HOMBRE DEL DIA!

fooood

Fairly early on in the trip I decided that I’d like to chronicle the things we consume in a day, particularly because they end up being disgusting more often than not. Of course, what is fairly obvious about traveling is that you don’t always have a choice what you eat. First you past that stand where a woman is cutting up fruit and you watch her drop a piece of pineapple in the garbage and then fish it out, so you decide no, no way, not that place. Then an hour passes and the only person selling food is picking their nose at the precise moment you look over, and again, you decide that you’re gonna pass on that one too. But your hunger isn’t going away, in fact it’s getting worse and when it goes into the red zone (this happens sooner for me than for Pat) you will eat whatever you see next. Fried fish heads? Hope they don’t have ecoli sauce. Chicharron? Long as it’s crispy. Tamales from a kid with a snot bubble? Delicious.

But really, whatever right? Cause I get this hungry in Canada, only instead of settling for unsanitary food the annoyance is usually just that I end up paying $10 for a schwarma because I’m about to pass out. All this to say I’m not enlightening you about our crazy experiences, just saying we are humans subject to making bad choices now and again (often) so don’t judge me. Seriously.

I have no idea if any of the following will be interesting, so reader beware. I can only promise to be honest.

Top left is a cupcake with icing in the shape of a baby chicken. A chicky. To me it looked like the kind of icing made from plastic and nuclear poison but to Patrick it looked like a sweet treat. So he bought it, I think it was 50 cents, almost dropped it, and then successfully put it in his mouth. His review? Goodish.

Top right is the height of decadence. At this point in the trip I was barfing from seasickness, so Patrick ordered lobster, partially because he really wanted it, and partially because the Carribean woman that ran the restaurant under our hostel was so forceful he didn’t know how to say no. His review: Actually, could have been better. 

Bottom left is a pupusa, which is some kind of El Salvadorian specialty. Dough pan fried, stuffed with cheese, topped with pickled veg and spicy tomato sauce. We got it from a street vendor for around a buck. My verdict: top notch. I could annihilate 5 of these a day easy. 

Bottom right was a headache. Patrick got a hamburger and I ordered Gallo Pinto, which is black beans and rice, because it was cheap. The price said $2 and the guy ended up charging me $3. I asked why? The menu clearly says $2. Well, he said, usually I give people two scoops and I gave you three. I told him it didn’t matter what he usually did and that I was only paying $2. He acted mad. I didn’t care. This sort of thing happens all the time.

It’s hard to explain the appeal of this candy, but I absolutely love it. Essentially it’s just mango gummy candy covered with chile, but the flavour is great. Spicy then sweet. My friend’s half Mexican kids are used to stuff like this, completely unphased by chile-corn flavoured lollipops, chile-lime flavoured potato chips, and chile mayo, as if the rest of the world drinks hot sauce as a night cap too. Also when they play barbies everybody’s named Selena, or Alejandra, or Guadalupe. I think this is going off track. Seriously though, ever heard of a Jessica or Ashley you muchachas? 

If you know us it goes without saying that we like beer. But the sad thing is that I like beer with flavour and that doesn’t exist in Central America. I’m not trying to be a bitch, but seriously, boring pee pee lagers just don’t float my boat. That being said, apparently I’m not too good to settle for the lowest common denominator. Halfway through Costa Rica though I decided I was done with shit beer and did what I never do, started drinking piña coladas and margaritas and smoothies and all that. Passion fruit smoothies 4 life. 

Another not fun thing about Mexican style lagers is that they’re never over 4 or 4.5% which means they do not cut right through. They cut nothing. They are the butter knives of the beer world. 

This is the one exception to my whining. An obscura (dark) from Cucapa brewery which is actually Mexican. It tasted almost, almost like an IPA and made my day. 

Obviously we did a lot of this.

This next ensemble falls under the We Are Disgusting category.

Top left is the monstrosity we ate after completing the hardest hike of my life. I had no skin left on my heels, quarter sized blisters and a really bad attitude BUT, plenty of stadium cheese and fried goods. 

Top right occurred right around the time I was like, Why are we getting so fat??? In the picture we are polishing off a caramel mega doughnut, cheese croissants and pizza. Wash it down with beer and act confused when your shorts don’t fit anymore. It’s called denial.

Bottom left probably would have satisfied my dad but it just had too many fish bones. Patrick made me pose a million ways and I was getting annoyed. I think it shows on my face. The fish was served with fried plantain chips. They were soggy.

Bottom right was…wait-how did that get in there?! Patrick you dog.

Coconut water is what is up. I would drink it in a box, with a fox, in a house, with a mouse. I would drink it anywhere. Cold is best, but also for princesses. That’s why I put my hat backwards, to show I’m still keepin it real.

This picture isn’t the best, but that there is a package of a little black boy with afro and the treat is called “Negrito”, meaning “The Little Black One” in English. For fear of being offensive or misconstrued I’m only going to tell you what it is: White dough, filled with chocolate and covered with chocolate. I say no more.

Breakfast! I love this meal and no matter how shitty the joint it usually doesn’t disappoint.

Top left is the standard central american breakfast delight. Gallo pinto, stale bread, scrambled eggs, hot sauce. Bugs flying out of the hot sauce in a constant stream is free. Seriously, free!

Top right was the business. 

Bottom left was okay but the hotdog wrapped in bacon just didn’t do it for me. I think I understand what they were going for but meh. They called it the European.

Bottom right our friend Ben made for us and was incredible. Not only is he nice and hospitable, but also a good cook. I’ll shut up though because he’d be a lot more interesting to talk about if he was just more of a dick. 

Okay, I’m boring even myself. The sad thing is that the best food we ate along the way we didn’t capture in photos, having inhaled it before the thought occurred to us, but the memory remains. Fish tacos (laugh it up) in Akumal, cheeseburger in the Corn Islands, ceviche in Isla Mujeres and the neighbourhood taco stand in Manzanillo go down in my books as the best meals of the trip. Jalapeño chicken that made me barf, fried chicken bones in Nicaragua with a side of bitchy server, and chipped fresh off the skull beef in Tehuantepec remain the least enjoyable dining experiences.

And to send things off on a high note, here’s (embarrassing) proof of the day in Montezuma where we made turkey potato chip sandwiches on the beach because we were too poor for anything else.

You can find this picture in the urban dictionary next to the term “Ultimate Low”.

The U, S, and A

¨How much do you reckon this costs?¨ says a small voice at my elbow. I look down, and there beside me is a young boy with braces and thick glasses, probably no older than 10. He`s holding a science magazine of some sort, and before I can answer he adds, with the sort of chuckle I would attribute to an old man, ¨Cause I can`t find this where I`m from…in the middle of nowhere!¨

We are in Florida, the Fort Lauderdale aiport actually, on a small (and inefficient) layover between Panama City and Cancun. As it turns out, direct flights between those two destinations require the sawing off and handing over of one`s leg — so we spent 4 hours in Flaw-ra-da participating in the only available activity: soaking in the culture.

There I am, at 6 in the morning, having not slept at all, suddenly listening to the ranting lady with fake boobs and nails swinging her tallons and telling the employee of the coveted candy counter ¨how many fucking hours (2) they had to wait on the fucking tarmac!¨, flipping through a trashy celebrity magazine (in English!) with my girl Kim Kardashian on the cover, when the cutest dorkiest boy asks me about the price of his science mag. I gave it a once over and told him it was $4.99.

¨Oh gosh,¨ he says gloomily, ¨there´s no way I`ve got that kind of cash. My gramma got me my two subscriptions. I already have Science Now and American Science¨ (sidenote: I made up these titles because I can`t be bothered to actually remember the real ones). 

¨Yeah,¨I agreed dishonestly, ¨I`ve been thinking about buying one of those two.¨

¨Well I`m halfway through the article on green energy initiatives,¨he says excitedly.

I nod, feeling slightly dumb and try to cover up the Kardashian article about last minute wedding jitters that I`m skimming through. The boy runs off quickly, and again I`m left to take in my stimulating surroundings. A couple in front of me wearing obnoxious cowboy hats are already drinking bloody mary`s, talking about `how ready they are for this` and a girl beside me is off to Amsterdam to dance with a company, but had her connecting flight to Chicago delayed because the plane`s wheel fell off. A man straight out of the Jersey Shore asks the security guard in a panic, where the lipbalm is sold.

A ginormous man beside me bumps into an old friend (also a ginormous man), and a lot of back slapping and ¨oh man-ing¨ ensues. Their exchange is sort of awkward to watch, and therefore satisfying, and finally Guy 1 turns to Guy 2 and says, ¨Dude, just tweet me the link.¨

The whole time I`m sitting there I just can`t get over how bizarre it is that we`re back in North America, where I can understand every little bit of conversation spoken without straining and reviewing verb tenses in my head, yet where things are familiar-esque while still remaining foreign. Does this make sense? Perhaps not, but have you ever been to an airport in Florida? It`s just confusing as is.

And the craziest part is that in 4 hours nobody has thrown garbage out a window, called me their mamacita (or Pat ¨Mr. Whiskers¨??), and I can`t find a fucking bag of chile-lime potato chips to save my life. And let me say that you can go right ahead and just forget about bringing your chicken or goat on board with the tight-asses who are running this star-spangled banner show.

But maybe I sound like I was so relieved to be back in an English speaking country and that`s not really the case. If anything, it was a bit terrifying, and so to cover up our fear/confusion/wonder at the all american airport, we did what any self-respecting tourists would: Got in the ridiculously long Dunk`n Donuts line up.

Because when in Rome, right?

esperando

We have been spending the remaining days before our flight out of Panama quite lazily, and aside from the aforementioned lack of Kardashians (of course then, my failure to `keep up with them`obviously attached to this), I´m pretty A-okay with this. Sometimes you need a change of pace (slower), a daily ice-cream break (strawberry softserve), and to witness drunken spousal abuse in that weird cafe that serves flan with icecream. Okay, so sometimes I eat icecream twice a day, shoot me.

Yesterday we went to an art gallery and spent more time inside the building waiting for the tropical storm to end, than we did looking at paintings. The collection was just okay, my favourite being a teeny tiny watercolour of an old man and his cane. The day before that we went and visited the canal, which I find endlessly fascinating (sheer construction of, changing of treaties, industrial beauty, etc.). We watched a video of Jimmy Carter and Torrijos, and Torrijos was about 1000 times cooler. Carter sort of reminds me of Ned Flanders, which is not a personality I´d really want governing a country. Too wienery. A Quebecoise girl we met said she thought the canal was boring, ¨Okay, da ship, eet eez too slow, I want to see someting more but no. One hour it take to cross. Boring.¨

Confident to report that all this worldly adventure has not made me cooler. Rather, I am becoming my father`s daughter, positively burning through thick novels and secretly willing all the loud, annoying, outspoken people at our hostel who share their stupid unsolicited opinions with the world to suffer a sudden bout of modesty and remove themselves from my presence. I should mention that I have no proof my dad actually thinks these sorts of things, but I have witnessed him sending silent mind vibes to verbose people and feel at liberty to anticipate their meaning. On one non-particular night I turned to Patrick in bed and said, a little heated, What fucking time is it, those idiots should shut the fuck up! To which he responded, Not even ten Carm. Carry on then.

Also, I have actually spent some of my time in this playground/hellhole/apocolypse/garbagedump of an internet cafe Googling ¨friendship bracelets, how to¨, so there´s that too, to add to my case.

I wish you could all read Patrick`s journal accounts of our travels, because they are much more diplomatic, awe-inspired, and generally free of cynicism. He talks about what we ate, provides descriptions of the various countrysides we bus through, and usually ends with something like, What joys could tomorrow hold!?

(I lied about that last part.)

Sorry pals, it sort of goes without saying that when I have time to update it`s because nothing`s going on, and when I don`t have time, we`re actually doing interesting things.

F word times a million

So we went through all of Costa Rica and I didn´t even update. And I thought about that, but really that´s why people start blogs, right? So they can never update and just waste idle time apologizing.

Costa Rica was very green, with bus tickets that had actual seat numbers, serving delicious coffee (that probably only gets exported), and the hardest hike we ever did: Cerro Chirripo. My heels still look like I´ve been trying to find the last little shriveled veins in my body to shove heroin into. Which is to say, bad. We also saw a sloth, some monkeys, toucans, and lots of rainbow coloured frogs. I smashed my knee in a hotspring and still regularly complain about it. I definitely liked the mountains better than the beaches, though, and the hype is true, Costa Rica rakes the plastic out of their beaches (for the most part), so that you aren´t completely alarmed at how much litter goes into that big hydro waste bin conveniently located under the ocean´s surface. Who knew hey? Turns out you can just chuck those pesky diapers, coke bottles, cans, broken toys, wrappers, and plastic bags right into the waves. I mean, really, it´s beautiful if you look at it the right way.

And thank God for Patrick because if it wasn´t for him I´d just be seeking out every hotel that has TV so that I could watch every episode of ¨Keeping Up With The Kardashians¨. I´m telling you, if there´s one thing Central America loves more than mayonaise flavoured potato chips, it´s that damned Kardashian family. Kim, why don´t you just care a little more about the fat one´s radio show? And Kourtney, dump that idiot baby daddy already! I love Bruce Jenner´s motivational speaches so much I read wikipedia articles about his life and career. Which leads to reading about Robert Kardashian, which leads to reading about OJ simpson, which leads to me telling Patrick, one more sec, cause I have to catch up on the biggest homicide case of the 90´s. See what I mean though, I´m kinda losing my mind.

And right now we find ourselves in a stormy grey Panama City, waiting for the first of two flights in the coming weeks that will bring us back to the land of maple syrup, and bagels, and poutine, and streetcars, and people who don´t call me mamacita. Back to a country where I will finally just blend into the background again. Amen.

I wrote more, but this is Central America after all, and internet cafes have connections as reliable as news from a two year old, so…This whole fucking post has been erased three times now. Which means I fucking hate you central america.

Bad Record

It’s before 9 am but the humidity is already almost unbearable, the air inside the bus we’re on having somehow reached temperatures in the elderly danger zone (aka, the temps at which old people literally croak from heat stroke). I have already gone to my happy place, an imaginary world that exists only in my mind that is both cold and icy — picture Quebec in November, with jovial snowmen passing out icecreams and such — when a man leans in toward us on the bus.

”Nice tattoos, mang,” he says to Patrick approvingly, ”They look like real life, mang.”

Patrick nods and thanks him, and as is the pattern when someone notices his tattoos, all three of us stare silently at his arms for a while, not knowing what else to do.

”Where are you guys from?” He asks, and when I answer in Spanish that we’re from Canada he smiles. He tells us that he lived in the US for 20 years, which is strangely common among this demographic of people who approach us — 40 years old more or less, basic english with lots of ‘mangs’ and ‘my friend’, all with the common denominator of having lived in Caleeforneea for, what is to me, already a lifetime. We respond that yes, of course Canada is nice, it’s very beautiful, and with less discrimination than the US. Usually I say that last statement because I’ve learned a) how to actually say it in spanish and b) that it quickly puts us in the good books.

”I got tattoos too mang,” he says lifting up his shirt sleeve, revealing a picture of three naked women with disproportionately giant tits. ”Cool,” I say stupidly.

”So it’s easy to get to Canada, right? Cause I have a record.”

Initially I’m not exactly tuned in to what he’s saying, but he seems to anticipate this and clarifies for me.

”I got a baaad record from the United States, yeah. My main problem is the armed robbery.” He motions shooting a gun with his hand held sideways, just like I’ve seen on a million gangster movies.”Also I drive the drunk,” he adds.

I had been wondering if he was drunk as he talked to us, and with statement, the slurring, and the general unease with which he was standing, I begin to realize that he’s fairly under the influence. Patrick and I sit there dumbly, having little to add to the conversation. Though I’d like to chime in with some solidarity, perhaps a tale of my own small time armed robberies of local 711’s, the truth is I just don’t bring my gun with me when I want a slurpee.

Patrick is lovely as always and asks the man about his life now, in Nicaragua, out of jail. He tells us that he has 4 houses, that he has a farm where they produce cheese, and cordially invites us to stay with him. In my head I think of places I’d rather be while I thank him for his kindness. Then the guy tells us that he doesn’t like to work, so are there programs in Canada that set people up with money who don’t like working? And the record, he reminds me, that don’t matter in Canada? He says the word Canada like maybe it’s an amusement park, not an actual country with pesky formalities and laws like the US.

”You know, I’m not really sure about programs like those,” says Patrick politely, ”But the record will definitely be a problem.”

The man appears to be thinking, silent for a while before he tells us that oh yeah also, yo golpe una mujer — which is the verb I understand to mean ‘to hit’ or ‘to punch’. ”How do you call that, domestic violence?”

”Yeah, I think that’s the one.”

I squeeze Patrick’s leg and hope that our new amigo will lose interest in us. A woman walks up to him and whispers something in his ear, he responds with a smile and an ass grab before handing her two cell phones. I guess one for each ear or something.

I rest my head against the window and wonder what his farms look like, picturing him sitting lazily in the front yard while someone makes cheese by hand in the background. We should be close to the coast soon, our destination, where we’ll surf and acquire quite a few bruises. He soon sidles away and my mind wanders to other things when the bus stops. Our armed robber with the boob tattoos gets off, and I look up to see a young boy, no older than three run towards the bus. He is wearing a t-shirt and gum boots, but other than that is completely bare-wienered. He picks up a rock and hurls it at the bus, though it misses by miles.

As we pull away and leave the two bandits in our dust, I feel that surely we’ve dodged a bullet.

Well, Never Eating Jalapeno Chicken Again.

So I was all set to write a post about how I’d been kicking Central America’s ass when, BLAMO, I’m lying on the bathroom floor puking up some jalapeno chicken and cursing all that is holy in this world. And when I say ‘some’ jalapeno chicken, I mean most definitely all of it. And when you look back at all the places we’ve eaten, all the times we’ve looked at each other and said, ‘this is gonna be the meal that does it’, the moments where we’ve witnessed the cook drop a spoon into a pig pen and then continue using it, yeesh, I don’t have enough fingers and toes for that shit.

But here we are then, almost exactly 5 months since leaving Canada, and I got served. I’m hoping it’s not malaria, and because the body aches point to dengue, the fact that I’ve been bitten 7 times since sitting down at this crack den of an internet cafe shouldn’t alarm me one teeny bit.

That being said, the reason I haven’t been able to update in the last two weeks is because we’ve been in Little Corn Island, which you should definitely google image cause it’ll take your breath away a bit. We’ve done some scuba diving, some relaxing, some eating, and (a little bit of) barfing.

This island, being carribean and all, is the first place where people sometimes address us in english instead of spanish, and it’s really strange. Also, it’s allowing me some time to really perfect my carribean accent which I will totally do on command for you the next time we meet.

Things are winding down though in these parts, and we’ve estimated a month or so until we’ll be back in Canada, which is exciting to think about. It’s not that we aren’t enjoying what we see, to be honest, Nicaragua has been the highlight of this trip so far (we’ve stayed here almost a month longer than planned), but I guess it’s hard not to miss certain comforts, like poutine, beds sans bugs, not sweating at 6am, and coffee that isn’t made from powder.

Anyways, this was supposed to be a glass half full post focusing on how far I’d come without barfing, so let’s all take a moment to pat me on the back.

Not trying to jinx myself or anything, but Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras…eat my shorts. Nicaragua, I admit defeat.

No make a the sense

Though I´ve become accustomed to the feeling of beads of sweat dripping off my body, I haven´t exactly grown to like it. Some women just carry around a sweat rag to mop their brows and everything else. Dudes have taken to an entirely different method of cooling down, and generally pull their shirts up so that they only cover their shoulders. We were advised not to dress like sluts or bums because apparently these countries maintin conservative views towards dress, but so far we have seen the actual nutsack of a homeless man (he was wearing no pants even though from far away we thought he was rocking brown spandex) and ´getting dressed´here could be translated as ´covering the bare minimum of your private bits´. Anyways, what am I rambling about? Differences? Sure, their are lots.

Patrick has made light of how nothing makes sense but sometimes I want a fucking street sign. Usually when we arrive in new towns or cities I´m freaking out about how that pack of men is following us or going on a heated tangent about how the systems of organization in ´these fucking places´needs a facelift, or maybe I´m just frustrated about the general stench of piss that permeates the corner we´re standing on when some old man winks at me and does the kissy face. And then I redline.

But we´re having fun these days, sweating profusely but having fun. I think that Nicaragua is my favourite Central American country so far, even though it feels like an oven. And speaking of ovens, we climbed a semi-active volcano yesterday and did some ´surfing´, which was more like sledding, but still good. We had the option to do the surf one or two times, and though the hike up was hot and steep, I didn´t want to be the pussy in the group so I volounteered for the second run.

It was a strange experience, and not quite as fast as I had imagined, but good nonetheless. How many people can say they boarded down a volcano? AND ate tacos at the bottom. The tacos were balls to be honest, but I was hungry and the further I travel from home, the lower my standards scrape.

This is a bit of tangent, but right now as I type at this computer in our hostel, I´m ignoring the passive aggressive sighs and stink eye being thrown my way by the woman who owns it. She hates us for no good reason, and therefore I hate her (with reason). A few days ago we made the trek over to her hostel to make a proper reservation, left our name and the number of the room we wanted, just to make sure that everything was set. And of course, because nothing NOTHING makes sense, when we arrived you can guess that our room was ocupado. The worst part was we had totally anticipated this happening, and were clearly pissed off because the room we ended up with had no window (we´ve touched upon ovens so far this post…) and the internet was down. Our name was never written down and I was told that because we hadn´t paid a deposit, our reservation wasn´t held. I´m already bored just telling this story, so I apologize if you´re sleeping right now, but I got all pissed and said something along these lines in spanish:

How did this happen? (Good first line, adequate grammer, exactly what I wanted to communicate). She replies with something about us not paying the deposit so I say ¨But the woman who work here, she told me yesterday nothing of this that you talk about now¨ (Okay, grammer dive bombing a bit, not quite what I wanted to say, but still more or less on the right track with verbs). She says, well, it´s not my problem, it´s my bosses problem. So I says to her, I says, Look I understand this isn´t your problem, but now we´re confused (I wanted to say angry or upset but didn´t know the words) and the price that I heard yesterday is no longer the price of reality. (At this point my diatribe is lacking punch, mostly because I sound like an idiot Gringo, so the woman loses interest and we pay the full price anyway).

Long story long, this place is a pain in our asses, and the women hate us because they screwed up. Gotta go now and make dinner as loud as we can, stopping frequently to bang pots unecessarily and be immature. Hasta la vista, baby!

hey it´s okay

For the past few days we´ve been staying at a microbrewey\hostel that also has a pool, so pretty much we´re pleased as peaches and swimming until our hands look like raisins. Driving into Honduras we felt like a line had been drawn in the sand, between dusty Guatemala and a new lush terrain.

A few days ago we climbed up Celaque Mountain, which in Honduras´s highest peak, and though we were a little unprepared (the weather changed dramatically with the gains in elevation), we persevered and got to the top. In all honesty, is was getting back down to the bottom, and to the town (actually) called Gracias that was the hard part. Because we were starving we started to daydream about all the things we´d like to eat but probably wouldn´t have access to, which included but wasn´t limited to the following:

-strawberry shortcake blizzards from Dairy Queen

-my mom´s cheesecake

-hogtown poutine

-Capital Espresso americano

-Reuban sandwich from Swan

-turkey dinner

-pupusas from that weird stall in Antigua with lots of pickled peppers

-fruit loops, a classic?

-breakfast buffet with eggs, bacon, pancakes, hashbrowns, orange juice, and coffee

-reeses pieces or peanut butter M&M´s

-anything.

When we got back to town we bandaged our blistery feet and bee-lined for the restuarant that has a fried chicken\beans\egg\tortilla\carrot thingie\sometimes cheese plate and the bitchiest waitress I´ve ever met. Ambience is down the shitter but calories are more than present.

Today we are enjoying some homebrews and then heading to some caves tomorrow. Then it´s on to Nicaragua where we plan to concur some volcanoes. May I pray to the God of decrepit buses that we actually attain seats, that are more than a pillow tied to a metal thing. Listen to me, being such a Princess!

Off to go polish my tiara! Adios folks.

no pictures again, turns out guatemalan internet is worse than mexican

When we see the little boy hanging out the passenger side window of a van, one covered in decals devoted to God, screaming ¨RRRRRRRRRRREMATE!¨ I feel like we´re finally saved. Two minutes earlier I had taken off my giant pack and sat down on the side of the road in defeat. ¨I´m tired of this kind of shit not working out,¨ I say bitterly, ¨it´s been too many days in a row of people fucking us.¨

The truth is, in the past few weeks we´ve been spoiled enough to visit 5 ruins and see some inspiringly beautiful towns, but when you´ve just spent 11 hours on a bus, then a boat, then another bus, with an insane guide who speaks ¨eengleesh¨ but not English, in heat that you thought impossible (who knew that eyebrows can sweat, hey?) carting around a 35lb bag, you just aren´t that positive. I´m not particularly proud of these ugly moods, but faced with this delicious melange of elements, I can be pesimisstic to say the least. Today, sitting on the top of Templo IV in Tikal, a really stunning vantage point in the Guatemalan jungle, Patrick and I ate some cookies. ¨Have the last one,¨ he said to me, and I was all, no no, you, I´ve eaten more than you. And he told me that he´d really appreciate if I ate it because I get hungrier, and there´s this cute thing I do when I´m hungry in the fucking wilderness — whine. The embarrassing part was I couldn´t even deny what he said and then insist that he just eat the damn thing, instead choosing to look away and eat our last cookie in shame.

So anyway, this kid, out the window, screaming the name of the town we really needed to get to before dark, when all the bad guys come out. He said the name and then Patrick repeated it back, Remate? Si, Remate (now hurry up you fucking idiot tourists we´ve got a schedule unlike you lazy ass unemployed fools). Si. We got in the van, then more people got in the van, and then we stopped for more people just when I thought more people couldn´t possibly be squished in. And only when my nose was in some sleeping man´s armpit and my arm stuck to Patrick´s arm with the bond of loving sweat, did I think about my dear mother, and how she would have described the stench of BO emitting from every pore of the 9 million people in that little van.

And I daydreamed about eating a poutine in Canada, cold, chilly, freezing Canada, until we arrived at our destination — a town beside a calm lake, that even I could realize is much better than cheese and gravy and fries.

If you leave me, I will delete you

Apparently that´s what `Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind` was translated to in Italian! Some people we met told us that, and now I`m passing the info onto yàll. Use it at a party, it`s probably a good conversation starter or something.

Anyway, we arrived in Palenque tonight and when I stepped off the bus it was so hot I thought I was in the exhaust stream. Nope, that´s just the fucking air. The weather report said ¨feels like 56¨ and the employee at our bunk hotel told us that ´this´heat is nothing compared to May. Consider me gone then.

Right now, because of this overwhelming heat that I´m not gonna stop talking about, I´m dreaming about those old tours McDonald´s used to do on your birthday. They`d give you a really crappy cake with Ronald on it, and then take you to the freezer and pull out a line like, `And this is the freezer, where we freeze stuff.` Riveting, but honest to God, my dream reality right now.

Patrick said he could really go for a paleta soon, which is a delicious popsicle thing, and I´m gonna partake fo sho. Ritually we eat potato chips before bed, but we just polished off some chorizo tacos and the spice party in my mouth could use something cold. Also, for some unknown reason I´ve been getting fat here, so if anyone could figure out a possible culprit, just send me an email or a private facebook message cause I´m all ears but totally dumbfounded.

This post sucks and I blame the inferno weather. Luckily there´s no customer satisfaction box on this blog. Joke´s on you.

I´m distracted cause every idiot in this internet cafe is skypeing in german

It´s after midnight and I´m tired — tired of buses that won´t run, tired of buses that are too long, tired of cab drivers that enjoy fucking us out of money, and tired or random stretches of road that smell like hot garbage and rotting corn, together. We arrive at a hostel in the middle of holy week without a reservation, and surprise surprise, there´s no room at the inn. So we trek over to another, pay more than we have for even the nicest places, and finally set down the overbearing weight we so lovingly cart around.

First order of business is to take a long awaited piss, but when I get to the bathroom there´s no running water, the toilet is full of shit, and the flush option is not an option. I walk out and am about to tell Patrick that I´ll have to use the men´s room but he starts talking first. ´Don´t go in there, it´s full of puke.´ Perfect.

We wake up the next day to running water, even though for an hour before I fell asleep I practiced how to say ´The price includes water, correct? There was no water when we arrived, there is no water now, I feel frustrated and want to not pay all the money that you think is true,´in spanish. Admittedly, it would probably come out more like, ´I have stress, why this so frustrating thing with no water and no the money we have is not yours!!!´ But we´ve already learned that trying to rely on reason and fairness in Mexico is useless and heartbreaking. Who cares if shit doesn´t make sense, go tell your worries to a street dog that just gave birth for the 94th time.

Right now we´re in San Cristobal de las Casas and it´s my favourite place we´ve visited to far. It´s set high in the mountains, where they grow coffee, and woman show their boobies without reserve. Course, your view is generally obstructed because there´s a kid sucking on it, but still, pa-retty enticing am I right?

Maybe another time I will tell you about The Most Terrble Hike, which we completed over the course of two days in Oaxaca. As a teaser I will let you know that our guide was fat, dressed in a sweater vest, wheezing, (honestly might have had brain damage so I shouldn´t make fun of him), and would pull on the branch of every other fucking tree we passed to tell us that it could be used for tea. I get it hombre, you put the nature in water and it cures what ails you. We would really love some of that tea now, because 3 days after we´re still hobbling in pain and haunted by the memory.

Oaxacanarama

I don´t know when I´ll ever really be able to update again, because trying to find an internet cafe in Mexico that actually has internet (I know, I know, INSANE right?) is muy dificil. Also, the keyboards generally have some fucking dulces melted into them, always under vowels, cause apparently nobody can go more than 4 minutes without eating a chile flavoured popsicle.

Today we went to go see the Monte Alban ruins outside Oaxaca but who gives right? So whatever, some old people built some old shit. And they didn´t even have an X box to help them unwind after a hard day´s work. I kept on asking everyone where the McDonalds ruins were but apparently they didn´t have that either. Seriously, these people were prim-a-tive. Also, all their leftover bowls were broken so no wonder they all died — all their cereal was just leaking out of their half-assed pottery! Anyway, we took some pretty pictures.

I´d better get going. This keyboard sucks, someone has apparently taken up organ practice behind me (this isn´t a metaphor, un hombre is literally playing some kind of annoying instrument), and I wanna go get those 2 for 1 mezcal margaritas.

Quiero matarme

One thing I really like about Mexico is how seriously everyone likes to get their ice-cream on. There´s something about seeing an 80+ dude just licking away on a sprinkle cone that almost makes you forget how infuriating it is to find anti-malarial meds. Almost…

To say that locating both a Yellow Fever shot and some anti-malarial meds that don´t include side effects of paranoia, liver damage, or decreased vision has been difficult, is an understatement. I have probably talked to over 40 mexican doctors now, and perhaps even more pharmacists whose only qualifications had to have consisted of counting to ten — with less than four mistakes. It´s crazy, I mean, I know it seems like 6 might come after 3, but actually you´re fucking retarded.

Anyway, boring logistics aside, the anti-malarial saga has caused us to increase our time in Guadalara and I couldn´t think of a better place to hang out. We´ve had a chance see some museums, drink lots of really delicious coffee, and also melt a bit from the heat. We were even served one afternoon by a man who had a Frida eyebrow, which is to say, only one of the darn things. Also, Mexicans are all about the cathedrals so we went to one and I prayed to God to send us prescription meds. I´m sure he gets that sorta shit all the time.

We also had the chance to try some tequila ice cream and a torta ahogada which is essentially a sandwich filled with roasted pork chunks, topped with onion and red spicy sauce. Not too shabby.

So far my vaccination count in Mexico is at two, which means that I´m a big girl and no, I didn´t receive a single stinking lollipop for my troubles. I can´t believe it either.

Tomorrow we´re leaving Guadalajara and heading south in what will still be quite a long journey. We´re happy to report that our spanish is getting better: Patrick can fluently say ¨I´ve already had two beers¨ and I´m an expert at saying, Excuse me, Hi, yes, my boyfriend and I are traveling to south america and we need some anti-malarial medications, malaria? Oh, it´s a disease, that you die from, (aren´t you a doctor) so we´re gonna need a prescription and if you could please (just stop making my life harder) tell me who I need to speak to, I would be very grateful. Oh you don´t know? Great, many thanks (and go fuck your mother).

Also, apologies for the lack of pictures. Would you believe me if I told you that a stolen Mexican internet signal is about as good as a cup of hot garbage juice tastes.

Hasta mañana folks.

happy barfday sister

Today is my little sister’s birthday, so I’d like to wish her a great one. I have a lot of trouble with the notion of getting older myself, and when it comes to my siblings things are no different. This morning I woke up (after a really bad sleep because we found a tarantula in the bathroom last night) feeling strangely like my little sister was finally the same age as me: 22! Funny how that happens. 

Anyway, she’s really kind and generous and hard-working (also the prettier sister), even if she is the stupid kid in the family. [Seriously Meg, you have C+’s on your elementary school report card…I don’t want that kinda shit associated with me.] More importantly though, she’s my best friend in the whole wide world, and I don’t say that only because I’ve had 2 beers and a glass of wine. One beer was a tall-boy so I guess that’s more like 2 and a half beers. 

My mom always used to tell me that my sister wanted to be just like me, that she looked up to me so I should stop whining about how she copied me or hung around too much, but the truth is I wish I was more like her. I wish I would shut my mouth a little more often and observe things like she does. I wish I was more selfless and patient, just as she is. I’ll be alright though if I never have a problem peeing my pants 94 times a day and ruining family bike rides like her. Sis, you’re on your own for that one, even if it is an ailment safely buried in the past. 

So happy birthday Meggie-Poo, hope you go out and have fun but don’t call me drunk like last year and talk about how you feel better knowing that in relation to me you’re not over the hill. 

2 tickets to salmonella

“This place would never pass a health inspection in Canada,” says Patrick as he takes a bite of our quesadilla.

“Why,” I ask him, “Because of that bird?”

He looks up to see the bird that I now fondly refer to as ‘the sous chef’ and starts to laugh. “Fuck, I didn’t even see that. I guess I was referring to the raw chicken party going on over there.”

“Or the hot sauce bottle that looks like it has a scab on it, hey,” I add. 

The truth is, no part of the restaurant (if I can call it that) would pass a health inspection. The kitchen was definitely open concept, like a fancy restaurant I used to work at in Toronto, but this one only crushes appetites. I don’t even think they had an eyewash station, which is, I know, totally blasphemous. Tell me about it!

(chicken and fries taco made by Patrick)

We ordered a chorizo quesadilla and some sort of fried chicken plate. When I give the waitress our order she nods after quesadilla and rolls her eyes after the chicken dish. Immediately after that she goes up to the chef and hugs her, whispering something into her ear which I imagine to be “I’m sorry”, or “Can you believe they actually ordered it!?”, or even “we got ourselves a bad case of the gringos”.

“Don’t touch the salad,” I tell him, “it was tossed with salmonella.”

He nods in understanding and I consider whether or not I’m brave enough to use the salt. The food is kind of lacking but the salt looks like it has ants in it. Dead ants. I don’t even know if I’d prefer living. 

I can’t help but think of my mother when I’m in these places, of what she might say, or where she’d faint. More than once I ask Patrick if really, Am I being nuts? Is it nuts that I’m worried about the chicken? Or the fact that the lady who brought the raw variety over just touched rice right after. Patrick tells me no, probably to deflate my anxiety, and I avert my gaze, choosing to watch the old man sitting beside us instead. He coughs and then spits onto the road. I close my eyes.

We see that the salmonella infested rice is delivered to a young boy and both sigh with relief. Thank God. A truck rushes by and kicks up dust from a pile of demolished concrete into our eyes. We wait to catch the attention of the women cooking and finally I pay the one who definitely waxes her moustache.

At least I’m not hungry anymore.