Carnival
I do not understand the significance of Carnival. Everyone in some 20 Spanish-speaking countries goes on vacation for the same week in February. People appear from nowhere, the population doubles for a week. Everyone leaves their city to go party. Yet everywhere you go is filled with bodies. I don’t understand the implications, especially when there will be another week off in a month for Easter. Nor do I understand where all the people come from. But this story is about what happened to me over Carnival. Not all the crazy, and more interesting, stuff that happens to everyone else, i.e. bullfights, cheese trucks, promiscuous masseuses, street fires and Sangria.
Carnival begins for me on Thursday, February 11th. Class finished at 4:30. I needed to be at the bus station at 5 for a 6 o’clock bus. Loaded up with 35 pounds of mostly food, my four friends and I board the bus at 5:45. In accordance to the Venezuelan measurement of time we left promptly at 6:45. Not looking forward to a 12-hour bus ride, I feel a bit antsy. I’ve never been on a bus for this long. And in a foreign country. How will I pass the time… I am definitely going to be bored… what can I do… oh, afternoon' Benadryl.
These buses are notoriously cold. They sell coats in this country for two reasons: trips to the mountains and trips on these buses. A/C vents jettison cold air at you from every corner. Smart Wool socks, three shirts, a sweater, and one hat later I find myself in a mild comatose in the freezing cold. I suddenly miss home.
The first stop is 4 hours into the trip, which is really 4 and half hours into the trip (following Venezuelan suite). A bus station is straight out of S. E. Hilton’s The Outsider or The West Side Story. Black, slicked back hair, button-ups with three buttons undone, creased blue jeans, eternally burning cigarettes, gas spills and a modestly lit half-acre of cement. The American equivalent of a Midwestern truck stop. With empanadas.
Bus stops, driver yells, bathroom and food break. Mid-dream I get my stuff together. I need to use a static bathroom because you are only permitted to standup while on the bus bathroom. Having taken my time getting out of my chair I am the last one on the bus, and the doors are shut on the upstairs of this double-decker. Here I am reacquainted with my nemesis. Venezuelan doors. There are 3 kinds of doors here, they either: (a) don’t open, (b) slam way to loud, or (c) reopen at will. This one is an “a” door. The door handle is missing. It won’t open. I spend four minutes trying to find the ‘magic lever’ to open the door. Can’t find it. And I need to go to the bathroom. Last ditch effort. I swing my weight into it. Bam, it pops open.
Alas, freedom is mine.
I descend a spiral staircase to get off the bus. And what do I find but a second door… leading to outside… that won’t open… another “a” door. But this one has a hole where the door handle was. And I thought I was free.
All I want is to use the bathroom. I spot my friends outside the bus and pound on the window to get their attention. One comes over. I slid open a perfectly sized window and ask him to open the door.
“Can’t man, bus driver took the key,” he tells me.
“Dude, I need to poo. How do I get off here?” I frantically ask.
“I don’t know, wait till he comes back?” I am told.
“I’ll be left behind. I don’t speak Spanish. He’ll leave without me. And I’ll be trapped here,” I quickly rationalize.
‘Uhhh, this country…’ I mutter to myself as I sit down on the bus stairs. I am thinking of two things right now. Jason Bourne and how glad I am that I’m not claustrophobic. This would be a panic attack and a half had I not spent weekends scurrying through holes and caves in the Midwest. I chime over to my friend again to come over and hold my backpack. Confused, I hand it to him through the 2.5x1 foot window. I push the window to see if I can’t get it open any more. Doesn’t move. Here goes. I grab the lip of the window and pull myself up. Figuring feet first will be easier, I slide my feet up and through the window. After a little contortion act I pop my hips through the window. My jacket is now covering my face and I don’t know where in reference to anything my body is except for hanging out of a window. Hoping—praying—that my head doesn’t hit anything, I let go and drop 6-feet, into freedom. I just crossed the Rio Grande. Freedom.
But its not over, I haven’t forgotten why that was necessary. I grab my backpack and break towards the bathroom. Over my shoulder I hear, “That’s a guy who needs to shit.” Walking over stained concrete my feet finally find tile. To my luck, the toilet paper vender is MIA. Knowing that in this country you usually pay to use clean restrooms, or toilet paper, in this case, I grab a handful of tp and make for the first vacant stall.
I’ll spare the details. Except that this stall door was “c” door. Midway through doing my business I look up to see that I’ve got spectators. Wonderful, I love voyeurism. Venezuela knows how to make me blush.
Safely on the bus, I’m surprised to feel back in my comfort zone. The same bus that made me nervous 4 American hours earlier. This is calming, knowing I am leaping out of my comfort zone; it is nice to find it again. Especially in such an alien place. This becomes the theme of this weekend vacation.
The remainder of the bus is pretty mundane to Venezuelan standards. However, I am not a Venezuelan, so inherently my mind is blown and I can’t understand how this is normal.
First off, we pass through many security checkpoints. This is funny to me. Customs for entering this country was a man texting while my belongings pass through an x-ray machine. But these checkpoints—to cross the country—these checkpoints could have been administered by TSA. On one occasion a soldier with an AK-47 boarded our bus and looked at everyone’s identification. Maybe automatic weapons are the Venezuelan version of flashlights here, but I didn’t sleep for the rest of the trip.
Second, I needed to use the bathroom (should have learned). It’s a small airplane-like lavatory. Everything is simple enough: a button to flush, a button to wash, but the door doesn’t lock—better go fast. A portion of the wall is torn off and makes for a window and the ventilation system. A trash bag is the stained glass. The hum of the bus and billowing of the trash bag makes for typical Venezuelan elevator music.
I start restrooming.
And everything is going fine.
Until the bus driver, probably knowing I’m in there, slams on the brakes. There is no better way to leave your mark in a restroom that by peeing on three of four walls. I had two options. I could either, (a) prevent myself from peeing all over the bathroom, or (b) prevent myself from peeing all over the bus. Now these were not conscious decisions. Not even spur of the moment choices. These were reflexes. The same ones that save your life or catch a falling pen. I would like to think they saved my life here.
I shot backwards and grabbed at everything possible. My hands met the hole in the wall and tore through the plastic bag. My second hand didn’t find anything. Consequently I spun 280 degrees until my back met the wall. Chet-chet-chet-chet-chhhhhhheet. For half a second I had been human sprinkler. How comical. I’m sure the bus driver was laughing at me somehow.
Asshole buses.
.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Playing football with the Chef
The Chef is a really nice guy. He helps me get the food that won’t kill me, he has the coolest sets of sons in the world (see Juan Diego), and he totes me around to different football games. The ones he takes me to are much like futsol in America, except its called “futbalista” or something like that. Here is an anecdote of one night playing:
We show up in Chef’s hotwired car. He was trying to tell me a story of how someone broke into his car and failed at hotwiring it. After spending a whopping 20 BsF (4 USD) to buy a new ignition, he must now put the key in the ignition, turn it, clamp together two wires that hang loose under the steering column, then scratch two separate wires across each other, all with the clutch depressed, and WROOM, Chef has done what the thieves couldn’t, he has stolen his car.
After another ride out of Crazy Taxi, void of seatbelts to follow suit (sorry mom, they don’t have them here), I step out of the car to look down upon a beautiful basketball/futbalista court with the most pathetic surroundings. To the right is a suspended construction zone with a garden of rebar, one single standing column amidst rubble, an old dirt trail and a Bobcat with smashed windows. Directly behind, and to the left as well, is a dried-grass-and-trash moat protecting the court from weary travelers, crazy Chavistas and… Americans?
Walking down the jagged, misshaped stairs to the court I notice I am being warmly greeted with the typical, “what the hell is this Gringo doing here?” look that I love so much. Head down, and ready to school some kids in a little futbol, I see the irony of my though. These are kids, 12-16, and they’re wearing school uniforms, they’ve already been taken to school today. Haha, the thought makes me chuckle, provoking another round of my beloved “Gringo” look.
I walk over, grab my boots, nonchalantly drop my trousers, pull up my gym shorts, lace up then stand up to a few more “Gringo” looks. This is the closest to racism I’ve ever been.
Chef, now coach, starts practice. Seeing these 15-year-olds makes me wish that I had shaved my face a day earlier. I feel out of place, to say the least. After a brief warm-up, we begin the game. Its 4v4 with goalies.
Now let me explain to you what I’m playing on. Saying we were playing on a cement court wouldn’t be accurate. It is made of cement, yes, but friction is void. My feet are butter and I’m playing on a frying pan. The floor has been waxed. I was unaware this technology existed in this city. And I thought playing football on a hockey rink was hard. This is the clay court of soccer, and for a 165-lb guy, these 100-lb kids are dancing around me. Inertia's a b****.
The night progresses without many interesting events. I am back in Maplewood Community Center playing indoor soccer. Repeating 4 consecutive winters of my past. A few slip ups here, a few goals, I learn some things, slip on my ass here, meg that kid later. Once this kid, maybe 16, and I are racing to the ball. He throws an elbow, forgetting for a second the size difference, I throw one back. Poor kid didn’t come near me for the rest of the game. Regardless, these kids are still dribbling me. Like I said, inertia is my kryptonite to these kids.
Having lost a match, usually about 7 minutes long, I sit down to catch my breath. I am abnormally tired and sweaty. My shirt is soaked through, my feet are on fire, and I am developing a stink. I feel so out of place as the coach’s nephew, a 12-year-old gordo kid, and I try to have a conversation in Spanish. Once again, I am poking my head over the six-foot wall that is my language barrier.
I look out at our surroundings again. It is 8 PM and dark. Power outages are frequent and I am in a very poor area of home. Luckily the game is still going and the power is on. However, this being Venezuela, things could change in an instant.
I look out to the tree that our hotwired car is parked under. I see massive brown winged things dropping out of the tree. What are these? Then I see. A brown bat with a foot-and-a-half wingspan flies above us. I become a child at the zoo for the first time. If I knew how to say, “oh my god, look at that, holy crap,” in Spanish, this is what I would be saying. But instead I sit there mouth open with a dumb look on my face. Either no one sees it or no one cares. Regardless I am impressed. This never happened at Maplewood Community Center.
As a few players leave, the game turns into more of a skill show than an actual game. People are pulling some of their best moves. Suddenly it’s a group of wannabe Ronaldinho’s and the ball doesn’t move. Things really slow down, it becomes less fun for those who don’t have the ball, and more people leave. Around 9 o’clock Chef calls practice.
During the drive home I think of the Discovery TV shows where different hosts travel to different countries, eating their food or learning their fighting styles or going to their festivals and parties. Someone needs to do that with football. Maybe this is my being bias (or a runners high from an altitude workout), but I think there are as many stories to be told in the food or arts as there are in the sports. Especially the most popular, ahem, and best, sport in the world.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
First Week
I've never had a blog before, and never intended to, but its much easier to explain a 'great' drawn-out story to many people than a shortened exhausted story to everyone I know. So here is a bio of my first week here.
Flying out was a long trip. 40 hours from my old house to my new house; 6 hour layover in Houston, 11 hour layover in Caracas, 2 hour bus ride to the city and an hour late host family. All was well when I could finally lay down. Sleeping was hard. I dropped out around 1 AM. I was awoken at 5 AM to what sounded like a five second long gunshot. I am later told that there is a festival coming up, Feb 2nd, to celebrate baby Jesus. And from now til February the second, firecrackers are set off at all hours. Its the American equivalent to the Fourth of July... for a month.
I live in an area called "El Centro" (the center). It is the downtown of Mérida. Just like any downtown, stuff is happening all the time. It is very close to all the bars, restaurants, shops and crazy protesters. It is nice because I am in walking distance to the school and all the Americans go there to shop and party. Its hard because it is the most dangerous part of the whole city. It is where all the riot police and national guard hang out with shotguns and riot shields in tow.
The power goes off all the time. The Gúri dam, which is one of the largest dams in the world and fuels Venezuela, is running low on water. One paper said its expected to sustain for 85 more days without rain. I'm here for 95 at least. Let's hope for rain. Mandatory blackouts occur roughly 3 times a day for 2 hours. This means no light, internet, and sometimes no water.
Riots are habitual. Mérida is a student town. The students are often labeled the ones rioting. Tires are always on fire, kids yelling "we want light." In my humble opinion I think they are a bunch of ten-year-olds stomping their feet and complaining about everything they don't like, which happens to be everything that has happened for the past 10 years. They are the epitome of Einstein's definition of 'insanity'. Kids doing the same thing, and expect different results. Burning tires, throwing rocks at windows, nothing that is safe for an American to be close to. But I don't want to offend anyone, nor do I want to argue about it.
The reason for these riots and two kids dying (which is unusual for riots, even in Venezuela) is because Chavez censored 6 national channels because they have not been airing his 4-hour daily speeches. This is the reason for the huge uproar in the city. And the mobilization of the Venezuelan National Guard. And the riot police at every corner.
On the brighter side, I love it here.
I arrived on Monday night. Met my host family. I have a host mom and a host brother. My mom speaks no English, my brother, Jimmy, speaks English pretty well, although I refuse to speak to him in English when we are in the house. I had little interaction with him the first night. And after the 5 AM gun scare comes a new day. Tuesday morning we had an orientation for our school, VEN-USA. It was, as many things are here, late and very specific. Nothing amazing. That night I went home and had a 2 hour conversation in Spanish with my host mom. I went to bed that night thinking in Spanish. Que loco.
Wednesday comes and we have a trip into the mountains, leaving at 9 AM and returning at 7PM. Quite fun, you can see the pictures from my facebook page here, http://www.facebook.com/#/group.php?gid=375637085482&ref=ts . We traveled way into the mountains and stopped at a lot of little shops and a roadside diner. I tried a little bit of rock climbing, surprised to find others had left holds on the rock. Next we went into this National Park called 'Sierra Nevada' in the Andes. It was very fun there. I went swimming in cold, cold water. I horse back riding, along with five others. Walked through a huge clouded coniferous and deciduous forest. Saw some native trout. Climbed everything I could see. We all drank some of the stream water, which is clean and delicious. Trying to put out of my mind what fish do in it. Then we went through a little bog area with the most serene lake/pond I have ever seen. Stopped at a waterfall then dropped down to the bus. About a 3 hour hike. Amazing. Everyone went home tired and crashed that night.
Thursday, the 21st, came the first day of class. Spanish class for 2.5 hours. I really enjoyed it. That afternoon, around 3, a bunch of students (when I say students, I mean rioters who are primarily students at the different Venezuelan schools around here) set fire to some tires right outside of the school, which is on a busy street, and backed up traffic and stunk up the air for a few hours. That night I went out for the first time...
We left to go out at around 9 from the school. Basically what ended up happening was the most sketchy night I've had in a while. Walking from one bar to the next, trying to find the way there, given directions in a language I barely understand. Everything was close, within several blocks, but being in a new city made it hard to navigate. We went from a fancy cocktail bar to a sports bar. This is where I bought my first Venezuelan beer. Antsy to try them and judge them against my own, I ordered three separate 500 ml (16 oz) bottles. I soon found Venezuela lacks good beer, however, its not terrible. After about 30 minutes, a few pictures, people calling us Gringos, 3 beers, and me yelling "VIVE CHAVEZ" (trying to yell "guevara" instead) during the last pitch of the baseball game later, we decided it was a good idea to leave. I wrapped up the night at a Irish pub style bar. Around 1 AM
Between walking down darkened, power outed streets I had my Harry Potter moment of the trip.
I was walking down the darkest street imaginable, whilst headed to my house, when I hear a repetitive 'tink'-ing sound. As I cross one street and get closer to the next it becomes more pronounced. It is as repetitive as raindrops on a roof, but changes in loudness and is being mixed with chants. As I approach this dark intersection, I slow down, not wanting to turn the corner onto a riot, or wand wielding death eaters. I slowly creep around the rounded house that made up the corner of the street. I see three huge fires of burning tires alight in the street. 200 feet down the street are people walking around them and clinking beer bottles together. Déjà vu hit me as I think of the Death Eaters (in which Americans are mudbloods) from Harry Potter. Deciding it to be the best decision and not wanting to attract attention, I nonchalantly swag across the street, doing my best to look tough. Looking over my shoulder, I see the people chanting among flames. The moment I am out of view I fly the half block walk to my house. Fumbling with my keys and terrified that I was followed, and I hear chanting getting louder. Finally I pull out the right key, flip the lock and I am safe inside the apartment. Looking out the window I see a group of 15 people walking down the middle of the street chanting. I can only imagine how people drink here and still make it home.
Friday is the BBQ with the Venezuelan students at VENUSA, who are few and I rarely see. A speed-dating style meet and greet is set up so the Americans can work on Spanish and vice versa. BBQ is scheduled to begin at 8 PM, but being here, it started at 1030. Mix and match of beef, pork and blood sausage. Coleslaw on the side. Delicious. That night I checked in early.
Next morning a friend and I climbed into the mountains for 3 hours. 2 hour hike up, 1 hour down. Totally killed me, I was destroyed after that. On the way back we met up with this travel adventure store. The owner is Swiss and there is a pretty Danish girl that works there a lot (and I happened to be wearing my 'Denmark 2006 soccer tournament shirt'). We sign up to go canyoning, you have to google it. It is rappelling down waterfalls.
We left at 9 AM on Sunday morning. 20 minute drive directly from the game crazy taxi. 30 minute hike and we are there. We wore really thick neoprene wetsuits with a climbing harness attached. There were three waterfalls we rappelled down. In order, 20 feet, 50 feet, and 90 feet. The water is pounding on top of you. At most parts it is adrenaline and fear, in retrospect it was fun, but at the moment it was terrifying. The best part of the trip I cannot adequately without pictures. There was a waterfall slide that took you down about 30 feet and out about 5. Our guide told us to wait where we were. He walked around and checked the water for any new obstacles i.e. rocks, branches, alligators. Next he yelled at us to "go". Very hesitantly I slide my butt over onto an area where the water was slowly flowing over the edge of this waterfall. It was covered in algae and quite slippery. The most intimidating part was that my landing spot, where I would be falling 30 feet, was in arms reach of our guide. The part that got to me was that he was in waist deep water. Was the water deep enough there for me to lan--- And before I knew what had happened, I was plunging into 15 feet of water. I nearly shat myself.
Everything was safe, I popped up and was grabbed by the guide. He yelled "¿que paso?" over the roar of the waterfall. Totally stunned I paw for a surface to grab on to. Once safely out of the water we did it three more times. Amazing. And it is more fun in the rainy season, the guide tells us. Guess this is a 2 part trip.
Rappelling down the 90 foot waterfall was annoying. But at the base there was a car sized hole that we could not find the bottom of. Upon leaving we see a few Blue Morpho butterflies way up in the air. Several were blue, one was brown, and one was a black/blue. It was magnificent to see them in real life and outside of pictures and the Butterfly House (which is run by a narcisistic wannabe ladies-man... ahem) at the State Fair.
First week was a blast, I want all my family and friends to be here so they can experience this with me.
Check out facebook http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/group.php?gid=375637085482&ref=ts.
Flying out was a long trip. 40 hours from my old house to my new house; 6 hour layover in Houston, 11 hour layover in Caracas, 2 hour bus ride to the city and an hour late host family. All was well when I could finally lay down. Sleeping was hard. I dropped out around 1 AM. I was awoken at 5 AM to what sounded like a five second long gunshot. I am later told that there is a festival coming up, Feb 2nd, to celebrate baby Jesus. And from now til February the second, firecrackers are set off at all hours. Its the American equivalent to the Fourth of July... for a month.
I live in an area called "El Centro" (the center). It is the downtown of Mérida. Just like any downtown, stuff is happening all the time. It is very close to all the bars, restaurants, shops and crazy protesters. It is nice because I am in walking distance to the school and all the Americans go there to shop and party. Its hard because it is the most dangerous part of the whole city. It is where all the riot police and national guard hang out with shotguns and riot shields in tow.
The power goes off all the time. The Gúri dam, which is one of the largest dams in the world and fuels Venezuela, is running low on water. One paper said its expected to sustain for 85 more days without rain. I'm here for 95 at least. Let's hope for rain. Mandatory blackouts occur roughly 3 times a day for 2 hours. This means no light, internet, and sometimes no water.
Riots are habitual. Mérida is a student town. The students are often labeled the ones rioting. Tires are always on fire, kids yelling "we want light." In my humble opinion I think they are a bunch of ten-year-olds stomping their feet and complaining about everything they don't like, which happens to be everything that has happened for the past 10 years. They are the epitome of Einstein's definition of 'insanity'. Kids doing the same thing, and expect different results. Burning tires, throwing rocks at windows, nothing that is safe for an American to be close to. But I don't want to offend anyone, nor do I want to argue about it.
The reason for these riots and two kids dying (which is unusual for riots, even in Venezuela) is because Chavez censored 6 national channels because they have not been airing his 4-hour daily speeches. This is the reason for the huge uproar in the city. And the mobilization of the Venezuelan National Guard. And the riot police at every corner.
On the brighter side, I love it here.
I arrived on Monday night. Met my host family. I have a host mom and a host brother. My mom speaks no English, my brother, Jimmy, speaks English pretty well, although I refuse to speak to him in English when we are in the house. I had little interaction with him the first night. And after the 5 AM gun scare comes a new day. Tuesday morning we had an orientation for our school, VEN-USA. It was, as many things are here, late and very specific. Nothing amazing. That night I went home and had a 2 hour conversation in Spanish with my host mom. I went to bed that night thinking in Spanish. Que loco.
Wednesday comes and we have a trip into the mountains, leaving at 9 AM and returning at 7PM. Quite fun, you can see the pictures from my facebook page here, http://www.facebook.com/#/group.php?gid=375637085482&ref=ts . We traveled way into the mountains and stopped at a lot of little shops and a roadside diner. I tried a little bit of rock climbing, surprised to find others had left holds on the rock. Next we went into this National Park called 'Sierra Nevada' in the Andes. It was very fun there. I went swimming in cold, cold water. I horse back riding, along with five others. Walked through a huge clouded coniferous and deciduous forest. Saw some native trout. Climbed everything I could see. We all drank some of the stream water, which is clean and delicious. Trying to put out of my mind what fish do in it. Then we went through a little bog area with the most serene lake/pond I have ever seen. Stopped at a waterfall then dropped down to the bus. About a 3 hour hike. Amazing. Everyone went home tired and crashed that night.
Thursday, the 21st, came the first day of class. Spanish class for 2.5 hours. I really enjoyed it. That afternoon, around 3, a bunch of students (when I say students, I mean rioters who are primarily students at the different Venezuelan schools around here) set fire to some tires right outside of the school, which is on a busy street, and backed up traffic and stunk up the air for a few hours. That night I went out for the first time...
We left to go out at around 9 from the school. Basically what ended up happening was the most sketchy night I've had in a while. Walking from one bar to the next, trying to find the way there, given directions in a language I barely understand. Everything was close, within several blocks, but being in a new city made it hard to navigate. We went from a fancy cocktail bar to a sports bar. This is where I bought my first Venezuelan beer. Antsy to try them and judge them against my own, I ordered three separate 500 ml (16 oz) bottles. I soon found Venezuela lacks good beer, however, its not terrible. After about 30 minutes, a few pictures, people calling us Gringos, 3 beers, and me yelling "VIVE CHAVEZ" (trying to yell "guevara" instead) during the last pitch of the baseball game later, we decided it was a good idea to leave. I wrapped up the night at a Irish pub style bar. Around 1 AM
Between walking down darkened, power outed streets I had my Harry Potter moment of the trip.
I was walking down the darkest street imaginable, whilst headed to my house, when I hear a repetitive 'tink'-ing sound. As I cross one street and get closer to the next it becomes more pronounced. It is as repetitive as raindrops on a roof, but changes in loudness and is being mixed with chants. As I approach this dark intersection, I slow down, not wanting to turn the corner onto a riot, or wand wielding death eaters. I slowly creep around the rounded house that made up the corner of the street. I see three huge fires of burning tires alight in the street. 200 feet down the street are people walking around them and clinking beer bottles together. Déjà vu hit me as I think of the Death Eaters (in which Americans are mudbloods) from Harry Potter. Deciding it to be the best decision and not wanting to attract attention, I nonchalantly swag across the street, doing my best to look tough. Looking over my shoulder, I see the people chanting among flames. The moment I am out of view I fly the half block walk to my house. Fumbling with my keys and terrified that I was followed, and I hear chanting getting louder. Finally I pull out the right key, flip the lock and I am safe inside the apartment. Looking out the window I see a group of 15 people walking down the middle of the street chanting. I can only imagine how people drink here and still make it home.
Friday is the BBQ with the Venezuelan students at VENUSA, who are few and I rarely see. A speed-dating style meet and greet is set up so the Americans can work on Spanish and vice versa. BBQ is scheduled to begin at 8 PM, but being here, it started at 1030. Mix and match of beef, pork and blood sausage. Coleslaw on the side. Delicious. That night I checked in early.
Next morning a friend and I climbed into the mountains for 3 hours. 2 hour hike up, 1 hour down. Totally killed me, I was destroyed after that. On the way back we met up with this travel adventure store. The owner is Swiss and there is a pretty Danish girl that works there a lot (and I happened to be wearing my 'Denmark 2006 soccer tournament shirt'). We sign up to go canyoning, you have to google it. It is rappelling down waterfalls.
We left at 9 AM on Sunday morning. 20 minute drive directly from the game crazy taxi. 30 minute hike and we are there. We wore really thick neoprene wetsuits with a climbing harness attached. There were three waterfalls we rappelled down. In order, 20 feet, 50 feet, and 90 feet. The water is pounding on top of you. At most parts it is adrenaline and fear, in retrospect it was fun, but at the moment it was terrifying. The best part of the trip I cannot adequately without pictures. There was a waterfall slide that took you down about 30 feet and out about 5. Our guide told us to wait where we were. He walked around and checked the water for any new obstacles i.e. rocks, branches, alligators. Next he yelled at us to "go". Very hesitantly I slide my butt over onto an area where the water was slowly flowing over the edge of this waterfall. It was covered in algae and quite slippery. The most intimidating part was that my landing spot, where I would be falling 30 feet, was in arms reach of our guide. The part that got to me was that he was in waist deep water. Was the water deep enough there for me to lan--- And before I knew what had happened, I was plunging into 15 feet of water. I nearly shat myself.
Everything was safe, I popped up and was grabbed by the guide. He yelled "¿que paso?" over the roar of the waterfall. Totally stunned I paw for a surface to grab on to. Once safely out of the water we did it three more times. Amazing. And it is more fun in the rainy season, the guide tells us. Guess this is a 2 part trip.
Rappelling down the 90 foot waterfall was annoying. But at the base there was a car sized hole that we could not find the bottom of. Upon leaving we see a few Blue Morpho butterflies way up in the air. Several were blue, one was brown, and one was a black/blue. It was magnificent to see them in real life and outside of pictures and the Butterfly House (which is run by a narcisistic wannabe ladies-man... ahem) at the State Fair.
First week was a blast, I want all my family and friends to be here so they can experience this with me.
Check out facebook http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/group.php?gid=375637085482&ref=ts.
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