Intercultural gesticulation

I was feeling kind of underwhelmed anyway.

I'd been down under for two weeks with The Diplomat without feeling like I knew what Australian 'culture' was. I figured Hugh Jackman, fit and frisky on a surfboard, might do the trick.

The beach: the answer to all cultural mysteries.

I'd missed my beaching opportunity on the east coast because god was punishing the nation for selling it's soul to Oprah the month prior.

'Oprah's Ultimate Australian Adventure' probably sounded good to the tourism board at the time, but do you really want thousands of middle-aged Angel Networkers asking for the nearest Outback Steakhouse and telling Aboriginals how to live their best life (according to this month's edition of 'O')?

Anyway, I couldn't blame god - it was all doomsday floods and hurricanes on the Great Barrier Reef, so westward ho!

Beach bag full of SPF and David Sedaris, I waited for Number 411 to take me to Scarborough Beach, outside Perth. As the bus came rambling down the deserted roadway and I stood up, taking my bag and walking three feet to the 'Bus Stop' signpost, money in hand - exact change, thank you!

I believed these efforts to be obvious international signals for 'I'd like to ride your bus! And - I will pay!'

I watched the bus approach. I saw the driver look at me. And then I watched the bus sail right past.

What the effy eff?

I then did what every woman ignored by a man does. I ran after him.

I caught up at the next light, breathy but willing to give this guy the benefit of the doubt. I had already learned direct eye contact in Australia does not equate acknowledgment of one's existence.

I rapped on the door.
He looked at me.
I pointed to the door.
He kept looking, indifferent.
I pointed to myself, then the door, then made an 'open' motion.

He shook his head no and put his hand up in the air, waved, then pointed at me and shook his head again.

Wave? He wouldn't pick me up because I didn't wave?

It was quite a change coming from free-wheeling South America, where the designated bus stops are wherever somebody wants to get on. No Latino - or accompanying farm goat - is left behind. Waving optional.

I furrowed my brow, rolled my eyes sidelong, stomped a little for effect, then mimed my ascent from the bus stop bench to the bus stop sign and flopped my hands forward in an appeal to just let me on the damn bus already.

This is what Oprah's soulless Australia had reduced me to: a temper tantrum with a public servant. A'la charades.

At this point, all the other passengers became interested in our mime-off, and I'd like to think some asked him to just open the door for this nice foreign lady who maybe had a wave impediment? But the driver wagged his index finger at me, the international sign for 'I am a patronizing figure of authority and you are not.'

The light changed and he left me standing to brood in a viscous bisque of irritability. This is the Ultimate Adventure? Somebody get me a koala to hug, stat.

I changed my strategy and made a complete fool of myself, again, flagging down the next 411 with every limb and digit flopping in the air. I also changed my ticket to leave Australia a week early.

After all that, Hugh wasn't even at the beach.

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.

Hola from Antigua, Guatemala

I walked out of the airport on Tuesday at 6 a.m. to throngs of screaming fans welcoming me to Central America. I guess the Embassy must have sent them an email that 1. I was coming and 2. I needed a ride to Antigua from the Guatemala City airport. Not only were the crowds singing my praises at the airport exit, but they had some homemade signs that read ´shuttle´, ´taxi´ and ´We love you Julie´. Ok, I might be embellishing on that last one... might.

My hostel was meant to send a shuttle that never showed up, so in a daze I latched onto another American girl headed my way. Together, we let the bidding begin. It must have been a combination of scrunched eyebrows, head shaking and a lot of walking around in circles with bewilderment that dropped the asking price from $17 to $10. It certainly wasn´t my Italian. All that got me was a blank stare. And lots of silence. Lots.

We arrived in Antigua, Guatemala´s old colonial capitol and a very, very pretty city. The streets are lined with cobblestone and the one-story concrete walls are as colorful as a Mayan dress. The city is beautiful, but small. I think my first day I walked from one corner to the other in about an hour. You should see Central Park! It´s the size of an actual city block! A small city, granted.

The real attraction is the location. Each morning I´ve been here, I´ve had breakfast with black cinder cone volcanoes collared with meringue clouds, offset by a cobalt sky and lush green hillsides. I could think of worse places to have an egg. But don´t go thinking everything is unicorns and glitter! It rains. Everyday. Around 1 p.m. Everyday. And it doesn´t stop until after dinner. This isn´t the drizzle and rusty tan type climate I was bred in. I´m talking torrential downpours, flash floods, Armageddon! Did I mention the every day thing?

I´m so over the rain. And it´s only Day 5!

The highlight of the week was a hike up one of the fuming cinder cones, Volcan Pacaya. Climbing over ragged crags of molten lava with steam rising through the scorching haze during a lightning and thunderstorm is not as exciting as one might imagine. In fact, it only becomes fun when there´s food involved. So my tour group of complete randoms was smart enough to bring along marshmallows for roasting over the hot spots on our trail. They did not, however, have the foresight to bring graham crackers and chocolate to make it a real party. But one keen woman brought a frying pan and an egg to cook for dinner. Such prescience.

Oh the lava. Lava! I have been waiting so long to see red bubbly lava in its red bubbly form! We didn´t, um, hike up to the caldera of the volcano. That would have been like, dangerous, obviously. So the lava we did see wasn´t the most thrilling. It wasn´t flowing anywhere. It didn´t glob or flame or spit or even singe my sneaker. It was just complacent, sitting there under black caves of its former self, letting everyone take its picture and looking smug. There were even stray dogs laying on the trail, warming themselves in the haze. Unfortunately, Guatemala is not a place for dog lovers... most I´ve seen are strays, starving and mistreated. :(

The trip up Pacaya was more fun than the trip down, thanks to two girls from Holland who would just NOT stop trying to light their cigarette in the lava an consequently wasted so much time that we had to climb back down in the dark. Ay, Nederlanders. If I have not already mentioned the rain, I would like to do so again at this point for added effect. Rain. Dark. Volcano. Holland.

Other things I have been doing to entertain myself: I have now completed two days of Spanish classes. This does not qualify me to say anything remotely comprehendible, but I think my trip back to the airport will be easier.



I´ve also had lunch and dinner everyday with Veronica, my college roommate, who is doing an internship here in Antigua. Today I´m leaving for Lake Atitlan, reputed home to many an ex-pat pothead and the kind of people who live in Eugene. I´m hoping to do a little ´chillaxin´. What, you ask? According to an Israeli in my dorm named Roy, chillaxin is an American term (?), combining the art of chilling with relaxing. Chillaxin. I know, it sounds like a pill for hemorrhoids. But it´s catching on, just you wait for Obama to use it in a speech.

More adventures to come!