Mexico, cycling Britain, then Barcelona

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Thursday 22nd September
 
A morning tour of Guatemala city taking in Zone 10 (didn’t seem very exciting at 9 am), the botanical garden, the main square in zone 1, and a bit of the market. Should I get a t-shirt made “I went to zone 1 and nobody shot me.” I mean it was a poorer neighbourhood, and if you read the tabloids you hear about people getting shot there every day. But as I’m not in a gang, or trying and rip anyone off, and I didn’t go at night, I figured I might just survive.
In the botanical garden I tucked into my rough guide history of Guatemala, the US got stuck in to mess up what was promising to be a successful liberal government in the 40’s, and the civil war was brutal. At the cathedral there are columns with the names of the people who were executed, massacred, disappeared, and tortured. A lot of names.
I enjoyed being away from the tourists for a while, and figuring stuff out for myself. I got the bus back to my hotel. Obviously I didn’t get the right bus, that would have been almost impossible to find. I followed where we went on the map and spent a lot of time thinking “please turn left soon”, before bailing and walking fifteen minutes to get back.
The bus to Esquipilas was comfortable (first class) but slow and when I arrived in the dark I thought it was too late to cross the border into Honduras. But no, a man came at me shouting the place I wanted to go and so I jumped in his taxi.
Crossing the border in the dark didn’t seem like a stupid thing to do until a drunk man started talking/hassling me on the bus to Nuevo Ocotepeque. The dark and the rain and the drunk man were the bad first impressions, but there were good things too. Two people on the bus helped me get rid of the drunk bloke. The woman in front actually took me to my hotel in a tricycle taxi with a roof. I was laughing at the little contraption as we scooted a hundred meters up a bumpy road. This town is strange, the road to the hotel is mud and gravel and small rivers, but the side roads are beautifully paved.
Oh and another fantastic first impression: when I walked up to the window at immigration the officer was sitting in his smart uniform playing a guitar and singing. He finished the verse before taking my passport! And the guide book took me to a great hotel, all I need to get done tonight is my washing, and my room has a wall full of drying racks and a fan!!!!! Purfick.
 
 
Friday 23rd September
 
Well as it turned out, this is Honduras, and the drying racks weren’t much use to me because there was no water last night. Let alone the hot water shower I had been promised. In every other respect the hotel is great.
I’m a travel guide book writer today and I wander about chatting to people in hotels and restaurants before getting on a bus to Santa Rosa.
Arriving in the city centre I can’t help noticing how many expensive cars are parked on the streets. I guess, like any country, there are rich people in certain places. On the whole this country is extremely poor, it is one of only two latin American countries on the G8 cancel the debt list. I got an idea of how poor when I received change and was handed my first 1 lempira bills. 1 lempira is worth less than 10 cents (US), and they have a note???
Overall I am liking Honduras much more than Guatemala. The people are very friendly and I am practicing loads of Spanish (this may have something to do with the fact that I am still a guide book writer and as such I have a reason to talk to everyone). One comparison between the countries that made me laugh was that “salva vida” (life saver) is the brand name for purified water in Guate, here in Honduras it is beer!
For some strange reason on arriving in Santa Rosa I checked into a very cheap hotel, and spent the first twenty minutes in my room swatting mosquitos. At first I was grossed out by the grim yellow walls with marks all over them, then I was annoyed because I kept mistaking the little black marks for mossies, finally I had added several smeared insects to the walls, including a big splodge of blood, which means either one of them got me, or I have someone elses blood on the swatter (my note book). Nice. I wonder if they will ever clean up.
After dinner in an empty restaurant I start to wonder if I will see any other tourists in Honduras.
 
Saturday 24th September
 
After sampling my first typical Honduran breakfast; tortillas, beans, egg, cheese, cream, and fried bananas I made the mistake only a traveller can. I was sure it was Friday and I went to visit the cigar factory, which was closed, obviously, because it’s the weekend. Ooops. So I spent some time “working” at the nearby bus station, which is crowded, noisy, and not a place people normally hang around very long. After wandering around for nearly half an hour the friendly bus boys had answered most of my questions, but rather than just shouting comments as I walked by the fifth time, some of them were actually trying to grab me. They were just being (over) friendly, but it was clearly time to leave.
Back in Santa Rosa I met some helpful people, a guy called Max Elvir who got very excited about me wanting to go hiking. We were chatting for nearly two hours and he told me about every little village, who ran the comedor, whether they had electricity etc. He also drew me a map and told me I would be fine to go off on my own. I wasn’t sure about the “on your own” bit, I was kind of hoping for a guided tour, but I didn’t have any other plans for the next day.
I also found and American ex-pat, who told me everything I needed to know for the book. I could have saved myself a lot of walking if I’d just come to his restaurant first, but I wouldn’t have had nearly so much Spanish practice.
The only person that tried to make friends with me at dinner was a small boy. He was very sweet, but I was a bit disturbed by his dancing. His pelvic movements combined with an “I’m so sexy” facial expression were the kind of moves you might expect to see in “X-tassi’s” the local disco, not from a seven year old.
 
 
Sunday 25th September  
On Sunday morning I woke up and thought, “yes, why not. I’ll do it.” I packed as light as humanly possible, which, to my shame, involved purchasing a bum bag, and headed off into the Western Highland villages to hike, experience life without other tourists, and practice my Spanish with the locals I had been told were so friendly.
I was still slightly unsure about the safety of going alone (as a 28 year old female you can imagine my worries), but I had been assured by the local tour guide that it was a great idea. When I met him the day before, he enthusiastically shared his knowledge of the area and drew me a map which consisted of the names of the villages and straight lines connecting them all together. Apparently there are paths everywhere then.
My first step was getting to Belen Gualcho, which, according to the guide book has a church, a Sunday market and a hotel. Arriving at midday after a couple of bus rides I saw that  yes, there was indeed a church with three domes. And the hotel was a pleasant surprise; no hot water obviously, but a private bathroom and a balcony looking across the tiled roofs and off into the hills. The market on the other hand was nowhere to be seen. My enquiries with several locals revealed the reason for this; it is perfectly normal here to get up as early as 4am, and the whole market is done and dusted by 10am.
This town is a metropolis compared to where I’m heading; it has no less than 4 restaurants. The lady at the one on the square served a typical lunch – tortillas, beans, cheese, eggs, cream, and a cup of coffee. I don’t drink coffee, (partly because of the caffeine, mainly because of the taste), but here my options are pretty limited. Coffee or nothing.
For an afternoon stroll I head up the hill. Apparently, (according to the trusty book) there is a great view of the church from one of the schools. The view evades me, but as I leave town on a muddy path I do some great bird watching. I love the way that when you call it “bird watching” it suddenly becomes a hobby, rather than just sitting looking into the tress. I’m not a very good birder as I can’t name a single one, but I enjoy myself. There are at least three different species, bright red, bright yellow, and bright blue. But unbearable stomach cramps soon stop play and I’m not thinking too kindly about my typical lunch as I get caught short in the woods. Luckily no one comes along the path, and my trusty bum bag provides toilet paper. This kind of wilderness action is a bit much for me and I head back towards the safety of my hotel room.
On the way I see open gates that look suspiciously like a school, I’m not sure whether I’m allowed in, but hey, as a friendly tourist, why not? Two students in their blue and white uniforms are standing outside so I start my usual friendly banter then ask them if there’s a good view from here. They look at me like I’m completely mad and try their hardest to understand why a gringo has just wandered into school. A teacher emerges from a classroom , I give him the standard tourist greeting “Buenas tardes!” then realise that he is in the middle of a lesson and a whole classroom of his students are now also looking at me wondering what the hell I’m playing at. Determined as I am to see the view I head round the back of the building, where I find the toilets, and the teacher from two seconds ago taking a piss with the door open. Oops.
If there was a view, maybe I could justify this snooping, but the trees have obviously grown since the trusty book was written, and you can’t see a thing. By now the situation is just silly and I top off my complete disruption of their day by accidentally walking within arms reach of another classroom window. In the whole town there are rarely tourists and these teenagers are in class on a Sunday afternoon because they work all week. They are looking towards the board, but are distracted by something moving past the window. Imagine their surprise as they see some random foreigner wearing a bum bag and a sun visor, laughing out loud to herself, walking along the narrow gap between the building and the rubbish bins. I freeze as I realise the whole class of 20 is looking at me. There is no way that I can hope to explain why I am there, so I leave confidently and quickly, around to the front and across the courtyard, hoping not to draw further attention to myself, but knowing full well that every eye is looking in confusion at the back of my sky blue waterproof jacket. Hooray for silly missions! I think it must have made class more interesting.
Without appreciating the luxury of options I chose Raquel’s comedor for dinner. After a friendly chat I had learnt the names of all the tourists Raquel has ever met, and that there would be many people walking up to the village of La Mohaga the next morning. There are women in this village that make crazy fruit wine and it is up a massive hill. What great reasons to go!
Back at the hotel I meet a local teacher who is also going to La Mohaga tomorrow for work, but she has to leave at 5:30am to arrive in time. She makes the trek, two hours each way, every day, because she would rather live down here, where she can enjoy electricity and a warmer temperature. I thank her for offering to show me the way, but 5:30 am??? I don’t think so.
 
                                                                                                                        
Monday 26th September
 
I managed a pretty early start (7:15am) thanks mainly to the poor plumbing at the hotel. It’s all very well having your own private bathroom, but when the smell of your latest bought of diarrhoea refuses to go away, you would rather be very far away from it.
Minutes after starting my hike to La MohagaI hooked up with Gloria, another teacher who was going the same way. She was expecting a lift at any point in order to arrive on time, but she walked with me anyway and we had great conversations. As usual for the people I meet on this trip her life is fairly tough. Her boyfriend recently moved to the states to find work and she hasn’t seen him for five months. Their child lives with mother during the week while Gloria treks back and forth to school every day. We take a break from the steep uphill trudge, and I am touched by her kindness when she insists on buying me a juice.
After nearly an hour of uphill the conversation has slowed right down, and just in the nick of time her lift shows up. I am left sweating and happy to continue at my own pace. Much as I enjoyed chatting to Gloria, it felt slightly wrong that my holiday hike was accompanying someone on their way to work.
Soon afterwards the road levelled out. I was relieved, but at the same time convinced I had taken a wrong turn. I was kicking myself for not stopping to chat with the last man who passed by on his horse, especially since if I had to retrace my steps on this section it would be an uphill struggle.
As usual, however, I soon see some other traffic. A campesino with a machete and a white hat is walking towards me. I am aware of how this might be construed as a slightly dodgy situation: girl on her own, only other person is a guy with an enormous weapon, but in these parts it would be unnerving to see a man without a machete, and my only reaction is relief at being able to check the way, and it’s not too far at all.
Now I thought everyone had been friendly so far, but the women in La Mohaga were exceptionally kind.
Pedro in the pulperia (shop) sold me a coke. He should have been at school, but his teacher didn’t make the two and a half hour hike in time, so class was cancelled. He told me, as did the radio, that the time was 9am. Pretty good going, I thought to myself.
I announced my arrival in the village by asking everyone where I could find wine. An older lady escorted me to a house where I was invited in to sit down. The bare concrete room had some shelves with soap and batteries for sale, and a few plastic stools for us to sit on. I had the usual conversation about my random wanderings and realised I was faced with the choice of returning to Belen and my smelly hotel room, or continuing to San Sebastian, which seemed like a very long way. Carmen (the wine lady), after meeting me for five minutes, offered to let me sleep on her kitchen floor so I could spend more time in the village and get to know the area better. I was stunned by her kindness, and made my first mistake of the day; I made an assumption that if people here would let me stay in their houses, then surely the same kindness will be offered in the other villages.
I decided to try and make it to Hojalaca, half way to San Sebastian. I wanted to turn down the kitchen floor offer politely and thought that if I asked the time, it would add weight to my argument that it was a little early in the day to be thinking about sleeping. Imagine my surprise when she told me it was 10am. How can there be an hour time difference 200m down the road? I was now entirely confused about when it was going to get dark, but I knew Hojalaca was my goal.
I found Walter who was going half way there and could show me the road. He walked quickly down and up across the valleys, I was struggling to keep up and hold conversation at the same time, but I learnt that he wants to go to the USA to work. After passing his house I was relieved to be on my own and going at my own pace again. I could finally stop to get the stones out of my shoes and nurse a small blister.
Walking alone in the midday heat I could really appreciate how perfect these hills are for hiking; the altitude stops it being too hot, but is not so great that you feel breathless, the rivers, maize fields, and far off cliffs, make for a beautiful backdrop, and with butterflies and birds to spot there is never a dull moment.
After a couple more hours however my euphoria was wearing off a bit. A few people had told me I was close by Hojalaca and that I would surely be able to stay there, and I was really really hopeful about that. My legs were feeling the five hours walking behind me, the blister was giving me jip, and there were ominous black clouds rolling in. By the time I arrived I was pretty much ready to collapse. The first house I got to I had the usual friendly chat, but I realised the problem I had; I really wanted to be offered somewhere to stay without having to ask directly, I knew my best tactic was to make friends first, but I was so tired I couldn’t manage to hold it in.
The first family assured me there would be somewhere down the hill. The second family told me to go to the pulperia. But when I got there I was still hearing the same answer “yes, I am sure you can stay at someone’s house”, and nobody had actually said “yes, my house”. I tried not to panic too much and purchased a scary looking orange drink (I couldn’t see any water in the shop). As I was sitting in what looked like a bus shelter drinking it I was surrounded by about twelve gawping children. It turned out they were all cousins (this village really is small) and I wished I had some games to entertain them while we sheltered from the storm coming in. The best I could manage was a few ritz biscuits, which went down surprisingly well.
The children told me their village has a school, and a church, and a community building, as well as the shop - I was clearly in the central hub. I got to thinking about the last time I had been in a place as remote as this; there are no passable roads, and all the shop supplies are brought in on horseback. It had certainly been a while.
By the last drops of fizzy orange I was feeling better and the rain had passed. I asked the all important question, “How long does it take to walk to San Sebastian from here?” and the answer was a reasonable two hours. Since I didn’t have anywhere to stay I worked two more hours walking into the mental picture of my day, and it seemed ok. The sky was still a bit grey, and I only had between three and four hours of daylight left, but I didn’t have a wide range of options.
Two of the girls showed me twenty minutes out of town to the beginning of the shortest path and I set off again. Uphill. Now my knowledgeable tour guide back in the city had described the short cut to me, and I was intrigued by the wooden gate that he had told me was closed in winter. I have clearly watched too many Lord of the Rings films because I imagined something like the entrance to the mines of Mordor, something enormous and wood panelled, impassable when locked. In fact it was a normal, person sized gate made of several planks of wood, but at least it told me I was on the right track.
The uphillness of it all was really starting to get to me. I hadn’t seen any people since the beginning of the path, and for the first time I allowed myself a little bit of fretting about being completely on my own in the middle of nowhere, what if I have a heart attack? What if someone jumps out of the bushes and attacks me with a machete? Or, more realistically, what happens if I made the wrong turn after the river and I get lost?
When I see a house I am really looking forward to the friendly conversation, but after all this uphill, my face not looking good. I go past the smoking chimney and the chickens to the back garden where I find a mother and small son. As well as surprised to see this foreigner with a sun visor and a sky blue waterproof coat, she looks genuinely worried about me. And when I hear from her that I still have a further two hours I am at a bit of a low point, but at least I am on the right path. She offers me a drink, but the reason I am so red in the face is that I am pushing on to ensure that I arrive before dark, so I decline and keep going up.
I finally get to the top and meet a campesino who gives me tangerines and shows me a side path to avoid the mud. He also has a laugh at the state of me, and is the first person today to point out that I have a red mark right the way across my forehead from my sun visor. Great, I’ve met all these people today with a line across my head.
There are some houses around now - better, and I can see the church in San Sebastian - excellent, but it is at the top of the next hill - aaaaaaah. Several more people pass me on the path and give me encouraging, but varying, time scales, “it’s fifteen minutes from here”, “it’s only half an hour from here”.
When I cross the river and look back across the valley I know that pressing on was the right choice. It is a spectacular view to the forested hills, across meadows and the river. The sun has come out and I’m feeling warm and wonderfully tired. I eat the green tangerines whilst wondering what might be on my hands, and they taste surprisingly good as I am lying back against the rocks.
After a very long break I find some uplifting music to help me the last twenty minutes up to town. In total I have been walking for nearly eight hours when a hero with a horse saves me. I don’t usually go anywhere near large animals, but when he offers me a ride for the last stretch I can’t refuse. And my arrival in town is made all the more amusing. Picture the scene in the town square, groups of men in their white hats are sitting on the walls, children are playing football in the road, and then an absolutely knackered gringo appears being led through town on a large white horse and looking extremely uncomfortable about it. I really had no idea how I was going to get down again, but my chauffer stopped us next to a high curb. I was so grateful for the lift I would have given him a load of money, but he wouldn’t take any during our slightly awkward “tip’ moment.
The hospedaje has to be the most basic accommodation ever seen - a musty camp bed in a room with no windows. I was shocked to see a light switch (and less surprised when it didn’t work), but relished my cold outdoor shower in a breeze block cubicle with no door.
I managed to stay awake long enough to eat some tortillas, beans, egg and dodgy meat in a very basic comedor, and if I remember rightly even struggled through a conversation about the weather with my host Alicia. But, in this dark town where electricity is so new no one knows how to use it, I am asleep before 8pm.

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Thursday 15th September
I was planning on getting drunk and shouting viva in the square whilst wearing an enormous sombrero, but dinner with Trina became a lengthy civilized affair and we managed to miss “el grito”. After a bottle of wine though I did succeed in getting slightly drunk, and danced around to manu chau in the hippie dreadlock bar.
 
Friday 16th September
 
Off to another Zapatista meeting, this time with Trina. We parked the car near the garage and instead of driving took an interesting truck ride down the horrible road. We were standing amongst boxes and petrol cans with various locals; some entrepreneurial teenagers were on their way to sell frisbees and longlife milk and blankets to people in a far away village, and the men in the truck were drunk (this was at midday). After they filled up the petrol cans, and spilled a fair bit, one of them was sleeping with his head resting on the top of a can, and you could see the wet patch where the spilt petrol was gradually soaking into his t-shirt. After nearly three hours of getting dust in my hair and ears we arrived. This meeting is really resembling a festival, the entrepreneurs say “have fun at your party” and a drunk guy gets out of the front (NOT the driver) and staggers into a ditch before trying to charge a random passerby for the truck ride.

We arrive and discover that we are not late. Excellent. Kick-off is 8pm. This meeting is the “plenary” meeting and in journalist style I’m very interested to hear what people are expecting to happen. The general consensus seems to be that the type of organization and action they need for the “sexta” will be agreed on.

At 8pm several of the commandantes speak, including Ramona, which surprised me because the book I just read said she was dead. There is some serious media hype going on, and the tall cameras at the front are being shouted at by those of us that just want to sit and watch.
Then I witness something you would only see at this type of lefty meeting; the people around me write a petition asking for the lowering of the cameras!!! I sign it, as do about 20 other people, but I am very curious to see if anything comes of this little piece of lefty “action”. And does it? does it fuck!!!! Which leaves me wondering about the whole movement. I love the idea, I want these people to get organized. As well as continuing grass roots projects, maybe they will gather enough support to pull together enormous protests that may actually change a political decision (they have to be really big.. like the protests supporting Lopez Obrador ). But, as they say, it will take a long time and I really will have to see it to believe it. Everyone is prepared to wait, but I hope they don’t get bored.
I got a bit bored, or was it sleepy?, listening to the male commandantes speak. My Spanish just ain’t that good. The most important bit was Marcos announcing the dates for his countrywide tour next year. He will finish 10 days before the national elections. That looks stangely like an election campaign for someone who’s not interested in being a politician.
After the meeting Marcos (as usual) told us all to go and dance. And we did. To ranchero music. But , dare I say it, I miss the booze on occasions like this. (The Zapatista communities are “dry” and after seeing the guys on the truck today, you can see that is a really good idea. Alcohol is used in such a different way in the villages, men get drunk, and nobody goes out for a couple).
 
 
Saturday 17th September
 
“Oh my goooooooood!!!” No I didn’t greet him like that, but I was extremely surprised to see someone I knew here - Mateo Crossa, a mega fresa (posh) from Greengates school. A guy from the most expensive school in mexico has come to the jungle, to mingle with poor people, and listen and learn about leftist organizations. He came because he is working for a library in Xochimilco which runs programs to help indigenous people who have moved to the city. Excellent!!
So the meeting starts with some hands up voting, it’s chaotic, and with about 250 people voting, the counting of the hands takes some time. But this is only to decide the program of the day. When we get to proposals about who will be part of the campaign and the tasks they should be getting on with, there is no voting. In fact nothing is to be decided this weekend because that would exclude absentees from the process. Once again it is a discussion, and although people are supposed to be putting forward concrete proposals about specific points there is still a lot of waffle. One of the items on the agenda is to discuss the structure of the organization. Some people say vertical, some people say horizontal. I hope these people are aware that a completely horizontal organization cannot get anything done, there are always going to be some people who disagree. And I don’t know why people don’t just admit what they really want…let Marcos be boss! He has spent 18 years building the trust of the indigenous people, everyone thinks he’s a good guy, surely he’s the man for the job. But that would be too easy (and the few people that disagreed would make a lot of noise, and some people would disagree just to get to the microphone again).
So after a morning of trying to concentrate, I head over to the river to bathe a little, and am very surprised to find MY towel hanging in a bush. Some bastard has nicked it, used it, and left it in a tree. It is definitely mine because it’s from ikea and has a big brown stain on it (sand, I’ll have you know). I thought the people here were supposed to be nice friendly folk. How cheeky to rob my towel. (But on the bright side it is kind of handy since I had forgotten to go and get it myself.)
Later after more concentration, and trying to be a journalist with my rampant note taking, I have a list of the names of people who have spoken, but very little understanding of what each person says. The best source of information for me are the other spectators I get chatting to, the guys from Tepoztlan (an arty town near Mexico city) tell me it was autonomous from 1996 to 1999, and they want it back that way. (I never knew that! And I’ve been there). The Indigenous woman still thinks the Zapatistas are great even though they’ve changed to include everyone (they are not just about indigenous rights anymore). Several other people help with translating, but I’m disappointed really. I thought something would be decided at the meeting but it still seems like a fair bit of waffling and everything is going to be decided later on.
 
The love interest
 
Trina is blond, fair skinned and rather sophisticated. She always gets a lot of attention from men, but I kind of expected the clientele here to be a bit less drooling and a bit more honest. She was chatting to a guy at the café, I noticed after a few minutes he was asking for her email, she said no, and tried to explain why (“we don’t know each other” being the glaring reason). He was persistent and kept talking to her another five minutes before giving up. When I spoke to Trina about it after, she told me this guy had actually said “I love you” before he left. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH. How f ing ridiculous are these men?
I’ve started to wonder if it is because “I love you” in Spanish is “te quiero”, which literally means “I want you”- slightly different to being in love that.
 
The t-shirts
 
My other game at the meeting was looking at what I assume to be carefully selected t-shirts for the occasion. There’s a lack of Marcos t-shirts, (although I see one slightly overweight US looking woman with a bum bag, pink cap, pink trousers, a camera round her neck and a “Zapatour” t-shirt with a list of the “tour dates” on the back – from when they went to Mexico city in 2001) and a few of che. But here are a sample:
 
“fight the power”
“bajo un gobierno que encarcela injustamente, el verdadero sitio para hombre justo es la cárcel” Ricardo flores magon
pacifico (beer)
bbc world service
“chuzos de punta”
cruz azul (mex city football team)
“theatres against war”
“SCCA” and a ghandi quote
“I don’t expect to be patient until there is housing now for all”
 
 
Sunday 18th September
 
This meeting really is looking like a festival. There are hippies hanging around their tents doing capoeira and various circus tricks. The little local boys watching are stunned, they’ve never seen anything quite like this before. Mud is also adding to the festival atmosphere. There have been several massive rainstorms, and although there is plenty of shelter, the ground outside is decidedly soggy.

The meeting continues until 1pm ish, and many more people than last time stick it out to the end. We listen to some more people suggesting important tasks to undertake, but I’m still struggling to pick out the main points of each speech. By the last vote (the only thing people are voting for now is, at the end of each section, whether they are in agreement that the proposals should be up for further discussion in upcoming meetings) Marcos almost gets a no majority – are people a little frustrated?- but deals with it well by asking the question again in a different tone of voice. He is definitely in charge here. After his closing speech it is all over.
I have been offered a lift by some friends of Martin, which is very kind, but unappealing when I discover they are packing five people and luggage into a bocho (vw beetle). I opt for another truck journey instead and go to retrieve my bag from their car. By the time I get there they have managed to reverse into some local guys garden, get stuck in the mud, and are creating plumes of smoke as they are wheel spinning on planks of wood they have put under the car to try and get out. There’s a crowd of men offering advice, but I can’t see them getting back up the bank onto the gravel very easily. Why?? Why did he reverse down onto the muddy ground? They only had to back up a little way down the road and they could have turned round sensibly. I am wondering what the owner of the house is going to think when he gets back and finds a bocho in his vegetable patch, “bloody city folk”.
Anyway I have to interrupt the manly discussions of what to do next to ask for my bag, but to top off their car problems the boot won’t open. They give me a phone number and tell me I can pick it up the next day. I wonder if I should stay and help a while, but I don’t have any suggestions even if I thought for one second someone would listen to a girl.
The truck journey turns out to be fun (the hippies are there with a guitar),but a little frustrating (we run out of petrol). Unfortunately our driver was a bit of a bastard on the way (driving past stuck people, and annoying other trucks) so when we are sitting by the side of the road everyone pretty much just laughs as they drive past. After several people have abandoned the hippie train for other vehicles we get going again.
I pick up the car and rant at a guy called Mitch who gets a lift home with me. He wants to be a writer too, and he knows a lot more than me.
 

Monday 19th September
 
Cleared up some mud. Tried to be a journalist. I’m still living in the house of my lovely friend Martin, and he is still in the states.
 
Tuesday 20th September
 
I really must leave the house and go to Guatemala (I think I’ve had this problem before). I’ve downloaded a shedload of music though, and written an article which I will do nothing with.
 
Wednesday 21st September
 
I left!! A 10 hour minibus ride and I’m in the ever so scary Guatemala city. I wanted to stay in Zone 1, but everyone kept ranting about how dangerous it is.. (i´m like, dude.. i´ve lived in DF two years). So when a passenger got dropped at a hotel in a nicer neighbourhood they practically forced me to go there too. It was more expensive than i wanted and there was a cockroach in the bathroom. Then i wanted to eat but it was really raining and the woman was unhelpful about getting me a taxi and they told me I could get fried chicken delivered. I didn´t want fried chicken and I was tired and hungry and slightly pre menstrual so I watched the rain and was temporarily reduced to tears. In the end I got my coat and walked past the prostitutes on the corner to the nearest restaurant, a bloody expensive but bloody nice Chinese, where they looked at me strangely because I was alone.

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Thursday 1^st September

I arrived in Guatemala today, and got to Xela the second city at about 8pm. (Those of you who are clever will notice there’s a gap, it doesn’t take a day to get down the road to Guate. What actually happened was that yesterday some bastard nicked my wallet, thus delaying my departure AGAIN..but the point is I finally got here).

Wow, Guate makes Chiapas look like a really civilized place. I traveled to the border in 2 and a half hours in new micro-vans. Across the border I got on a shitty bus with three people to every two spaces. The exhaust was growling every time he put his foot down as we climbed back up into the mountains. Everyone said the buses in Guate were an experience, yeah, a really BAD experience. Especially since I have a hangover (during my extra night in San C I met my new editor and he said ..i quote..”you can write”. Now there’s a reason to celebrate. He also said I was cute. Hmmm, I hope he didn’t have ulterior motives when he was being nice about my article).

Anyway, the bus journey is crazy. The driver absolutely hoons it along the winding road. Then if there are any people waiting at the roadside he drives right past them because he can’t stop in time. I think more time is actually wasted waiting for them to run to catch up than is gained by driving ridiculously fast.

I would also advise travellers to sit on the drivers side of the bus. This way you will avoid having to watch the bus guy risking his life as he clambers up on top of the bus while we are moving at forty miles an hour. I saw something hit him on the head one time - a branch? Or maybe a dangling electrical wire - and the guy had a laugh about it with the driver! Then he climbed on up and just made it before two trees were close enough to take him out. I really don’t want to see this guy flung onto the tarmac. It would ruin my already horrible, uncomfortable day.

In total it took 8 hours and 2 collectivos, 2 buses and 2 taxis to get to Xela. But looking on the brightside it only cost $13 US.

Friday 2^nd September

On my way to the shower this morning I passed by the travel agent who lives here and booked a trip to climb a volcano tomorrow. Nice. Then I went to some cold miserable hot springs. The guide book said “sublime” and I was really excited. But after a pick-up ride up the hill to get there the fog had rolled in and you could barely see to metres away, let alone the view.  I forced myself to sit in the tepid water a while as I figured it was good for me, then got changed on a freezing concrete floor and sneezed all the way back to relative civilisation. I sat in a restaurant with a view over the whole village, which would be great if the village wasn’t a mish mash of grey concrete buildings, mud roads and small fields. It is still raining and Guate is not great. Plus it takes me two hours to get home on crowded buses (it’s only 10km).

Saturday 3^rd September

I’m impressed with how well I wake up at 4:30am to head on yet more crowded buses out to the bottom of Tajumulco volcano- the highest in central America, but a fairly pathetic 4220m  (been up higher). At the final count there are 32 people and 3 guides in our group. This doesn’t please me, it takes 20 mins to get on the bus, they throw our packs on top one by one, and we squish our way onto an already half full bus. When we sit down to breakfast we take over the whole comedor and I’m already starting to get annoyed about the inane conversations people are having (oooh, I like your hair, where have you been then?, altitude can kill you know) and there is absolutely no opportunity to practice Spanish on this trip – all 3 guides are from the USA.

The walking is bloody hard. We climb 1000m to our camp spot (at 4000m) carrying 15+ kg packs and the going is not slow.

I love the word “gung-ho” and luckily the gung-ho people in our group get to the top sooooooo quickly they have put most of the tents up before we arrive. Not before overtaking me with the predictable condescending comment “you just pacing yourself are you?”

I am in a tent with all the lone travelers, 5 in a 4 man tent. I already hate the girl next to me – she’s even more obviously selfish than me – and hasn’t said a single thing yet apart from statements of her immense knowledge of all things outdoor, and complaints about things going wrong for her. On my left is the most gung-ho of all. He has carried 3 kgs of camera equipment with him, including a foot long zoom lens. But he just goes round snapping away, reaching over people holding the camera with one hand at a funny angle. If those pictures come out it just proves my theory that with expensive enough equipment anyone can be a photographer. He took pictures of the porridge.

After standing around in the cold in a stupid black poncho waiting for more pasta to cook we went to bed at 7pm, and I got to sleep about midnight. Not until after a girl came to join us from her flooded tent and slept where our feet should go. At this point we are 6 in a 4 man tent in the rain. The guys on either end are completely wet, and I am trying to sleep with my knees up. I’m close to storming out and screaming, but it’s raining and I don’t want to go outside.

Sunday 4^th September

Another 4am start takes us to the summit, just about in time for sunrise, but with 30 of us (2 didn’t make it after last night) the traffic is ridiculous. The view at the top is stunning, you can see Mexico, 2 live volcanoes and apparently the ocean but I’m not sure about that.

After about 300 photos from the t#@t who slept next to me we head back down. The walk down is fantastic, I escape the traffic a bit, free myself of the ridiculous poncho and can look around at the meadows dotted with trees and flowers, and see the hills and valleys below us. After a precious few moments sitting alone I know I have to return to the crowd if I want any breakfast.

It takes a phenomenal amount of time to eat and break camp. On the way down we stop in the sun a couple of times, mmm soaking up the warmth of the sun…a decent rest. The travel conversations have moved on to “where have you been in Asia?” and I prefer the boyish ramblings of the guides, who are trying to start a fire with a tiny magnifying glass.

After more buses and lunch and handing the equipment back it’s over and I can have a hot shower and a long sleep.   

Monday 5^th September

I haven’t tried to move yet but I have a feeling it’s going to hurt.                               

No. Moving around is painful and I’m still very tired. After a morning of indecision and trying to get things done (it’s impossible to send a fax, or buy shampoo, hairbands and a razor in the same shop – in the developed world it’s called a pharmacy – not that difficult surely) I find a shuttleto take me to the lake. Hooray..i couldn’t face getting on another chicken bus.

By nightfall I have found a gorgeous lakeside room with a hammock out front. This town (San Pedro) has to be the friendliest place anywhere. All the locals as well as the tourists say hello. When I was strolling around trying to figure out which path went back to the main street (there aren’t very many roads here) I first got invited to join in a young girls game with her sister, then 2 seconds later a slightly older girl invited me to her grandma’s party. I wanted to tell someone these tales of friendliness so I stopped into the next bar. He listened to my story then introduced me to everyone in the place!

Tuesday 6^th September

This was the view from my hammock and I looked at it most of the day. A quick swim, reading and eating is all I did. Great.

I had dinner with my Israeli neighbours and braved the topic of politics with an English girl who has moved to Israel. It sounds like a pretty divided place, with the ultra-orthodox Jews living in their own communities and shutting everything down on Saturdays. They are resented by the people at this table because they don’t have to do military service, and instead spend one year less than everyone else doing “national” service, (like community service). Then there’s the Israeli Arabs who also live in their own communities and are also resented. This group because they have cousins in Palestine and have been blamed for helping to bring bombs in. These guys do the crappy jobs. The people you see traveling (in their hoards!!!) are the Hebrew speaking Jewish who have just finished military service. According to my neighbours, in Palestinian schools kids are not even taught that Israel exists, (how do they know where to take the bombs then?!). It seems to me that, as always, education is so important in this delicate situation. I stumped them all by asking what type of passports Palestinians had, and – predictably- one of the macho guys commented in Hebrew that Palestinians don’t have passports because they are all too poor ha ha ha.

And so far I’m proved right about them being tight….none of the people I’m with tip. They just don’t. Not even in this ridiculously cheap country where the people really could use the money – cultural differences eh.

Wednesday 7^th September                                                                      

I think I ate a bad egg. I had stomach pains.. but not the normal cramps, more like aching with a bit of nausea thrown in. I really did stay in the hammock all day today, and was particularly anti social.

I’m in San Pedro, it’s a strange little town. There are tons of Spanish schools, but I don’t believe anyone actually wants to learn Spanish as all the menus and people working in the restaurants speak English. I was supposed to be practicing loads this week, but it’s actually easier to practice in Mexico.

Thursday 8^th September

A hellish day getting back to San Cristóbal. 6 hours on chicken buses, including being squashed by someone’s bag of rotting fish (smelt like it), then mini-vans back in Mexico. 10 hours it took me, and I stank of fish for most of it.

So I have lovely memories of Guatemala. Not.

Friday 9^th September

Ahhhh, Mexico, such a lovely country. I spent the day sitting in the garden of the hostel and talking to various people about going to this week’s Zapatista meeting, without really believing any of them would go. Then to my pleasant surprise my friend Martin says “why not?” and provides transport and a tent. By the time all this is decided it’s too late to leave today so we set our alarms for a 6am departure.

Saturday 10^th September

My stomach is still way dodgy so the 6am departure becomes more like midday. On the way there I am in serious pain, Martin thinks it’s his driving scaring me, but no, I am just sweating because of  my painful stomach. But after half an hour of pain, whatever it was is gone and I am better than I have been for days. Hooray, I can enjoy the meeting. Well, enjoy is putting it a bit strongly, it’s more like an intellectual exercise with all the speeches in Spanish. It’s astoundingly similar to the last meeting, the same kind of people saying the same kind of things. There’s a group of campesinos that do a great show though, they walk to the front shouting, (“Zapata vive!” response: “La lucha sigue!”), then sing some songs whilst holding their machetes high in the air and clanking them together.

                                                you can just about see machetes

Marcos is a lot more accessible this time (they’re outside so you can sneak up behind him) and he’s actually autographing books and t-shirts while people are queuing up behind him! He’s supposed to be listening to the speakers.

The people in the community are really friendly. Our friend Cedric had nowhere to sleep so we went looking for a hammock space. In one barn I was suggesting using the emptier half of the room, when I realized it was someones house! And they had already let about 12 people come to stay. The next barn we peeked in was also someones house, but they let cedric stay anyway!!! They put the hammock up for him above a huge pile of corn kernels and in the bed in the corner 2 of the children were asleep. So kind!!! Then when cedric went back covered in mud at about 1am he accidently woke up the baby, now the whole family of 5 had gone to sleep…in one double bed, and to avoid any further disruption cedric just slept in his muddy clothes all night!

Sunday 11^th September

We truly are part-timers at this weekend’s meeting; we leave early, at 1pm to go to some Mayan ruins in Ocosingo on the way home. Toniná they are called and it’s a great site, built all the way up the side of a hill you can climb 80m’s up the steps of the different buildings. Bloody hot though. This is the first touristy thing I have done in Chiapas for weeks!!

Martin is such a star he’s letting me stay at his house…with great facilities including high-speed internet, playstation2, sky -full package- and kittens!!!!

Monday 12^th September

Hanging at the house, some serious internet action. It feels kind of weird going into town in the evening and seeing tourists everywhere, San Cristóbal is such a different place for me now - compared to when I first arrived. I’m practically a local.

Tuesday 13^th September

Martin has gone to the states…but I’m still in the house.  After a brief stint in town I return to the computer.

Wednesday 14^th September

Well more of the same innit, you think this website writes itself?

The most exciting point of my day was introducing the kittens to the dog. He’s behind a fence so it’s relatively safe, but I could feel their little hearts beating faster and faster as I carried them closer. Then they tried to make themselves look big by putting their fur on end…ha ha, they are only the size of my hand and they are trying to make themselves look big.

They are Mexican kittens, they eat tortillas.