Beauty Queens and Bumblebees

I have never asked for seats in the barbed wire cage section before. In fact, I didn´t know that´s what I was ordering when I dragged my friend Robbie to the soccer match in Buenos Aires last weekend.

The last thing on my South American to-do list was see a soccer game live. I´d tried in Colombia and Peru, but it never worked out. It was either too dangerous to go alone or too far away.

The only ´sporting event´ I´d found until now was a cholita wrestling match in La Paz, where grown women and men dressed up in spandex diapers and proceeded to knock each other around the ring, against concrete walls and with metal chairs, to the delight of expletive-screaming Bolivians. And their children. At least I learned some new vocabulary from a 12-year-old... isn´t socially-accepted violence great?

So when Robbie arrived, a Londoner more preoccupied with the design and color scheme of the uniforms than any actual sport, I thought ´Oh, Robbie´s European, he must like soccer! A real sport. This is my last chance... this is going to be the best soccer match EVER!!´

Sometimes people find my unwarranted optimism endearing. Robbie does not, which is partly why I love him. But, humoring me, we made our way up the concrete steps to the top of River Plate stadium, one section away from the opposing team´s fans, chanting merrilly along with the drumline and waving their black and yellow banners.

´I like River´s red sashes,´ observed Robbie, bored. ´They look like beauty queens. Little beauty queens running around with bumblebees... geez, where can I get a beer?´

The ´nosebleed section´ is a double-entendre in Buenos Aires. We entered a section rimmed with a tall chicken-wire fence encircled in barbed wire. It was the kind of security measures you see on the outside of prisons (but not in Bolivia!). And they don´t sell beer there.

Police officers stood at the exit and watched the game with their batons at the ready. River Plate fans had their red and white flags out and peole were chanting and jumping around with lots of drums and not enough cowbell. It was as I had imagined: lots of singing, some fireworks and pretty good soccer.

The game started and ended uneventfully. Halftime was a bit of a snore - intermission entertainment has yet to catch on, but I see opportunities galore for marching bands and kiddie slam dunk contests in South America - and the worst part was there was no garlic fries, milkshakes or vendors tossing peanuts in the stadium. Only questionable-looking hamburgers.

We weren´t even in the ´Los Borrachos del Tablon´ section (the Terrace Drunks), but there was good reason we stood for an hour post-match waiting to leave: they were letting the Olimpio fans out first. Not only were we waiting for them to exit the stadium, but exit the actual neighborhood should a mass exodus of beauty queens go all cholita in the streets.

Alas, the only inappropriateness came in the form of four lascivious teenagers who jumped on the chicken wire and thrust their pelvises in the general bumblebee direction with accompanying crude hand motions.

It wasn´t classy, but it was classically South American.

Dia de los Snort-os

I knew it was going to be a weird day when the man took my student ID card to cut lines of cocaine for our tour group. For weeks the backpacker circuit had been abuzz with story of the San Pedro Prison in La Paz, a special place for murderers, rapists and pedophiles. Also, a a place you could take drugs with said lovely people. Lots of people were reading the book, ´Marching Powder´, an account of an English inmate who started offering tours of the inside.

The inside was still a mystery. I hadn´t actually met anyone who had been inside. But whenever I talked to someone about San Pedro, we spoke in serious italics. For emphasis.

Generally, I tend to avoid prisons, which I have always found to be wise. I don´t like violence, drugs or orange jumpsuits, and on TV, that´s all prison´s about.

But, it was Day of the Dead. And I had convinced some burly-looking guys from the north of England to come with me. Israelis would have been preferable, but they were too cheap to do it. You have to pay 400 Bolivianos to get in - roughly $50 - plus bribes once you´re on the inside to stay safe. But the pound is strong, and so it was - two electrical engineers from York, and yours truly.

San Pedro is capitalism at its most glossy-eyed. Every prisoner must pay for his own cell (who they pay was never clear), which has created an entire community of strung-out venture captalists. Restaurants, laundry, artisans and drugs or alcohol are all available for a very unfair price. Those who speak foreign languages can make more as tour guides, and those good at beating people up make the best bodyguards. My group got Felipe and Jose for both jobs, respectively.

Felipe is 47, has a tan like George Hamilton and a rasp like Phyllis Diller. A Portuguese national, Felipe was arrested 36 months ago for drug smuggling. He pled guilty at trial and has yet to receive his sentence.

He seemed bitter.

But at least he dressed up for the occasion. His black blazer was just slightly tattered at the elbows and his white button-down was gray, though neatly tucked into his jeans which were held up by a rope. I wondered where he got the rope...

Felipe is a master of languages and almost blew my cover off the bat. We were standing over a pool with a giant painted Beluga whale smiling up at us from below. They used to find corpses floating in the pool every morning not long ago.

´Blah blah blah´, he said to me in French.

´Pardon?´

´Didn´t you say you are from Canada? I thought every Canadian spoke French.´

Shit. I did lie. The York boys told me to because the prisoners here blame Bolivia´s poverty on the United States. Listen, I know we´re bad and stuff, but do I really have to take responsibility for Jose´s armed robbery?

I knew tombe-pas-de-bourrée-glissade-assemblé wasn´t going to help here. The extent of my French is ballet vocabulary. I mean, I doubted Felipe, a self-proclaimed con-man, had ever taken a ballet class, but when you´re on the inside, you can´t make such assumptions.

´Actually, in Vancouver we really don´t speak French. Just English. It´s a western province thing.´ Bright Canadian smile.

I mean, what´s a little white lie among pedophiles anyway?

For two hours, Felipe showed us around, in English. There are 7 main ´neighborhoods' in the prison, all with increasingly better cells or cleaner-looking particleboard. The prison is a hodgepodge, with cells atop each other, and an extremely rickety-looking web of staircases that lead you through atriums, concrete soccer grounds, lots of mini cocaine or chocolate shops or the laundry blocks.

The prisoners get stuff to sell to each other because their wives or girlfriends bring it in. Actually, if you´re married, you can live with your sweetheart in his cell in prison. It´s so romantic that lots of women do. And so do their children. In Bolivia, just because you´re locked up doesn´t mean you lose the right to see your family. The kids are released for school every day, and come back by 5 p.m. for dinner or church.

Prisoners can sell and take drugs because the police don´t go into San Pedro, preferring to let the inmates police themselves. And they do.

Dudes in black shirts with batons are the official security team. They enforce a 3-strikes rule. If you tattle, you get a beating. If you do it again, you are beaten until you bleed. And a third time gets you all that, plus extended time between the walls, where a lot of people are found dead.

We don´t tour between the walls, thank god.

According to Felipe, if you murder someone in prison in Bolivia, you only get 2 years added onto your sentence. He grimaced. There was that elusive word: sentence. Poor Felipe...

He took us into the kitchen where the prison mush is cooked. Bolivia will pay for water, electricity, tea and bread. The rest is up to the prisoners. The day we visited, it looked like they were cooking killer stew. Five teenage boys were peeling potatoes in the corner with 6-inch knives I was praying were dull.

Avoiding actual eye contact, I could see the peeling had become provocative, as you might imagine it would when you´re a 19-year-old convict.

´Íf you can afford it, it´s great to take a shower here because it´s hot water. I take a shower once a week in the sauna room...´

Felipe´s hygiene was fascinating, but the killer spud peeling gallery was getting raucous. I´m glad my Spanish sucks, because the words coming out of their mouths just sounded foul, and I needed no translation. I grabbed on to a York engineer for dear life, Felipe took the hint, and we went to another, equally uncomfortable area with no visible knives. That smelled.

I wasn´t sure if the aroma of boiled vegetables, mold and nervous sweat was making me ill, or the fact I was in a prison on my own will. Prisons on TV actually look like they smell pretty clean, because prisoners are always assigned to mop and things. But San Pedro is not like TV prisons. TV prisons don´t have little girls hugging you for dear life, and the whole time I kept thinking ´Glad I left my wallet at home´, not ´Geez I hope this little girl isn´t ruined for life.´

I am a terrible person. I mean, she´s already got 10 years of therapy ahead of her...

Also, TV prisons don´t have cocaine labs where you can sample the local product, purported to be the finest in Bolivia. Don´t worry mom, I don´t take drugs, and if I did, it wouldn´t be in an effing prison. But I did proffer my ID card - not my Duck ID, of course! - because one has to appease the drug boss when you´re on the inside.

Pablo, another tour guide, told me San Pedro really isn´t a bad place to live.

´Before I was deported, I did 3 years in SoCal, and it was always the Mexicans vs. the Blacks vs. the Russians... shit man, here´s it´s different. Everybody mixes - Bolivians, the foreign dudes, the drug dealers, the hard murderers. And nobody has to wear that ugly-ass orange bullshit. Fuck, man.´

Fuck, man, indeed.

FARC and Circumstance

Second-hand danger stories are always annoying.

Firstly, danger is an overused term. Stranger danger. Austin Danger Powers. Highway to the Danger Zone. So when I heard stuff like kidnappings, armed robberies and other scary death-related stuff goes on in Colombia, I thought - wow, this could be unpleasant. But gee, there's a place that could use some positive press. And off I went.

And the funny part was, as soon as I arrived in Popayan in southern Colombia, I started meeting people who were actually held at knife-point - they, themselves - and taken for the equivalent of $15 by 10-year-old children in Bogota.

And when my two friends finally met up with me in Cali - 3 hours later than planned - it was even funnier to hear them talk about how their bus had been roadblocked by FARC, Colombia's most charming terrorist organization. And when I say funny, I mean in that uncomfortable way that makes you want to clutch your wallet and suck your thumb. Not that I did that...

They told me, first-hand, how they stood single-file while a soldier explained the FARC had nothing to do with the assassination of their leader the day beforehand, and how they were really a peaceful group - difficult to buy when an automatic weapon is aimed at your torso. Doubly difficult when you can see soldiers hiding in the jungle on your narrow stretch of road, rifles ready to cover their compadres should anything turn ugly... Also, their uniforms cost a lot of money. Oh yeah, and all the strife in Colombia, including that leader's death, is the fault of the Americans.

Well, I guess we do have a bad reputation for covert assassinations in this part of the world...

They let them go after 30 minutes of complaining. The FARC could really use a community newspaper or something less, um, scary to inform the masses of their statements of peace. There's a group that could use a PR professional. UO Journalism School, are you reading?

All this wasn't helping my quest to create my own non-danger Colombia story. All FARC and no fun makes Colombia a dull drug lord. So after arriving in Cali, the salsa capital of the world, I decided to make the most of my Mexican salsa lessons and dance for an entire weekend. Employing my best judgment, I decided to first hop on the CHIVA Party Bus with some hostel mates.

For those who don't know, the CHIVA Party Bus is an old schoolbus pimped out in disco lights, a great stereo system and no windows or doors so that innocent pedestrians may also enjoy said strobe lights and overly-loud reggaeton against their will. It is, undoubtedly, the most obvious way on earth to announce I AM A TOURIST, PLEASE ROB ME.

The Party Bus leads you all over town, subjecting all walks of Cali life to our noisome menagerie of shot-swilling foreigners and a fair number of Colombian women, drop-dead gorgeous with their stilettos and silicon out for the night. My favorite was a lady in a red bedazzled tube top and bionic breasts. We called her Boobs. She was extremely friendly and didn't speak a lick of English to her extremely appreciative American novio. I was concerned for her health given the air tightness of her jeans, but 'yeast infection' doesn't translate like you might think it would.

Anyway, everything was going well - we boogied past the posh neighborhoods, then the red light district, and Boobs waved to the skinny and starving homeless people sleeping by the library. I started to wonder just what part of town we could possibly offend next. That's when we arrived at a red light and a huge group of high schoolers were drinking en masse right behind us. Obviously, the Party Bus is way more fun than drinking on the street with your teenage friends. Duh! We had Boobs! So a couple of them hung off the side and danced along with us.

And at that point, all was right with the world. Smiles were smiled. Drinks were drunk. Lovely, young Colombians were enjoying our evening out as much as we were.

But the bus driver was vexed with all this merriment from people who hadn't paid, and lurched the bus forward, knocking some of the boys to the hard concrete below.

Well, nobody likes to be knocked off the Party Bus by a grouchy driver, do they? I mean, I wouldn't.

The DJ cut the music and the boys, mad, started smacking the electric green siding with their fists and yelling things in Spanish that were, frankly, fowl. And it was around this time I thought again, wow, this could be unpleasant.

The boys were scrambling to get into the windowless/doorless bus with agility when the light turned green and we took off, popping onto a viaduct to another classy part of town. Only a few glass beer bottles actually hit us, and even Boobs' botoxed eyebrows seemed to have moved slightly to express pain or concern. I think she was really scared, but no one could tell.

Alas, this could have happened anywhere in the world. And there is no point in running around being scared of the danger that happened to others. Or even the almost-danger that is likely to befall the ridiculous Party Bus on its next round of the city.

I would like to give Colombia props for the following cool things:

* Lush green countryside with deep valleys and pointy, jungly mountains
* Excellent coffee, thanks Juan Valdez
* Fabulous graffiti art
* Men with rhythm on the dance floor (though not even remotely as good-looking as the women - or Ecuadoreans! - they do have pizazz)
* Cowbells in the salsa bars
* Excellent and varied fried food
* Very flirty and helpful police officers
* Super yummy local drink - hot chocolate with melted cheese (mixed) and a fried piece of cornbread

Next stop: Cartagena on the Caribbean coast!

Sand, surf and sea turtles

I have decided to start working for the Belize tourism office. Not only did one week snorkeling in the azure waters of the caribbean do wonders for my peace of mind and spirit, but I also have shinier fingernails and better skin!

I took an early bus out of the jungle and headed for the land of white sandy beaches and coconut rum. When I arrived in Caye Caulker, a band of friendly ´rastitutes´ were on the welcome wagon. For those who aren´t familiar, a ´rastitute´ is a cross between a Rasta guy (Bob Marley obviously being the most famous) and a prostitute. According to the middle-aged guy from New Jersey selling fried shrimp on his hibachi by the beach, rastitutes love white women because we´re independent and we have more money.



Hence, the entire week was very good for my ego. Because my mother is reading this email, I will not go into detail about the, um, compliments I received, but let´s just say these gentleman were the most creative with their metaphors than any others I have encountered.

I spent my days mostly soaking up the sun and swimming with the fishes. I went on two snorkeling tours of Belize´s impressive and protected reef. Snorkeling in Hawaii is fun, but snorkeling with moray eels, parrotfish, sharks, sting rays and a sea cow - also known as a manatee – is way cooler. And I am very happy to announce I swam with 3 – YES 3! - sea turtles in Belize. I was so excited to see them that I chased them around the reserve until the boat yelled at me to come back in.

At night it´s easy to eat like a king in Belize – I had massive crab legs, lobster and lots of aforementioned coconut rum. In fact, maybe too much one night. I had what you might call an intestinal malfunction one day and had to stay indoors with Michael Phelps until everything, er, flushed out of my system. Not exactly the best day of my life, but I could think of worse places to get sick than on a chilled-out Caribbean cove with a sea breeze and reggae wafting through the window in equal measure.

I had only planned to stay for a couple of days and ended up in Belize for a full week. I felt so calm and happy and relaxed that I made a bad decision. I decided to leave.

Realizing I only had a few days left on my trip, and considering the promise I made to myself to visit the baby sea turtle refugee camp on Guatemala´s Pacific coast, I booked a bus back to Flores and an overnighter back to Guatemala City.

I knew leaving the island was a mistake when I got off the ferry in Belize City and missed my first bus connection because it was overbooked. Belize City is hot, dingy and industrial and not the safest place in the world to hang out on your own. I got bumped to the next bus coming from Mexico and had to wait 4 hours while the Rasta dude - hired by the bus company to handle our luggage - kept giving me hugs and calling me Susan.



When the bus did arrive, it had befallen some hard times north of the border. A boulder had hit the glass windshield of this old converted American school bus – and I mean old, like one foot in the grave – knocking out the window on the passenger side. Luckily, the window was still intact on the driver´s side. Therefore, it was deemed drivable.

But there we were, a group of gringo vagabonds, driving a dilapidated dinosaur back through the jungle for 6 laborious hours in what has become a rather dangerous part of Guatemala, wind whizzing through the gaping hole in the front of the bus and smacking my face with unsuspecting insects. The extra air conditioning was okay at first when it was still daylight. But as soon as night fell, it got cold and billowy in all the wrong ways.

I would now like to take this opportunity to thank my sister, Jana, for sending me a link to an article about an American man who was hacked to death with a machete in front of his wife by four banditos while vacationing on the Guatemalan border with Belize. The details of that story were not lost on me whilst on the most pathetic bus in recorded history lumbering through the lonely jungle to civilization.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, Guatemala is a dangerous place. There are muggings, rapes and kidnappings everyday. Most Guatemalan people live in abject poverty and act out of desperation to improve their station in life. But may I remind you there are muggings, rapes and kidnappings every day in the United States, in Canada, in England, in what we consider our superior Western World.

I encourage you to not let fear dictate how or where you travel or how you fundamentally live your life. Fear is the scrouge of our society. And I refuse to make decisions based on the fearmongerers who probably have a vested interest in seeing my treasured vacation dollars be spent in my own backyard.

Still, I slept with my wallet and passport under my clothes on the nightbus back to Guatemala City. You know, you have to be prepared and stuff…

24 hours after I left the Caribbean, I arrived in Monterrico, a tiny coastal village on Guatemala´s Paific side with black sand, a strong riptide and tortugas – TURTLES! At last, I made it and none too soon – the turtle refugee camp was having a turtle watching trek that very evening for volunteers.

So after night fell, I marched along with young university marine life students down the windy beach, with eyes glued to the surf, looking for these ancient shelled tortugas to make the arduous climb from the surf up the embankment to dig a nest, drop the eggs and haul it back into the ocean.

We walked. We walked. We walked.

For an hour and a half we walked. And nothing. No turtles. Usually only 4 or 5 come up to lay their eggs per night anyway, so the odds were stacked against us.

But then – hark! – a cell phone call confirmed a turtle was down by Johnny´s bar digging her nest. Johnny´s bar was precisely where we started our journey down the beach…

So we ran. We ran. We ran.

And at last! I saw this beautiful mama turtle laying her eggs, which were promptly swept up by the volunteers for safe incubating at the center. A small crowd of turtle lovers mixed with a larger group of pretty much drunk Guatemalan teenagers who came to Monterrico to flirt. Why this turtle decided to lay her eggs in front of a crowded bar playing really annoying house music is beyond me, but turtles work in mysterious ways.

So all missions were accomplished in Central America. I´m flying home on Wednesday to somewhat sad circumstances – on Saturday, mom informed me that our beloved blond cocker spaniel, Sugar, had died. She was 16, I think. She was my favorite pet in the whole world – way better than any turtle – and I´m very sad to know she won´t be waggling her stumpy tail when I arrive home next. But she had a good life with our family – in one especially melodramatic moment, dad even called her ´the only daughter that never left me´. Indeed, she was faithful to the end. And I will miss her endlessly.