Guatemala Part 8

I was back in Guatemala again. In the Garifuna town of Livingston. A rasta dude took us up to immigration and then steered us to stay in a place called Africa House. This place was like Belize in Spanish. Africa House was a cool white castle place that looked like something out of a mini camelot (or Hearst Castle). We could not get the turret room, but I shared with the Costa Rican dude. He was only staying one night as he had to head to a Guatemalan music festival, but the owner let me have the room to myself for the same price I had paid as a half the first night. The Costa Rican guy went to smoke a joint and the rest of us went and got some food. At this point I was struggling financially to get under the months budget and I think I will be short by about 2 days. Still close enough as my interest on my savings arrived end of March (Just in time for Colombia :-) ) I found a good cheap bakery with bread for 1 Quetzal. I would live off mainly bread and water with a bit of banana for the next 2 days. My bank as not fucking open when I rang them. Bastards. They still need to change my address and give me back the 100 pound of fraud. May ring them tomorrow morning before I head to Nicaragua.

Back at the hotel we met a couple of Guatemalan guys from down south and a local guy who was a freestyle rapper and very drunk. The Costa Rican guy joined us and we headed to the Garifuna cultural centre for the evening. This place was very funny. We arrived and got very weak two for one cuba libres. One of the Guatemalans told me he just wanted to dance witha black girl and had not been able to. I told him to go to Dominican Republic. We were treated to some drunkend banging of instruments that was supposed to be traditional music. They only played for tips (I was in the toilet when the hat went round so did not have to contribute). It was a ridiculous scene. The guy from earlier was kicked off an instrument for being too drunk and the main guy playedthe drums while singing a Bob Marley medley. Traditional Garifuna? I don't think so. Bob was Jamaican and came sometime after the Garifunas were dumped on this coast by the British navy. The moment we left they stopped playing. An Aussie girl who as with us got accosted by the drunken freestyle singer of earlier and the rest of us went back tod rink at the castle. One of the Guatemalan guys kept buying us drink and I learnt from the Costa Rican guy and Californian girl that you can harvest weed in october in Humboldt county California and earn about $12,000 for a month and a halfs work. Damn good pay. May have to look into that to fund one of my future trips. You work long hours and prune the trees. You are usually paid by the weight of weed you successfully manage to cut. Interesting. We sort of ended up hanging out for the next few days, even though we had kind of been thrown together and I don't think any of us had a real affinity for the others. Davidthe Costa Rican guy left in the morning.

He had woken me up early on and we had a good chat before he left. I decided to head on over to the Siete Altares (Seven Altars), a series of second rate Semuc Champey pools but quite pleasant. Saw a lot of sea birds on the 90 minute walk along the beach. Saw plenty of Garifuna culture (mainly fishing and tourism) and met a few locals and avoided buying weed very dextrously. The town appeared to be some sort of cartel. I tried to find a cheaper boat up to Rio Ducle, but they all charged 125 Quetzals (despite painted signs saying 80 Quetzals). They really should scrub those off before they jack stuff up. Everyone looked terrified to tell me where the locals took boats from. I found out the morning one was a tour. I did not want the tour. The afternoon one was direct, but apparently the same price. If I asked a local where they were headed with their boats they said "no se". Fucking liars. God damn it, this country leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Oh yeah the pools are nice and head up the river to get to the really deep one with the wooden bridge over it. Over the bridge appears to be just a trickle of a stream over the rocks. After exhausting my faculties and patience I bit the bullet and paid the 125 Quetzals with Happy Fish restaurant and at least got a breakfast and some free internet time thrown in.

I joined the boat tour in the morning and made friend with a Californian couple, some English old people from Alderney (who had sailed round the world) and we set off down river. We went through some canyons, that looked like a sub par Parque Los Haitises but pretty enough. Then we dropped off some Aussies and picked up a French couple at some 'jungle retreat' for the gringos. Then we were taken to some tourist hellhole of a place designed to sell shit to us. We wasted time there and then reboarded the boat. Luckily the skies opened up and cained don with rain so we had to abandon the rest of the tour. How terrible. We were handed some rain macs to protect the bags (it was here that my bag got mullered and my shorts got tie-dyed red, white and blue from leaking pens. I looked like Darren`s Captain USA). A German guy started scaling the side of the boat and almost toppled us. The Englishman took great pleasure from his discomfort after that. We were kind of on a boat with pleasant but cranky old people. The only interesting bit was at the artesans place. I thought a dead spider was walking along (weird) until I realised it was being carried by a tiny ant. Reminded me of all the mental army ants I had seen in Cockscomb, clearing absoultely everything in their path. Jamie and Olonga left for Antigua from Rio Dulce when we arrived. That was kind iof a relief as the tension had been a little awkward.

I stayed under the bridge in a backpacker/orphanage place. Very cheap and cool although I slept on a bed with no sheets in the middle of an open room. Still it was cheap and I had later decided to get the 3am bus to Guatemala City so it was only going to be shotgun sleep anyway. I walked off round the lake to the castle and its a pleasant place. The view from the bridge down the Rio Dulce and over Lago Izabal are both impressive. I shot over my budget again due to that stupid boat price, so in the evening I ended up having an expensive lasagne and starwberry licuado as I needed some real food. The place also rents a Kayak for 10 Quetzals an hour (Just over $1). I had been talking with the Californians about how cool the south was in the morning and I had found out Minneapolis was on the Mississippi, so I could fly into Chicago and head for the source. It had resurrected my belief that I could kayak the Mississippi and spend a lot of time in the south. I still want to do it, so I took out the kayak to see how hard it was. Man I sucked. I struggled to kayak through the waves (both natural and from wanker speedboat types) and at one point was just spinning round and round as my tail was constantly broadsided. Damn I was going to need more practice and to read some instructions if I was going to take this trip on. I seemed to make some headway through sheer bloodymindedness and after this fuck up was more than ever determined to try it. I was leaning more and more towards heading to the US for those random six months between Argentina and New Zealand. I just love southern girls too much. I got a few bruises and burns bringing the kayak back as I fell off the side of the getty bringing it up and had to save myself and the kayak, which stretched my body a bit. That evening I got chatting with an odd German guy (who seemed to get agitated and aggressive when stressed, so I kept the conversation simple. I also met a Yankee from Denver who had been friends with Chris (the guy in Xela we had played the ladle game with). Facebook is great for discovering these random coincidences. I also met an Aussie Yoga teacher (who I may see again in BA) and some Canadian kids. Most of them had been volunteering at the orphanage down the road and I felt like a travelling joy rider as I was just spending and enjoying myself. Still the Mississippi would be cool. Maybe I could do it for charity. Just need to find some other people who want to take it on.

I snatched a small amount of sleep and at 2am woke and grabbed the bus to the capital. I wanted to meet Peter and Paulina for lunch, but Peter was still in Xela and it never happened with Paulina as I ended up having to push on for the border. The bus ride had only been 4 hours, not the 6 I was told and that left me stranded in the capital before anything was open. I eventually found a bus for Chiquimula and set off for the frontier. A one legged man told me it wa 25 Quetzals for the border. Lying git, the bus driver had said 10. Then I found someone to take me for 15. I paid him for the border, but he dropped me off in some random town and said I needed another bus and that it was included in the price. It was not, but I refused to pay the other man because of what the first had said and so he gave me a ticket for free. I felt bad ripping off the honest man, but hopefully he kicks the shit out oft he other guy for losing a fare. Just before this incident I had been musing over how Guatemala and Dominican Republic were the only countries that consistently tried to rip me off. Everyone else was fair. And then this happened and left an even bitterer taste in my mouth. I got chatting with a Guatemalan couple and arrived at the border with Honduras. I had been told by another guy in Chiquimula that there were ATMs at the border and I did not know there were border taxes. I had only 10 Quetzals. That was good enough to get out of Guatemala. But I needed 3 dollars to enter Honduras. Shit I had no money. They would not let me enter. But I had already exited Guatemala and could not afford to go abck in. Catch 22, I was destined to live on this border post until I starved to death, like Tom Hanks in the airport film. Eventually the womn realised I really did not have any money and I was not just trying to not pay and we had to solve the problem. Eventually she agreed tostamp my passport and I would have to ride with her boss to Copan Ruinas (for free) to draw out money and pay the $3. Probably saved that on the 13km ride and chatted in Spanish with the guys once they realised I could speak it. they had been dissing me before assuming I could only speak English. Oh well some things never change, but at least I was in Honduras (country number 38)