Costa Rica vs. Nicaragua in the Central America Cup.  I learn during this match that Leo Gonzales, a quality defending fullback for my Major League Soccer Seattle Sounders, is a Tico.  The tickets, purchased last minute from a scalper yards from the stadium, cost only $8 each.  That buys a seat on the 50 yard line, about 18 rows up.  A very good viewing location.

 

Costa Rica is supposed to be much better than Nicaragua.  The away team is a newbie in the arena of  international soccer.  Costa Rica scores an early goal on a very athletic header, that I am lucky enough to catch through a telephoto from a perch halfway up the stadium tiered seating at the exact moment the ball crosses the goal line before reaching the back of the net.

 

Never the less, Nicaragua maintains a stalwart defensive front, largely due to the inspired play of their goalie.  The contest remains tight – with Nicaragua playing better than usual and Costa Rica playing down to their less experienced competitors -- until about ten minutes remain, at which time the home team scores on yet another header.  The very accomplished goalie had no chance at the ball.  The Ticos finish the evening, proud 2-0 winners.  Much singing and scarf waving accompany the victory.

 

There is no celebrating or carousing this night for me, however.  A 5:30 wakeup call awaits, for a long haul out to the southeast and the Rio Pacuare for Costa Rica's best river rafting.

SAN SALVADOR, MANAGUA,  GRANADA AND OMETEPE

 

 

If ever a duller post need be writ, I can not imagine it.  I am now in a race to get south and spend adequate time in Costa Rica and Panama to finish out the last third of the trip in style.  Thus, this brief interlude follows long days on the bus, and leaves little in the way of lasting impressions.

 

From Ocotepeque a taxi is taken across the El Salvador border.   Plenty of security present, with both army and police showing their colors in great number.  Not sure what the local or national issues are, but did notice in eating dinner the night previous leading headlines talking about violence, the current crisis being bad for the region, and a family of eight being slaughtered.  I got the impression it was narco traffic related, but could not tell for certain.  Seems like Honduras therefore was a good place to be leaving.

 

I have chosen the village of La Palma as an initial target destination in El Salvador, due to the murals they have all over town.  It is a 15 minute ride across the border.  The murals turn out to be different than expected, with many walls and buildings painted in patterns and simple mural forms – not the storytelling, cover the entire wall versions I had expected.  While inquiring about “a tour of the murals,” I run into something even better.  The artisan shop of Felipe Argueta.

 

He employs two-thirds of the people in town, at his business Creaciones Artisticas.  His employees paint in a simple expressionistic style germane to the region.  Their wares include music boxes, calendars, matchboxes, notepads, figurines, and memory boxes.  I have run into him accidentally in an encounter with his daughter Wendy, who does some translating for me.  He invites me inside for a personal tour of his modest factory.

 

I am delighted at their colorful and playful art, their apparent satisfaction, the quality of the working conditions (so in contrast to much of this part of the world), and his willingness to share with a stranger who … once again … is asking way too many questions.  Too soon, it is time to move on.  Another chicken bus to catch.  This time for San Salvador.

 

Didn’t do justice to the capital city, either.  Hardly got a look at it.  Taxi driver took me to the wrong destination, and since my arrival was late (again) there was little time to argue.  Just set up the room (which probably belonged to a friend of his), check e-mail quickly, and depart for something to eat.  The meal is taken in a rare chain style restaurant and while pleasing, there is nothing remarkable about la comida.  A single drink afterward listening to a mariachi band only serves to act as a sleeping tonic.

 

A couple observations about El Salvador prior to a too-rapid departure.  The people are very hard working.  The men seem to be more ambitious here than in Guatemala and Honduras.  They are decidedly more prosperous.  Their economy (the same as Ecuador) is based on the US dollar and is said to be the best in Central America.  A gallon of gas was $3.99.  Plenty of late-model cars are in evidence.  The air is cleaner, with little of the choking diesel exhaust found even in the mountain passes of Guatemala.  In a physiognomy sense, the populace is a little more slender, a little whiter, and prone to wearing western style modern clothing rather than the traditional garb  I have experienced over the past two weeks.

 

The following day, I receive unparalleled assistance from the concierge at the beautiful Intercontinental Hotel in reviewing options for getting down to Nicaragua.  Teguciculpa, the capital of Honduras, is considered for additional time since it is halfway along the journey.  But I am running out of days and want to really focus on Costa Rica.  So a long 12 hour bus ride direct to Managua instead ensues.  The concierge provides for everything, makes multiple phone calls on my behalf, has no commission motive, arranges my taxi, and asks for nothing in return.  That is typical El Salvador.

 

The bus is more comfortable than many first class seats on American jets.  It is a double decker, with a quiet turbodiesel engine, a modern and clean bathroom on the lower level, shades, overhead storage racks, meals, and plenty to drink.  Only thing they didn’t have was a view.  The windows were dusty, and the glare so intense having shades down until sunset was mandatory.  So I got twelve hours to contemplate my navel to the universe.

 

This included border crossings – always an adventure – into first Honduras again (and of course, they demand another entry fee of  $3) followed about four hours later by Nicaragua.  Nicaragua charged each of us on the bus $14 as an entry gratuity.  We are made to feel nothing if not assured and comfortable, on both sides of both borders.  Finally arrive in Managua about 1:30 AM.  The ride has been easy.  But still energy draining.

 

 Now, every guidebook warns about Managua at night.  Security precautions are immediately evident.  Every hawker trying to part you from your cash for taxi or hotel services, emphasizes the security at their hotel.  I was really only seeking actual hot water and wi-fi, but they know something I don’t.

 

Even being allowed outside the bus station, requires a security guard to unlock a gate and then accompany you out to the taxi.  Two men stand by as guards while visiting the ATM.  Even at this hour of the morning.  My taxi ride costs $3.  A room is easily negotiated down from $40 to $28.  I spend the night, but don’t linger long.  Off again early the next morning for Granada, along the shores of Lake Nicaragua and one of those exquisite colonial cities that pave the Pan American Highway from Mexico to Panama City.

 

And what can be said about Granada that has not already been proclaimed about Antigua, San Cristobal, Merida, Old San Juan in Puerto Rico, and the standard colonial gems of Hispanic America?  It is colorful.  It has romantic architecture, an inspired mission style I have always found attractive, given that I grew up in Santa Barbara, California.  It has your standard sets of multiple Catholic churches.  Your well-attended public square and statues.  It is clean.  And it has a fun tourist prominade called Calle La Calizada.

 

The food and drink bargains there are to die for, la brisa coming from the lake rejuvenates in the afternoon heat, you meet folks from all over the world, the shopping is varied and interesting, and the walking itself is very pleasant … not quite up to the standards of Las Ramblas in Barcelona, for example, but very enjoyable nevertheless.  The later the hour, the greater the crowds.  They tend to filter in for drinks and dining after the heat wears off for the day.  And then the crowds just keep growing.  Granada is a fun city that has not been given its due.

 

I take my leave reluctantly from Nicaragua the following day.  Having missed the last of the direct collective buses for San Jose in Costa Rica (an eight hour trip), I decide once again to focus on Isla de Ometepe.  This is two hours away, out of Rivas on the shores of Lake Nicaragua – the largest body of fresh water in Central America.  It is a twin-headed volcano whose flows have together created an isle, which dominates Lake Nicaragua.  The island is famous for its rustic way of life and statues plus petroglyphs depicting humans, birds, animals, and geometric shapes.

 

The 3:30 boat out is supposed to take 45 minutes.  However, the afternoon wind has thrashed the huge lake into a frenzied chop, so that the trip actually takes an hour and one-half.  And while aboard, I am told the last boat of the day returns at 5:30.   Not 7 pm, as advised previously. Only half an hour remains to explore the island, or be forced to spend the night there.  My resulting death march in half an hour covers seven blocks up and back, a trip to the ATM, and a hurry-up pizza and cerveza with the cook promised a bonus if I can make it back to the boat on time with meal in hand.  He delivers.

 

There is not much that can be said about this beautiful, brooding place without a complete circumnavigation of the island.  I miss the celebrated statues and petroglyphs but get some alluring photo opportunities, including of our boat tilted at what seemed to be 45 degrees to port.

Coming home, the purser appears to have shortchanged me.  He does not give the correct cambia from a single bill given him for return passage to the Nicaraguan mainland. 

 

I ask for the correct change, he tries to go past me and brushes me off, then plays to the crowd.  “See what this imperialist Yankee pig is doing to me?” he seems to indicate with a dismissive wave of his hand and a broad, paternal smile.  I raise my voice.  He disappears, and promises to return with the correct change.  Nobody speaks English (who will get involved, at least), to explain that this man has shortchanged me and is trying to pinch my wallet.  The purser and I circle each other like wary wolves.

 

Finally, one woman comes up and explains to me the change is different because our return passage is on a different boat and the fee is somewhat higher.  Same voyage.  Same shipping line.  Same purser providing change.  No sign or announcement indicating a difference in fare.  Somehow I am supposed to know this.  Finally however, smiles break out all around, many Muchas Gracias are conveyed, and the purser and I emphatically shake hands.

 

Then break for the border.  It is about 45 minutes away, to La Frontera with Costa Rica.  There is not much more than I can do in Nicaragua.  What minimal time that has been allowed has pretty well already been maximized.  The taxi driver understands in his very limited knowledge of English that there is still a bonus in it for him if he can get me to the 8 PM collectivo bus leaving La Frontera for San Jose – the capital of Costa Rica.  That is a five hour drive from the border.   This is the part I Thank God that there are limited liability laws in this part of the world and American jurisprudence doesn’t rule the roost here.

 

For my cabbie nearly collides with every stroller, wheelchair, donkey-drawn cart, parallel taxi and pedestrian for the next 40 miles.  It is like the chase scene in “The French Connection.” Our speed exceeds 120 miles per hour on most of the run, and his wheels are outracing his lights.  We appear to be going around corners especially, blind as bats.  He gets me to the border 10 minutes early, and gets his bonus.  But I still do not make the 8 PM collectivo.  For the border crossing between Nicaragua and Costa Rica must be among the worst in the world for two countries not actually at war.  It makes Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin look like a kindergarten crosswalk.

 

First, you disembark from your vehicle on the Nicaraguan side.  Then, you have to walk a quarter of a mile on a rutted road with suitcases bouncing, flipping and turning past two guards each asking for your passport (one is Nicaraguan, another Costa Rican).  About thirty yards apart.  But well inside Nicaragua still.  Then, perhaps another quarter of a mile to the Nicaraguan border station, where you pay your $2 exit fee.  Then walk another quarter mile, once again on a rutted road with an indistinct left hand turn, toward the Costa Rica border station.  Two more functionaries stop me and ask for my passport.  Finally, the Tica at the Costa Rica station stamps my passport, accepts my entry fee, and passes me through.

 

Straight to a lineup of waiting taxi ambush artists.  They tell me I have missed the collectivo.  This is the equivalent of course, of “that is a bad hotel, you don’t want to go there, and it is full anyway and by the way I just happen to have a suggestion for you as to a safe place where you can stay.”  This relationship between cabbies and hotel owners is the same kind of relationship enjoyed by sharks and amphora fish.  Completely mutually supportive and symbiotic, but depending on who fleeces you the most thoroughly, I really don’t know which entrepreneur is the biggest predator.  Sometimes they simply take turns taking the bigger bite out of you

 

The last two negotiations of the night then, are the taxi ride (where a standard rate of $1 per kilometer is hinted at, except for the added night time premium, of course).  I threaten to go to another taxi until I get my price.  Twenty miles, for 18 dollars.  And then the hotel, at La Cruz – the first town inside the Costa Rican border.  They are no longer hovels with barely running or nonexistent water.  These are Holiday Inn quality quarters that charge $40 to $50 nightly.  “You are in Costa Rica now,” I am told.  “We have different standards here.  The prices are a bit higher.” I find the service is no better particularly, than further north, and the staff no more friendly.  Reality is, they are ALL quite friendly.  Apparently the change is mostly due to infrastructure differences.

COPAN

 

 

What distinguishes Copan from the verticality of Tikal and the three-dimensional Stilas of Palenque is its statuary.  Copan was considered the Paris of its day, and very much like our Athens of Antiquity with its ever present story telling in the form of hieroglyphics and large statues dedicated to kings and gods.

 

The Copan valley was nearly completely under water at the time the Maya arrived in 426 AD.  Their predecessors, the Olmecs, had established a more limited presence there as early as 1400 BC, but had not solved the problem of draining swamps that Mayan engineers overcame later.  Five different layers of city reveal themselves amid 24 square kilometers of ruin, only 25% of which has been excavated.  There are over 4500 known mounds at Copan.  This number is known courtesy of space assisted photo geographic mapping from NASA. 

 

The population reached a total of 27,000 and the city its zenith in 822 AD during the reign of its 16^th (and last) king, “The Rising Son,” Yas Pa Sa.  Notably, all citizens were capable of being seated at the same time for ball games and sacrifices around modern stadium type stone seating which ringed the Great Plaza of Copan.

 

The Spanish first discovered the site in 1576, more than 750 years after it was abandoned by the Maya for – due once again – to environmental abuse.  Just as occurred at Palenque and most major Mayan sites, nearby firewood had been denuded, resulting in a lack of rainfall.  Poor members of the city attacked royalty as a result, since “the King had lost contact with the Gods.”  The citizens of Tikal melted into the jungle and were assimilated elsewhere.

 

The British appeared to study and document Palenque in the 1830’s, taking with them several major Stilas and hieroglyphs (same as they did for major frontispiece hieroglyphs at The Acropolis in Athens) which reside today in the marvelous British Museum in London.  Harvard University scholars followed in the 1890’s and the Carnegie Institute followed in the 1930’s.  Restoration efforts by The Carnegie Institute resulted in re-routing of the Copan River (which had cut away portions of the city, revealing its five layers) and subsequently saving three major temples: The Bat, The Monkey, and The Knife.

 

In 1952 the Honduran Institute of Anthropology added protected site status to Copan.  Fittingly (although a bit late) it was later recognized as a Unesco World Heritage site in 1980.

 

My guide, Juan Carlos Calderon, has been leading visitors to Copan for over 25 years.  He first directs me to the Necropolis, a low-lying area previously covered with jungle that served as the burial area for some lower Mayan royalty and classes we would today consider rich.  Common Maya, on the other hand, were buried where they were born, lived and died: either near, beside, under, or sometimes inside their dwelling place.

 

Next stop is The Acropolis: a name given by archeologists (and not the Maya themselves) in recognition of the Greek meaning of “High Place.”  This is the most elevated point in the city, and the site of its astronomical temple (The Temple of The Inscriptions), built in 773 AD by Yas Pa Sa.  It is also known as Temple 16, and is surrounded by what is known as the Aquatic Plaza. For a sample of what this must have looked like in its heyday, richly decorated and lit by the sun to highlight its primary red coating, see Mel Gibson’s vivid movie, “Apocolypto.”

 

Our next stop is The Jaguar Plaza.  This is the West Point of Copan, where military training took place and warriors honed their military skills.  It lies below Temple 16.  The temple itself, and the plaza (while impressive) are not nearly the size of their counterparts in Palenque or Tikal.  What IS impressive is underground tunnels revealing one pyramid inside another in this sector.  The Maya built to commemorate events.  When a building had “run its time” or the event it honored had past, they either dissembled the building and re-used the materials, or built right over the top of it.

 

Here, at Rosalila Temple (discovered in 1989), one can see parallel structures with an air pocket perhaps four to six feet apart separating one pyramid from another.  The previously existing Rosalila was left intact and not added to, because it was considered the birthplace of maize – sacred to the Maya as the seed of life itself.  Four other levels lay beneath the Rosalila, some dating back to the Olmecs.

 

Nearby, as a visitor weaves both above and below ground throughout and under the Temple of The Inscriptions, The Jaguar Plaza, and The Rosalila can be found the Tunnel of the 7^th Mayan King at Copan – The Water Lily Jaguar.  In addition an amusing rendition of a near “Tony The Tiger” hieroglyphic facsimile of a Dancing Jaguar adds some levity to the gravity of the traditions here.

 

Continuing the tour, we arrive at a modestly sized ball court (when compared with Chichen Itza, for example).  The game is called Pocatoc.  It most nearly approximates jai alai today.  However, players could not use their hands or feet.  Hips, elbows and head were used to move an eight pound rubber ball around the plaster floored court, in hopes of hitting three massive orbs placed high on a sloping stone talus that was off limits to players in terms of playing surface.  These targets served in place of ringed hoops placed high on vertical walls, as at Tikal, Palenque, Chichen Itza, and elsewhere.

 

Hitting the orb resulted in a point.  If the ball touched the ground on the flat playing surface between the two sloped stone surfaces leading to the orbs, the team lost a point.  Unlike Tikal and elsewhere, however, the winner at Copan was sacrificed.  This was considered an honor.  The motivating belief was in their immediate afterlife, they would be honored with the presence and company of many, many virgins.  Shades of Al Quaida …

 

Continuing further on a very hot day, Juan Carlos brings me around the corner with very special pride to The Hieroglyphic Stairs.  Over 2200 inscriptions carved into stone (who needs books?) on a massive stairway built in 755 AD by the 15^th Mayan King (Yas Pa Sa’s father) serve as a gift to his people of their ancestral history.  This protected stairway is the longest hieroglyphic text inscription in the world. It is called quite simply, The Library.  A book in stone.

 

And finally, The Grand Plaza reveals itself.  Steeply elevated stone terrace-type seating sufficient for perhaps 10,000 forms a semi-circle around the ball court.  Lower level seating up to ten rows deep then continues encircling the remainder of the Plaza, sufficient for the remaining population of Copan.  The area is huge, the largest I’ve seen at the four major Mayan temples visited on this epic whirlwind tour.  Large enough for three to four adjacent chariot ovals if one visualizes them from the award winning movie, “Ben Hur.”  The open spaces are very impressive.

 

They are dominated by Stila staturary commemorating primarily Mayan Kings.  Two are particularly notable.  The Stila of the 12^th King, known as The Small Jaguar, who died at age 87.  And the Stila of the Two Faces.  I did not catch the name of the King it corresponds to, amongst the hectic pronunciation and transcribing going on simultaneously.  But it shows a king in his youth, looking very Egyptian -- with a smooth face – and then in his wisdom years later, fully bearded and looking more like royalty from the Han Dynasty in China.  I reassure we have many, many two-faced politicians in Washington DC as well.  Some things never change …

 

Interspersed among the Stila are sacrifice stones, placed within full view of the terrace seated onlookers.  Both animals and humans were sacrificed.  Sometimes (though rarely), death was not involved.  Merely a blood offering was made on some occasions.  The hierarchy of blood for such an occasion was first royal blood, then the blood of a virgin, then the blood of an athlete, and finally the blood of an animal.

 

My final stop at this memorable city is Las Sepulturas.  One of nine neighborhoods that made up Copan, and populated only by royalty and the rich.  The poor had to walk in from some distance to enjoy the fruits of the central city on most occasions. Here remains the site’s best preserved example of Mayan architecture, with solid stone construction surrounding very small rooms consisting primarily of storage areas and a bed chamber dominated by a stone platform bed.

 

Depending on level of wealth, Mayan men often had multiple wives.  One of these complexes that was viewed included a dwelling with 18 rooms – one for each wife.  The first wife was generally for money and political connection, the second for love, and the others for breeding and amusement.  It includes the Palace of The Scribe, the eldest brother of the previous king.  He was primarily responsible for documenting his people’s history and accomplishments.

 

In departing Copan, I once again run into an ongoing problem when dealing with taxi drivers, guides, and all other provisioners in these parts.  And that is what we’ll call “The Final Cost.”  Sure, a cost is negotiated and agreed to ahead of time.  Of course.  But there are always the add ons.  Or the attempted add ons.  It does not mean there is not an attempt at re-negotiation.  Kind of a Mayan “value added” play after the fact.

 

What appears to be generosity, is not always so.  What is apparently offered as gratis, or included, is not often the case.  My recommendation is keep a small notebook handy at all times.  When price is negotiated, write it down.  Have the vendor/taxi driver/guide look at it and agree.  Bullet point what is included.  Juan Carlos wants $25 in additional US money for his vague services,” which over a beer appeared to have been offered out of the kindness of his heart, a $10 additional charge for some limited chauffeuring being involved, and a desire to further connect with a curious Yankee scribe asking a lot of questions.  We debate, and eventually split somewhere in between.  But it is an ongoing practice which casts a pall over what has otherwise been a perfect day.

 

Said day concludes with a long bus ride, partly by collectivo and partly by chicken bus, to the Honduran border town of Ocotepeque.  The countryside is relaxing and beautiful.  It reminds me of my home turf around the small gold towns of Northern California outside Sacramento (but with verdant green instead of golden hills).  Having given more time than planned to Belize, Guatemala and the bonus round of Palenque in Mexico, Honduras, El Salvador and probably Nicaragua will get short shrift.  I will just have to return some time in recompense.

 

 

ANTIGUA

 

 

Having so much ground to cover, upon arriving back in Panajachel an afternoon departure is made for Antigua and its Unesco World Heritage ambience almost immediately.  The drive is supposed to take about two and one-half hours, but takes nearly 90 minutes more than that.  It is well worthwhile.  Here once again, on a much larger scale than diminuitive San Juan, is the perfection of cobblestone street, protected heritage, throbbing nightlife, quality restaurants, excellent shopping, and view.  Two volcanoes: Volcan de Agua and Volcan de Fuego, dominate the skyline.  Volcan de Fuego still has activity, with minor steam eruptions and late night glow lending a sense of awe and wonder to the setting.

 

Due to bus schedules and the order of battle for specific travel goals following, I am blessed with two nights and one full day in this remarkable town.  After a later than expected arrival on a Friday night, the town is already hopping with busloads of tourists arriving in large number.  I immediately take the the Plaza Mayor (behind which is the very becoming Antigua Cathedral and amble down pedestrian only Calle Oriente 5A Sur (south) looking for a meal.

 

Along the way, there are the usual tienda stalls packed with colorful clothing and gifts still open late at night, a rich collection of foreign and Guatemalan specialty restaurants, the well-lit historical sites of the city (which I won’t try to enumerate, and which are perhaps even more impressive at night than during daytime), and clubs playing to a largely younger crowd.

 

I settle on a local Spanish style restaurant with an interior courtyard featuring a central fountain and a singer playing Spanish guitar.  He is accompanied by a keyboardist.  The two play various riffs off each other and are clearly enjoying the artistry of the other in performance of mutual admiration.  As is the custom in warm locales with a late-night dining crowd, my final stop is a gelato shop.  For as often as these bits of heaven appear, it is no wonder you can walk all day, sweat like a dog in heat, and never lose an ounce of weight during extended travels.  Sleep comes easily after this, the grind of the road and wee-hour blogging catching up to me once again.

 

For my only full day in Antigua, I concentrate on historical sites, and recommendations of locals as to where to visit.  Those recommendations of course being the best advice you will get on the road at any given time.  A start is made with walk-by tours of the Santa Rosa and El Carmen churches, long ago abandoned and left as relics by previous frequent earthquake activity in Guatemala.  They are impressive for their varied weathering patterns on their thick-walled exteriors, and the massive cracks that now mar their exterior profile and rendered the buildings useless.

 

Another stop involves the colorfully adorned and well preserved colonial style Hermita Santa Lucia.  And another was the Fine Art Photograpy exhibit of John Kaplan, showing in delightful expression the most amazing collection of smiles from Guatemalan children in various stages of poverty, woe, and want.   Without going into the excesses of listing however, my favorite stop by far was the ruins of the Iglesia de Santo Domingo.  This absolutely unique church complex ties the walled remains of an earthquake destroyed beauty, with modern restoration methods – but only in part.

 

The golden hued brick and stone walls have been left as destroyed.  A new, engineered and at times floating (or independently connected) roof has been designed to respectfully complement the site.  Strong steel earthquake reinforcement rods painted to match the brick reach up in irregular combinations  to the remaining walls in a Gaudi like manner.  Instead of being geometric, they are organic, and complement the site.

 

Spanish tile still dominates the skyline.  Large gaps between the wall tops and the roofline regularly appear, allowing the battered and wavy edges of the Santo Domingo of antiquity to still show what became of this proud complex, while the modern roof suggests what once was.  The beauty is in conceptualizing melding of the two.  Nestled between gaps in the roof and wall are restaurants (dining by candlelight, the same as back in Spanish colonial days), fountains, ossuaries, a museum section, and massive performing arts tent.  Modern hotel and spa facilities are located only yards away, yet in a matching architectural style.

 

Santo Domingo offers up a peaceful retreat.  The entire setting is park-like and tranquil.  Choral chant music plays softly in the background.  Solace and “beyond ambience” becomes the watch words of the day for this stunning restoration.  I take a very light dinner and several drinks there, just to be able to extend my time of repose and reflection.  This truly, is the place you would want to have for a wedding – or, the place you might best propose one.

 

I move on to two local institions to close out the evening.  One old, and one new.  The new one first, simply because there is not so much rich material to choose from in describing it.  The two ae perhaps 50 yards apart.  But I fancied the Bohemia Café for its fine food at reasonable prices, the laid back comfort of the place, the service of the staff (led by chief cook Kyle), and the way that was so reminiscent in the television series “Cheers” in which everybody knew your name.

 

The old was the No Se Bar (Spanish for “I don’t know”).  It was described as a must-see ExPat bar.  Founded about ten years ago by John Rexer, who got drunk one night, and found out the next morning he’d rented a decrepit slum while inebriated and had no idea what to do with it.  So, he started a Mezcal bar.  Made from the same plant as tequila, but with a much higher quality result.  Which I will describe further below.

 

But first, take note about how locals describe this place.  “You say you want a revolution?  The place to plot your next rebellion, conspiracy or plan to take over the world is in the smoky shadows of Café No Se.  More than a bar, it’s a high concept that works in low places. Eerie lighting, raw wooden walls splattered with esoteric graffiti and bizarre art, and an air of impending chaos lend Café No Se the edgy feel of Quentin Tarentino’s Once Upon a Time In Mexico – the dangerous sense of a border town gone bad. “Chalked body outlines on the floor are a vivid reminder of the thin curtain between life and death, reality and dreams.”

 

Two gnarled, wooden bars stretch from the hole-in-the wall door to the back, with tables along the walls for more privacy, furtive discussions and pleas for mercy and just one more shot of Illegal Mezcal (a brand name, not a condition).  Antigua’s only Mezcal bar lurks behind a Hobbit-sized door.  The regular crowd consists of ex-pats, wannabe ex-pats, travelers, and just enough shady characters to keep things interesting.

 

My bartender, Randy, describes the process for making Mezcal as follows: Mezcal is hand-made, the same as 500 years ago.  Tequila is machine manufactured.  Mezcal is made by roasting the agave plant for three days, to get its distinctive smoky flavor.  No chemicals are added.  Next, it is squeezed into vats of 200 liters, and then sits in a fermentation tank for two weeks.  The result is not filtered, but distilled twice prior to bottling.  That is where its smoothness and character come from.  “Illegal” bottles cost $35, $45 or $55, depending on ageing time in the bottle.

 

In the early days, since liquor import duties were so high, owner John Rexer employed unusual methods to get the product into Guatemala from the Oaxaca area of Mexico.  That included the hiring of coyotes (those guides that ferry illegal aliens over the border for money), ice cream vendors who are allowed to straddle the borders with their wares but use false bottoms in their carts after hours, and border runners wearing phony priest costumes.

 

I decide it might be possible to take notes and listen to tall tales about this place for several days, but – having a 4 AM bus to the final major Mayan set of ruins at Copan in the morning – reluctantly take my leave.