Bugsy and His Bandits

Chasing Spring

2011-04-14T06:45:00.000-07:00

Four days of chasing spring and we catch and pass the season like a broken car on the side of the interstate. With the warmth and green of the deep south behind us, we all too quickly coast into the grey and rusted states of Ohio and Michigan. Hulks of dark, derelict factories stand like worn foothills to billowing smokestacks as they grasp at the thin, pale sky like the fingers of skeletons. The bare bones of trees rattle at each gust from the north and on the ground, dried veins of winter salt streak across the road. Everywhere I look, I am reminded of the harsh winter we missed on our adventure south.

My mood is sustained with the excitement of crossing our last border. Even Detroit's desheveled landscape did little to dampen our spirits as we climb the Ambassador Bridge. Up and over the Detroit River. We coast up to the security booth and seconds later, we are back in Canada, reading French and English signs and driving in kilometers per hour. I spend the last hour of our drive into Wallaceburg staring outside in wonderment and giving Melanie and Dante endless high-fives.

We are back in Canada, still sitting in the Mule with Skull now strapped to the back. Each of us are full of stories to share with our friends and family. Strangely, I feel like I've never left.

Melanie pulls the Mule up to my childhood home in Wallaceburg and waiting at the window are my parents, my brother, my sister-in-law, and my niece and nephew. I look for my shovel to scrape Dante off the ceiling and when I do, he is a flurry of motion, hugging and chasing my family. In the evening and over the next few days, we are around the dinner table, eating, laughing, and sharing stories gathered from the past seven and a half months.

Six hundred kilometers, one more city and we'll be home for the weekend. For now, Wallaceburg feels like home. Outside, it is still cold, but inside my parents' house, spring has already arrived.

Dante, Kayden, and Jada going deep into Ahmah's cooking.

What does one do in Wallaceburg when it's cold outside? Launch rockets with Uncle (aka Mad Scientist) KY, what else?

The Mule and the Gang.

Northbound

2011-04-10T19:34:00.000-07:00

Florida, Georgia, Tennessee, Kentucky, and Ohio. Boom, boom, boom.

We are flying through the deep south, with only one thing in mind: Get Melanie back into Ontario to my parents' place for her birthday. We've been on the road for a long time and celebrating her thirty-fourth in a forgettable road-side motel eating factory food is not my idea of a good time. Granted, we've camped out the whole way so far from Miami and it is wonderful to be cooking out of the Mule again, but I want to be back in Wallaceburg, sitting around the dinner table in front of my mom's cooking, cracking jokes with my family.

The miles are rushing past my feet and I rejoice being in my home on wheels again. The Mule is in one piece, it is roaring along the I-75 like an old horse on loose reins, and I am surrounded by the best traveling team in the entire world: Melanie and I smile at each other, knowing that we are just a day away from Canada. We just finished a ten-hour day and Dante is in the back, laughing and smiling about the prospect of being in Ahma's and Yea-Yea's house for supper tomorrow night.

Party on.

It's everything like that song by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. My bro in Vancouver sent it to me awhile back because it made him think of the three of us, nomads gripped by wanderlust yet pulled by the longing for home. And here we are, galloping towards home, wherever that may be. Let me go home.

Tonight, we are in Cincinnati. The rest of Ohio, Michigan, and then our last border crossing for the trip tomorrow. I need to move the Skull away from the front bumper and perhaps to the back. It has made it this far and I would cry if it was taken away at our last crossing.

I don't have many pics of our drive north as we're too busy dodging traffic. It's been a sea of motor homes, clogged freeways, Jesus-Loves-You billboards, and adverts for Adult XXX Superstores the entire length of the I-75. You'll have to trust me when I say that things have been less than inspirational for the last three days. You haven't missed much. Believe me.

Instead, I've some photos of our crazy day of container loading in Costa Rica on the side of a dusty road, our equipment collection in Miami, and something from an evening of camping in Georgia. No swaying palm trees under a full moon. No sweltering heat. No funky smells in the air. No sketchy bathrooms. No worries about being robbed in the middle of the night. No 4X4 roads. No Bella, Marc, or Sarah. No Spanish.

Already, I miss Mexico and Central America.

See you in Ontario,

K

Stuffing our equipment into an ocean freight container in Limon, Costa Rica. To avoid an inspection from customs, we had fifteen minutes to load our kit into the container on some unnamed dusty road in the middle of nowhere. It was sketchy, it was stressful, but it saved us two-hundred bucks. It was, in other words, one hundred percent Central American. Just the way I like it...

Hunkering down for our 2 a.m. flight out of Panama City. Melanie is her comfy socks having a bedtime snack while Dante is in his Spiderman pajamas, already passed out on an airport bench. Later on, I took a sink-shower in the bathroom around the corner just before the flight. Life on the road.

Rushing to assemble our equipment at Seaboard Marine, Miami.

Our first night back in the Mule, somewhere in a forgettable trailer park in Florida. We had, for a change, water from a tap at our disposal.

Driving into spring, Georgia.

A new luxury: potable water from a tap in Ohio.

"There must be someway outta here"...

2011-04-08T06:28:00.000-07:00

Maybe Bob was singing about hell. Or a life sentence in jail. Or the coming Apocolypse. Or Florida. I'm not sure, but if yesterday was any indication, I'd put money down on the latter. Or all of the above.

After catching a red-eye from Panama City to Fort Lauderdale, we spent days kicking around a lousy hotel awash in a sea of rushing freeways, soulless parking lots, and busloads of bloated tourists bumbling about all looking for their 4:30 pm roast beef dinners at the poolside Tiki bar.

I know. There's probably more to Florida than this and I hear the beaches are suppose to be pretty decent here, but all I want is my truck back. And to get the hell out of dodge.

Day Three of nervous fidgeting about came to an end after I receive the long-awaited call from my broker, giving me the news that the Mule was out of jail. The unusual delay in matters had something to do with the Cow Skull. But more on that in a bit.

In the morning, we wake up full of excitment and ready to take on the task of picking up the Mule and kit from customs before heading back out on the road. After three days of blowing our budget on a chintzy hotel and eating fake food, we were chomping on the bit to be on our way. We'd point the truck towards home by early afternoon, drive, and maybe be out of Florida by the evening! How hard could it be?

Five minutes into our drive to Miami, we realize we forgot to check out of our hotel. I suppose that was not a good sign of things to come. We rush back, give up our keys, peel out of the parking lot, and charge towards our broker's office. Already, we are late for the first appointment of the day.

We find Carroll at his office and pay him for his services. Before rushing out, he tells us that dealing with the Cow Skull was an adventure in itself. Apparently, US Customs, the Department of Trade, the FDA, and the Department of Agriculture were somehow involved when someone got wind of the skull strapped to the bumper of our truck. Somewhere along the gauntlet, a hold was placed on the release of the Mule and the matter was not solved until a flurry of last-minute telephone calls.

Back into our rented tin-box and we rush to Seaboard Marine's offices to make our second payment of the day. Stacks of paperwork and a thousand dollars later, we run back to the car with receipt of payment in hand and floor the car towards the other side of Miami to pick up the Mule. It is now half an hour before noon, but we hope to get to the Port of Miami before the lunch and thus avoid the mass exodus of staff.

We drive into the security zone of the Port of Miami and suddenly, we find ourselves in a space not unlike the frenzied tarmac of an international airport. Behemoths that are the transport trucks billow past on both sides of our tiny rental car, fully ladened with cargo and howling their horns for us to move aside. We are lost and confused and pick a security booth at random to avoid being crushed by a transport.

Immediately, we are told that we are in the wrong lane. Now, driving backwards on the open tramac, Melanie is playing Frogger in the rearview mirror, trying desperately to dodge the incoming truck traffic. We pick another lane, pull up to the security officer, and he tells us that we are not allowed into the port.

"No children in the Port of Miami", he scolds.

Dante sits in the back, without a car seat, and waves. No luck.

"I'm sorry, but no children. You have to turn around".

Desparate now, we weave the car backwards through the traffic again, find an exit off the runway, and head back towards downtown. I am pulling out my hair and banging my head against the dashboard. Hungry and defeated, we wander through traffic before parking beside a mall.

We need to call Seaboard Marine to find a way inside. Except we don't have a phone.

I have the brilliant idea of using Skype to call on my laptop. With computer in hand, I rush about the mall, asking everyone whether they have a WiFi signal that I could use. None did, but finally, someone suggests that a place upstairs had a hot spot.

"Yeah, just go up to the restaurant there", a shop keeper tells me. "You can use one at Hooters".

I stare at the guy. Hooters. It's come to this: Big breasted women serving me a beer and fries in exchange for the Mule.

Not wanting to further the absurdedness of our situation, I eventually find a scuzzy public pay phone beside a set of malodorous bathrooms to make my call. After several tries, I finally get through but to my dismay, they offer me little help and say that I must make it across the security checkpoints in order to pick up my vehicle.

I rush out, leave Melanie and Dante at the mall and return to the gates in a taxi, hoping that I will cross sans child. Again, I am stopped and told that taxis are not allowed into the port. I am about to loose the last bit of self-control that I have left before the security guard takes pity on me and tells me that he will call for another guard to pick me up at the gates and drive me to the ship yard.

Jumping into the security vehicle, I make it to the main office where I fill out more forms. Inside, I discover that I am famous (or infamous); the office workers there point me out as the Guy With The Cow Skull On His Truck. I offer them a half-laugh before making my way to the garage where, for the first time in several weeks, I see the Mule parked in the corner with the said Skull still on the front.

Several more signatures and inspections later, I roar out of the gates, head back downtown, and meet up with Melanie and Dante. In a convoy of two now, we pick our way through traffic, rushing back towards the other side of Miami in an attempt to pick up the rest of our equipment before the 5 o'clock deadline.

Abruptly, we find ourselves in rushhour traffic and in a standstill on a freeway. Adding to our frustrations, I discover that I am running out of fuel in the truck (we were told to ship the vehicle with as little fuel as possible). We pull off the expressway and wander for blocks, coasting into gas stations, pleading for diesel. No diesel. No dice.

Finally, moments before stalling the Mule, we find a station before filling the tank. Back on the freeway and we sit in traffic. It is now 5 o'clock and we miss our deadline to pick up our tent and personal effects at the warehouse.

Dismayed, we continue and cross our fingers that someone will have mercy on us. We arrive at the Seaboard Marine office for the second time in the same day and, after more pleading, I sign the last set of paperwork before driving into the warehouse and up to our pallet of equipment.

Melanie, Dante, and I tear into the boxes and install the roof top tent as fast as we can. Incredibly, we are still in a mad rush as a new deadline is now looming upon us; the rental car needs to be at the airport before 7:30 pm.

Once again, we drive as wild people in an odd caravan (one Mule, one tin-can), scramble for the second time to find fuel (this time for the tin-can), and make it back to the airpot minutes past our last deadline. At eight in the evening, we return to the hotel, collapse in our beds, and stare up at the ceiling, with adrenaline still coursing through our veins. After criss-crossing Miami five times today, we are in the same spot where we began this morning. The same spot, except we have the Mule. And Skull.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow we leave. But tonight, I will dream about Dylan, a watchtower, and a bloody way to get out of here, as far away as possible.

Still Waiting...

2011-04-04T14:02:00.000-07:00

...in Panama City.

It's been close to a week here, and we're ready to blow this popsicle stand. Living out of a small kid's backpack (hey, it was used and it was cheap) and having to look over my shoulder everywhere we go is getting old.

As much as I'm dreading the culture shock of Miami and the re-entry back into North America, I'm ready to go. We've been ready to go for days, all our possessions packed (it doesn't take long when you don't have much), chomping on the bit, dreaming about tomorrow. I need the open road like never before.

Tom Waits once described a pending road trip like this:

"I'm still not packed. But I'll never be ready for this trip until I get home from it".

This was how I felt seven months ago, at the beginning of our adventure, standing amongst the piles of equipment and my mind half buried in to-do-lists. And this is how I feel now, seven months later, at the end of our adventure, with home just around the corner.

The Mule's in Miami already and had it not been for the Cow Skull strapped to the front bumper, it would've cleared customs today. My broker just told me that the inspector is having a hissy-fit about the skull and that it might delay things.

We leave Panama at two o'clock tomorrow morning and arrive into Miami at five. In the morning. I hope by then the Mule is free and we can hit the road soon after.

If not, U.S. customs will have to deal with a bored five-year old who has had ants in his pants for the past week.

Case in point:

Casco Viejo

2011-04-03T15:26:00.000-07:00

"Aqui, es muy caliente", Reiey advises from the driver's seat. Palming the steering wheel, he dodges through the slalom of potholes and delivery trucks scattered across the narrow, cobbled road.

"Muy caliente".

I nod in agreement with the taxi driver. Sweat is already dribbling down my face as the morning furnace blasts through the car window. "Si, entiendo. Hace calor".

I know. It's hot here.

Reiey, however, shakes his head and waves in the air as if to brush aside my misunderstanding.

"No. Aqui es muy caliente". He chuckles and extends his index finger from his extended hand to the series of flickering buildings as we continue our race through traffic. "MUY caliente". With his middle finger curled, Reiey pulls an imaginary trigger and laughs before returning his hand to the rapidly swirling steering wheel.

We are in Casco Viejo, Panama City and apparently, it gets hot here in more than one way.

Welcome to the 'hood.

In 1671, the swashbuckling pirate and all-around good citizen of the world Henry Morgan loved the original Panama City so much that he sacked it of it's gold before burning and slashing the city to the ground as a going-away present. The citizens who were spared left Panama Viejo to start afresh and eventually found it on a small and better protected peninsula down the road that is now called Casco Viejo. Like the story of so many great cities, however, greener pastures on the other side and the lure of early twentieth-century suburban life eventually gripped many in Casco Viejo, which led to an exodus that ultimately drained the lifeblood from Panama's second city. Present-day Panama City (the third) was born, while the old city was left in decay and perpetual neglect.

Gentrification, for better or worse, knows few boundaries and fifteen years ago, money sighted towards the restoration of the city began to pour in and the flood gates of urban renewal commenced in ernest. A UN World Heritage Site designation in 2003 didn't hurt matters either and soon, Casco Viejo started its' slow and laborious climb from the dredges of Panama City's slums.

Today, despite the ongoing massive and remarkable restoration projects, you'll still find yourself in a world of stark contrasts and heart-breaking inequalities. On one hand, a wander down the cobbled Avenida Centrale will treat you to a slice of polished Europe where charming colonial, Art Deco, and Neo-classic buildings adorned with French and Spanish wrought-iron balconies arch overhead. Shift past the Parisian-inspired ice cream boutiques and sushi-fusion restaurants, however, and you may find yourself in a puddle of urine as you dodge crumbling walls, uncovered sewage holes, and the stares of urban squatters peering out from behind dark, slanted, and paint-chipped doorways.

This is, for a lack of a better adjective, the confounding uniqueness of Casco Viejo. Here, the uber-rich live (or in most cases, buy) beside the poverty-stricken. Steel girders thrown up by swish international developers rise like giant metal skeletons from the cracked sidewalks while they hold steady the shells of dilapidated and pock-marked buildings that are overgrown with weeds and heavily populated by the poor.

From a rooftop vantage on any clear day, Donald Trump's glimmering glass monstrosity towers over the distant horizon while standing as a dramatic backdrop to the sea of shattered buildings and desperate slums.  In the evenings, disheveled children inside the innards of abandoned houses squat on piles of rubble, their faces painted pale by the ghostly flickers broadcasted from dusty television sets while the menu from the shiny, swanky restaurant next door sells the finest bottles of European cabernet. It's happy hour and as long as you can come to terms with the homeless drunk lying unconscious on the curb from across the street, the appetizers are all half-priced and a couple of beers is the cost of one.

Even the president of Panama lives in Casco Viejo but if you stroll a few blocks into Santa Anna or Chorillo, you'll likely find yourself in a pot of hot water, or at least relieved of most of your possessions, as succinctly described to us by our taxi driver's hand gestures.

Despite all of this, I am drawn to Casco Viejo. It is poor, gritty, and dirty yet it is also polished and seeping with money. It has character. It is right yet it also feels wrong. Here, life literally spills out onto the streets. There are memories of San Telmo of Buenos Aires here and it feels like a touch of Europe amidst a swirling Latin American maze. We've stayed in the old city for days now and despite being on the edge of the 'red zone', locals just point us away from dodgy areas whenever we take a wrong turn. Oftentimes, it's a quick shake of a head or small wave of the hand before we pick up on the message that our current direction, unless changed, might lead us into a very hot situation on a already very hot day.

Muy caliente. Yes, I understand that now. It is hot here and it is also hot here. Welcome to the 'hood.

Welcome to Casco Viejo.

Marc and Sarah's pics

2011-04-03T10:54:00.000-07:00

I almost fell over in laughter while checking these out. Look for the lightsabre duel:

www.sarah-marc.blogspot.com

Thank you, Marc and Sarah.

K

Into Panama

2011-03-30T21:25:00.000-07:00

We leave Costa Rica by bus and in several hours, arrive to the Panamanian border. This is the eighth and last country in our journey and the border crossing into Panama is no less strange than the previous six. If one is so inclined, there is enough material on Central American borders-crossings alone to write a book. My suggestion to you is to pen it as a comedy. Or adventure-comedy. Or simply as an instruction manual on how to direct Latin American Gong Shows.

Seconds after stepping off the bus, sweat percolates down my nose as the forty-degree hot wool blanket that is the Panamanian heat smothers my slow shuffle towards the migracion and aduana offices. We clear the border controls without trouble at Sixola, Costa Rica, and look across the river to Panama. Only a strip of brown flowing water amidst thick, steaming jungle separates us from our last country. That, and a dilapidated bridge.

In Canada, one can cross into the U.S. via the Ambassador Bridge, a multilane asphalt and steel monstrosity that can contain the entirety of Kingston's mid-afternoon traffic jam on any given day. In Central America, it seems, the call for such deliberateness is just another example of the over-eager mentality that is best left to the gringos. Here, between Costa Rica and Panama, an old rickety bridge held together by a handful of rusty bolts, dental floss, and an undulating path of warped lumber is the only man-made structure keeping the pedestrian traffic flowing between the two countries. I'm told that if you are either brave, insane, and/or without a choice (or simply Central American), driving across the bridge is also possible.

As Melanie and Dante gingerly pick their way across to Panama, I linger behind to take pictures and admire the size of gaps shining between the very loose and meandering planks that are the only physical items separating us from the river and a long thirty meter drop. I notice that some of the empty spaces are big enough to swallow a five-year old boy whole. Like those seatbelt-less, kamikaze rides in Argentine taxis, the teeth-clenching affairs on the back of a careening Toyota pickup in the Guatemalan highlands, or those white-knuckled mountain descents in a mad chicken bus, I experience the all-too familiar moment of distilled clarity where I calmly, and fully, accept the notion of fate and the contractual limits of my emergency travel insurance before I suck in a breath and take my first step onto the bridge:

In Latin America, you just accept the way that some things are and get on with it, lest you get creamed by a giant, lumbering diesel chicken-bus hurrying to catch its' next fare in your moment of contemplation and North American squeamishness.

We cross, shaking our heads, and walk past the mist of the nearby pesticide fumigation spray meant for passing, dirty vehicles. Waving her hands through the cloud of Agent Orange, Melanie presents our documents to the Panamanian border agent, who, to our sweaty chagrin, has his back to us and is deeply engaged in a heated argument with an opponent hidden in the back corner of his booth.

Minutes pass and the argument perseveres. Melanie's feet-shuffling and throat-clearing are met with more mad gesturing and dramatic words, none of which are meant for us or intended to quicken our torture session in the now escalating Panamanian heat. The sun is blaring, my shirt feels like a drenched, used bathroom towel, and the Costa Rican standing behind us is now cursing under his breath while he chides the inefficiencies of Panama's bureaucracy. The hilarity of one Central American cursing another Central American's poor use of time is, in most cases, enough to make me double over in laughter had it not been for the cold stare-down of the now-attuned border guard from behind the scratched, greasy glass.

His tirade ended, the officer (and I use that term lightly) leans into the hole and abruptly asks us for evidence of onward travel following entry into Panama.

Damn. Instantly, without answering him, I know the series of events that would be unfolding before us for the next hour. Dejected, the three of us leave the customs window without our entry stamps and trudge down the dust-filled road into Panama to the nearby compound of crumbling, pot-marked cement buildings in search of a place to retrieve and print our on-line flight information.

Quietly, I am swearing under my breath as the puddles of sweat gather on the keyboard while I type away, hurriedly looking for my email account in the dark, moist interiors of the local Internet cafe. I am tired of this part of our trip, of the inefficiencies and absurdities of Central American border controls, and the non-sensical act of trudging back and forth across a border without documents after being ordered to obtain and photocopy the said nameless documents for dubious reasons.

We have no American money (apparently, the official currency in Panama is the American greenback) and, for the first time this trip, the hordes of money changers mobbing the three of us at previous borders are absent. Locals wave us to "El Chino" on the next block for money conversion (it's always the Chinese owners of grocery stores, isn't it?) and after butting in line at the cash register, we have our requisite dollars in hand.

Walking back to the temperamental border control like guilty school children on their way to the principal's office, our fistful of email print-outs are taken away with nary a glance before we hear the reassuring THUMP THUMP THUMP of the passport stamps.

Not surprisingly, we are not through the gauntlet. We are waved towards a second office where a group of bored, sweaty men are lounging around a tilted desk, feet on piles of papers and chatting about everything but the business of the control of borders. One looks up distractedly before thumbing a number of stickers into our blue books. We are passed on to his comrade on the right and then to another comrade on his other right, both of whom seem bothered by the appearance of people attending the border with passports in hand, asking to enter their country. Melanie corrects the last man and points out that he was looking at my passport when he was inspecting her and that he was inspecting me when he had her passport. The addition of a mixed-race, five-year old kid into the equation was the proverbial last straw and with that, the official waves us through with a flick of his finger. We leave before any one of them ask for a 'special fee' typical of our previous crossings.

Finished with the Border Gong Show, we catch a second bus towards David and, hopefully, Panama City. Five hours into the first leg of the trip, with a backpack stuffed between my legs and another in my face, I begin to feel the effects of one too many careening hill and meekly seek mercy and solace from the Traveling Gods. I receive none of either and another four hours later, we roll out of the Toyota Vomit Comet exhausted, pukey, and cursing my decision to send the Mule away.

Another morning and another seven hour bus ride later, we cross the Bridge of the Americas before rumbling into the glimmering city of Panama proper. As if on cue for the last act of a drawn out and torturous opera, Dante's finale of stepping off the bus and vomiting into a plastic bag is timed perfectly to occur in front of a crowd of astonished onlookers.

Just like that, and with typical flourish, we reach the end of the line for our Great Drive South and find ourselves standing, if not slightly askew, in a state of bewilderment and in Panama.

Seven months after leaving home, we arrive at the Panama Canal, the southernmost tip of our Great Drive South. Hidden behind the signs are the vomit bags. Please note my new shorts`after being robbed. And yes, I am still going commando.

Unexpectedly, this is the view of Panama City's skyline. Gone are the low-rise, ordinary cement buildings that are so typical of so many Central American cities, now replaced by a sea of glass and towers in the sky.

The three of us, still in one piece, celebrating at the locks and at our turn-around point of the trip.

Like old friends meeting for the first time, our reunion with Marc and Sarah in Panama was full of sweet memories and laughter. For them, Panama is also the point of return but with one difference: unlike us, they are driving all the way back to Canada. Their adventure, undoubtedly, continues.

San-Mule, we hitch-hike around Panama City in Bella. Dante is excited while Sarah has the vomit bag at ready.

Let me introduce you to my new friend...

2011-03-27T17:13:00.000-07:00

What's one to do when they are wallowing in sans-Mule sorrow?

Get a new ride, what else?

Since part two of the team is swearing off motos, Dman and I have started planning for our motorcycle drive across Mongolia on our own.

Next stop, a Panamanian shop to buy some chaps.

Get yer motor running, head out on the highway...

Shaun (of Panama Passage)'s KTM, taken over by Dman and I. Picture this, us, chasing our shadows across the plains of Mongolia, in our chaps, boys only. Let the planning begin...

Nothing but dreams and train smoke

2011-03-25T07:23:00.000-07:00

"I hope my pony

I hope my pony

Knows his way

Back home"

So, today, after many miles and many months on the road, the Mule and I are parting ways. We are going south. It's going north. It's a day of mixed emotions, of highs intertwined with anxieties, mixed in with a touch of sadness. The pending departure feels like one of those final lazy evenings on the beach after a long holiday where you find yourself basking in the afterglow of a fading sunset over the Pacific.  In my mind, I´m already there, lingering over a thousand thoughts gathered from the twists and turns of the past half year on the road.

We are sending the Mule away on a ship from Puerto Limon, Costa Rica into the Carribean Sea. From there, I´ve been told that the voyage is suppose to take six days to reach Miami. The bureaucratic gauntlet that is the American Customs, however, will no doubt stretch the journey much longer. That's okay. We have time. We are, in fact, making a dash to Panama while the Mule sails away. To the Canal, where we hope to meet up with Marc and Sarah again to celebrate the end of a long drive south.  We´re on our way, and, with the exception of two small back packs and my guitar, all of our personal belongings inside the truck have been removed, packed into a few boxes, and shoved inside an ocean freight container.

I hope when we fly out of Panama City in early April, the Mule will have made the crossing and is sitting safely somewhere in some warehouse in Miami, waiting for us to drive north to Canada. Home.

As I step onto the waiting bus, I find myself in an odd space, wishing that I was back in my truck and having the miles rush past my feet, the ocean on my right, all in our own time. Half of me is homesick. The other half is wishing that the road never ends and that we are traveling forever.  In the Mule, I have everything I need. Melanie. Dante. Starwars figures in the back. Maps of the world. Conversation about future trips.

"I rode the highline

With old blind Darby

I danced real slow

With Ida Jane"

It's been a long goodbye and I'm still not sure why I'm feeling the way that I am. Maybe it's the accumulation of miles gathered from this past seven months on the road. Or maybe this is just another sign, telling us that our wonderful journey is coming to a slow, gradual end. Just yesterday, we unloaded all of our equipment, took off the tent, and gave the Mule a good cleaning. Emptying the inside of the truck was a pleasant affair, marked by waves of nostalgia. Like a surprise encounter with an old shoebox in a forgotten closet, finding trinkets from our travels was like stumbling upon a box of faded letters and pictures gathered from another lifetime. I found little reminders of our journey quietly tucked away into the far corners of the Mule; a receipt from a roadside diner in Canada here and a seashell from Mexico there. A worn map from the U.S. here and a birthday card from friends in Guatemala there.

"I've seen it all boys

I've been all over

Been everywhere

In the whole wide world"

Some of you will understand what I'm talking about. Some of you might not. And if you don't, that's okay too. After all, the Mule is just a truck, a contraption put together by some guy in some factory that is meant to take you from one place to another. But to me, my truck is much more than a collection of metal parts. It's been our home for the past half year. Like a faithful old companion, I've laughed with it, swore at it, stood proudly beside it. We've seen many things and been to many places, the Mule and I. It has taken care of my family and given us shelter. It has shepherded us out of undesirable places and taken us to see incredible things. It has stories, this truck.

"I was full of wonder

When I left Murfreesboro

Now I am full of hollow

On Maxwell Street"

So, today, we are sending my truck towards home. And that´s okay too. The Mule is old. It's pretty tired. It's seen a lot of miles. But it's still my Mule. And it's just the way I like it. It's come this far and I hope that with a little luck, it'll go a bit further. In the end, and especially now, I really hope it knows the way back home.

"I lived on nothing

But dreams and train smoke

I hope my pony

Knows the way

Back home" Tom Waits-Pony

The Looming Departure

2011-03-22T19:03:00.000-07:00

We left the Orosi valley with the truck pointed east towards the Carribean coast. Along the way, we passed over Costa Rica's Central Highlands where the slopes of Volcan Irazu and Turriabla brought us to misty heights above dots of villages scattered across the lush jungle valleys.

Once at Puerto Limon, we turned right and followed the soggy coastline where we again met up with Marc and Sarah amidst a stand of swaying palms and rippled beaches.

It was good to be back with friends as the passage through Limon was not without anxiety; in several days, this will be the place of departure for the Mule and the majority of our belongings that have sustained us for the past six and a half months on the road. They are going to Miami. We are heading to Panama.

My stomach fluttered as we drove past towers of shipping containers and industrial cranes on a wet and dark afternoon. I leaned into the steering wheel, peering through the blotted windshield as the grey, shifting skies and the flickering rain heightened my sagging mood; weeks of dealing with the shipping companies, shipping brokers, filling out paperwork, packing and repacking the Mule is leading to this, a fatefull day when, for the first time on this trip, the fate of our home on wheels will rest in someone else's hands.

A document will send the Mule north by ship while a bus ticket will take Melanie, Dante, and I further south to the Panama Canal and the end of Central America.

Our time at Playa Viejo and Punta Uva, marked by clouds, rain, a pending date with the shipping companies, and a bumper full of soggy clothes.

...which didn't really bring down Dman's mood as Marco taught him how to harvest coconuts...

...and swing like Spider Man.

Surf, beach, and continuous rain.

The Mule\s looming departure awaits out in the sea.

Darth Vader is a Queen

2011-03-16T19:50:00.000-07:00

Twenty-four hours, seven days a week, six and a half months.

That's a lot of dad/kid time.

And that's something pretty special. It also takes a lot of games to keep it special. Lot's and lots of games.

The Dman loves games. From Kingston, across Canada to Vancouver, through the U.S., Mexico, and now, to the end of Central America, Dante has had his fair share of game time. He's learned how to read and write the alphabet in the truck. He can do some math (hey, he IS half Chinese, afterall), he loves to draw, he plays checkers, and he can beat the pants off of you in a game of UNO. He knows the words to "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" by heart and he often makes requests for Tom Waits' "Rain Dogs". His favourite board game while on the road is a StarWars version of Trouble and just yesterday, he and I built Deep Space Heavy Lifters out of a small, travel-size box of Legos. Cool.

Do you know what else is really cool?

He learned to play chess the other day.

We started off with a half-board, with single pieces and progressed from the lowly pawns all the way up to the tricky knights. He loves having races with the rooks through mazes made from pawns and he thinks that the game of collecting the most rocks with the queens is pretty fun.

Recently, he's moved up to a full board while using all the pieces in a real game. A real game as in the pawns are known as Storm Troopers. And the rooks are Han Solos, the bishops are the Imperical Guards, and the king is the evil Emperor. Oh, and the Queen?

Darth Vader, of course.

I really like to play chess, but playing with Dante has added a new dimension to the game. Especially when both of us are breathing through our cupped hands over our mouths while making deep, leaky radiator noises out loud as we move our queens about on the board.

May the Force be with you. Oh, and you better watch out: your king is in check.

Bella and Mule

2011-03-16T07:10:00.000-07:00

Sarah was looking for a bit of company after the departure of family. We were looking for a cheap place to sleep after blowing our budget on new underwear.

And the rest, they say, is history.

As so again, the Mule and Bella met up, this time at a cheap campsite right on the banks of the rushing Orosi river. You can't beat two bucks a head for camping. Especially in Costa Rica, when everything, including underwear, is muy, muy expensive. Five bucks for a pair of briefs!

The most exciting thing other than meeting up with our friends and watching Marco and Dante beat each other up in lightsabre duels?

Sarah deciding to cut off her dreadlocks. Now THAT was worth the price of expensive underwear.

(Claire and Leah: I didn't take an 'after' shot. I'll let your daughter post that gem on her own blog...)

One of many knarly roads in Costa Rica.

Seat belts. We don't need no seat belts!

Beds on top of vehicles, homes on wheels.

Yeah, I'd need some tunes to distract me too if I was Sarah...

Finca Christina

2011-03-14T19:38:00.000-07:00

Nestled amongst the broad flanks of the volcano in Valle Orosi rests Costa Rica's coffee haven. If you take the scenic route from the village of Orosi, through Palomo and back up to Paraiso, you'll wind past stands of palms and countless sloped fields of dark green coffee trees.

Before meeting up with Marc and Sarah again at a campsite alongside the Orosi river, Melanie, Dante, and I drove up past Paraiso to visit the coffee plantation of Finca Christina. There, Linda and Ernie showed us the ways of running a coffee farm. For thirty-some years, this couple have been tending their land in an ecologically friendly manner to produce shade-grown, organic coffee. Harvesting their arabica beans from an altitude of thirteen hundred meters, they mill and roast their product all in-house. The fertilizer used in the soil is all hand mixed, they avoid pesticides, and the trees providing shade for the coffee plants are caringly managed on their farm. After milling the beans, the pulp is recycled into their fertilizer and the waste gas is reused for their domestic cooking.

Pretty amazing stuff. Oh yeah, and the coffee? Pretty fantastic.

Of course, at this point in the story, the Mule is already packed with bags of Finca Christina's finest. And when I get home, the Saeco that's been taking a break for the past half year on my kitchen counter will be in for a workout.

Italy, meet Costa Rica!

Sun dried coffee beans.

Tools of the trade.

Costa Rican coffee: all Arabica, all good stuff.

The roaster at Finca Christina.

Bugsy, earning his keep at the coffee farm.

Back in the Valley

2011-03-12T06:16:00.000-08:00

After finalizing shipping details and reserving a sailing date for the Mule (March 24th to Miami!), we left San Jose and returned to the Orosi Valley, where the skies were crystal blue and the broad flanks of the mountains an emerald green. We've decided to avoid from the coast for a few days after seeing the earthquake and tsunami horror show in Japan (how is it, that amongst a million other lucky things that have happened in my life, I also live in a part of the world where the worst natural disaster to occur is...a heavy snowfall and a once-in-a-lifetime icestorm?) . The posted signs that we've seen on the Pacific coast for tsunami evacuation routes throughout this trip, are, apparently, not for without reason.

The mountains, for now, will be just fine with us.

Sad Goodbyes Mean Happy Hellos

2011-03-10T10:02:00.000-08:00

What's one to do without clothes, underwear, or glasses in Costa Rica?

Hit the beach, what else?

Melanie, Dante, and I spent the rest of our time at Malpais (it's not really that much of a Bad Country, despite being robbed) hanging out in the sand with the Pacific rolling in and the afterglow of a sunset lingering into the late evening. Over glasses of wine, we watched surfers glide in with the bloated sinking sun as a stunning backdrop, marking the end to another glorious day in the tropics.

Again, we crossed paths with Bella and Company, this time with visitors from Canada for Sarah. Claire and Leah greeted us in the typical Maritime spirit: with open arms, laughter, and food. Such is our time with Bella and her passengers: our meetings, born from a mixture of chance and design, are like signposts and postcards of our journey, each encounter marking an unforgettable moment in these past six months. Like Andrew and Shona from Alberta, what began as an accidental encounter on the road quickly blossomed into a rare kinship forged from common experiences . Now, when we say goodbye to each other, our eyes are cast towards another joyful meeting sometime in the near future.

Just like I told Dante the other day, when, in the back seat he sat with his eyes filled with tears after leaving Bella and company: sad goodbyes always mean happy hellos.

Wading into the Pacific, searching for the perfect wave.

Marc and Dante, cleaning the board after an evening of surfing.

Riders of the sunsets.

Momma and Bugsy.

Surf country in Bad Country.

Bella and her crew.

Sad goodbyes mean happy hellos

A face full of dirty underwear...

2011-03-07T14:30:00.000-08:00

We wuz robbed.

It was going to happen sooner or later, I guess. I mean, when you're on the road for months on end and all your belongings for that period is stashed away in your truck, the house that is also your vehicle ends up being a pretty big target. That and my Ontario plates in Costa Rica probably gave it away. Or the cow skull strapped to the front bumper.

So, after six and a half months of traveling, someone finally broke into the Mule and robbed us of our stuff. Two backpacks and my beloved camera bag. It happened just yesterday when we were visiting our friends Marc, Sarah, Bella, and her family (Sarah, not the van). Excitedly, we left our beach campsite and drove down to their hotel on a dirt road to say hello. After just fifteen minutes of chatting, I returned to the Mule to find the driverside door ajar and our bags gone. Maybe they pushed the window down that I had left slightly open for the afternoon heat. Or maybe they jimmied the lock. Or maybe I didn't properly lock my side of the door.

Whatever.

In the end, it's just stuff. Material goods. After living somewhat simply for the last half-year, I've gotten used to the distance I've placed between myself and my possessions. It could've been much worse. We could've lost a lot more.

Like many times already on this trip, the circumstances we've encontered on the road all have some bad parts, some good parts, some great parts, and some hilarious parts. Here's the tally:

The Bad:

We lost all of our clothes, my glasses, both backpacks, some cash, Mel's tampons, cell phone, my SPOT GPS and my camera bag. And when I say all of our clothes, I mean the clothes we are wearing in the picture below are, for the moment, the only ones we own.

The Good:

I now have a legitimate reason to go commando for the rest of the trip. Not that I ever really needed a reason, but I actually don't own any underwear now. Especially in that picture below. Thought you'd like to know that.

Oh, and I hope Mean Dude presses the 911 button on the SPOT GPS. A fleet of black helicopters descending on the poor sod's house in the middle of the night will be retribution for him stealing my gitch.

The Great:

No broken windows in the Mule. Our laptop, camera, camera lenses, passports, back-up drive with all our pictures, and credit cards were all stashed away in our lockbox. Oh, and they didn't steal Dante's charished StarWars shirt with the picture of The Whole Gang (Luke, the Princess, Han, Obi-Wan, the Death Star, and X-Wing fighters) on the front.

The Hilarious:

The dude who stole our stuff is in for a surprise because we haven't done laundry since...let me think...Nicaragua. Traveling allows some luxuries, I think, and not having to clean our clothes on a regular basis is one of them. I mean, water is hard to come by and who wants to spend their holidays sitting beside a washing machine or sink? I've been wearing the same shorts for the past week, for crying out loud.

Which means, of course, that Mean Dude, when he cracks open my bag, will find a facefull of dirty underwear, stinky running socks, and some well-loved shirts that were never going to make it back home in one piece anyways. I really hope that he's out of breath after running away from the Mule and that, in his moment of ecstasy just before opening my pack, he's sucking in lungfuls of air. Lots and lots of it.

Sucka fool.

Yeah. That´s us. And we´re mad. And we´re looking for you, Mean Dude. Gimme back my underwear!

Bag Man Monster of the Sidewalk.

2011-03-03T18:17:00.000-08:00

So, this is what happens when you spend multiple days running around the metropolis of San Jose dealing with shipping companies and shipping brokers and terms like Less Cargo Load and Roll-On-Roll Off and Power of Attorney and Bunker Fees and...

You have a five-year old boy who decides that the only way he can get some attention is to turn himself into some kinda Bag Man Monster of the Sidewalk.

Scary stuff.

Legends and poopy seats

2011-03-01T20:25:00.000-08:00

If you've been following along with me on this trip, I'll assume that my incessant talk about the legend of Toyota Landcruisers has brainwashed at least some of you. If you're still not convinced, then read on. As for me, I've been converted awhile ago and yesterday was just another confirmation of my membership to the cult.

Intrigued by Frank's offer of having us camp out at his eco-farm, we took the Mule out of town and into the nearby mountains before proceeding to climb the slopes via a winding, narrow, and steep dirt road. Climbing is typically not an issue for the HJ60, but I've asked a lot out of the Mule on this trip. Loaded down with close to nine hundred pounds of equipment, people, supplies, water, and fuel, the truck is far from being a street racer and it has had it's work cut out from the beginning of our journey. From laboring up through the Rockies in Canada to hours of off-roading in the Baja, to cross-country highland touring in the flooded pathways of Guatemala, my Landcruiser has been a constant companion in over six and a half months of daily trials. The truck is almost two and a half decades old, remember, and as of today, it has over three hundred and twenty-eight thousand kilometers on the clock. I don't call it The Old Mule for nothing.

When the dirt path tipped skywards, I put the truck on all fours, in first gear, low range, and we proceeded to climb and bump our way towards the top of the thick green mountain range. With the 2H diesel growling above our voices, we dropped into deep ruts, swayed over bulging rocks, and cut across at least one fast flowing river. Towards the end, the Mule clambered it's way up a steep muddy grade before exiting onto Frank's farm where we looked upon the broad, sweeping expanse of the Orosi valley. Exhilarating.

Getting off the mountain the next day was another story.

After raining sideways for a solid twenty-four hours, Melanie, Dante, and I came to the conclusion that sitting around in a damp tent with a squirrelly five year old was a poor alternative to standing around in the mud and cold rain with a squirrelly five year old. Plus, our deck of cards had become too soggy to play with an hour after arriving at the top and the act of pooping and peeing outside in a downpour after eating dinner and then breakfast inside a moist truck had quickly lost it's novelty.

So, during the next morning, we packed up and pointed the Mule back down the mountain, rain and all. Not, in retrospect, the wisest of choices.

What was once a steep and dangerous uphill climb had now become a steep and dangerous descent that was covered in thick, slick, and gooey clay. Seconds into the descent, the Mule started sliding sideways on the narrow path towards a grass choked ditch and mud embankment. Being in low range gearing did little to help my situation as the tires quickly became clogged in clay and the path was transformed into a slippery, out-of-control downhill luge ride in the pelting rain.

Do you remember those B-grade monster horror flicks as a child where the hapless victims in the city streets are looking up at the foot of some giant monster as it, in slow motion, stomps on them? Remember their faces as the shadow of the foot got bigger and bigger until there was nothing they could do to avoid the inevitable except to put their hands up to their screaming faces to yell a distorted and anguished 'Noooooooooooo!!!'?

Yeah, that was me, that morning in the Mule as we slammed into the embankment before digging into the trench. The silence from the stalled motor amplified the silence as I picked grass out of the side of my face from the open driver's side window.

"Ahhhhh, I think it's best if everyone gets out of the truck because we might have an accident soon", I muttered to my passengers. "I mean, another accident. Soon".

No one really objected as they piled out into the rain although I faintly recalled James (one of the volunteers at the farm) telling me that some of the corners on the way down the clay road ended at the edges of cliffs.

Eventually, I got myself out of the ditch and over the next hour, I inched the Mule down the mountain, sometimes going sideways, sometimes heading for the cliffs, and all the while wondering whether it would be more ridiculous for the locals to pull a gringo and his Landcruiser out of a steep downhill ditch in the pouring rain or off the side of a mountain cliff in the pouring rain.

In the end, Mule shepherded me to the bottom of the mountain with only a smashed rear light and a couple of big dents in the rear quarter panel as souvenirs from Costa Rica. Melanie, Dante, James, and Alicia are all right. They ended up walking most of the way down the mountain in the rain, which was not an entirely bad thing because had they been inside the truck, they would have seen me crapping myself in the driver's seat seemingly every thirty seconds of the descent.

The legend of the Landcruiser. Huh.

I wonder if poopy seats qualifies as part of the legend?

That's James, telling me that there are a few cliffs on the way down the slippery clay descent that I should be aware of, shortly after the Mule piled into a mud embankment.

Alicia, James, and Melanie, strolling to the bottom of the mountain, sans Mule.

A river crossing after the crazy descent.

Bath time!

The Dman, soaked, but safe. "Hey, Dada, why is grass growing out of the truck?".

Mule repair: fixing dents with a hammer and a hacky-sack attached to the end of a piece of stick.

Vision and Determination

2011-03-01T11:03:00.000-08:00

Vision and determination.

Some people have one. Some, the other. Some have none. Few are lucky enough to posses both.

Frank is one of the latter. He knows what he wants and he's gunning to get it.

When we arrived at the Hotel Reventazon in the sleepy village of Orosi, the owner approached Melanie, Dante, and I and asked whether we would like to see his eco-friendly village. Actually, Frank called it his 'farm' but what we later discovered was that he had a piece of land up in the mountains that he had set aside with hopes of building a series of environmentally conscious and self-sustaining shelters. Earthships, they are apparently called and their purpose is to provide living spaces for communities by using recycled materials for construction and passive solar for energy.

"I want to start organic farming up there", Frank told me, "and have people come and go as they please, living in these Earthships as a retreat, doing art, community work, and sharing with each other". Construction has already begun, he said, and up at the Farm, there are a number of rammed-earth and concrete structures that incorporate recycled tires, bottles, and cans as walls and roofs.

"I'm going to collect rain water with cisterns, use solar for energy and use as much recycled materials as possible to build this community", Frank said as he stared up at the mountain with a soft smile and a far-away look on his face. "The locals think I'm crazy, but I love it up there and I'm going to do it".

Is Frank a dreamer? Is he one of these direction-less hippies who's vision of the world rests far from the clutches of reality? Is he crazy?

I don't know. I've just met him and maybe there's a yes to some of these questions. Or maybe there's a definite no to all of them. Really, I'm not sure. There is, however, a few things I can say for certain: Tossing judgment towards the unknown or the unconventional is always an easy and convenient thing to do. As a society, we do it all the time at the cost of stiffling real change or gaining real knowledge in our world. It's one of the reasons why our North American society seems stuck in a box, barreling down a one-way, dead-end street with our energy use, our fear towards others, the way we consume, the way we spend our money, the way we're told to live our lives and to accept that eventuality like lemmings before the looming cliff.

It would be easy to describe Frank's ideas as looney and far-fetched but you know what? That's what people said of Melanie and I when we failed at our first attempt at building a straw-bale house on Simcoe Island. When our walls sagged under the torrential rains and our tarps ripped apart in the winter winds, and finally, when we tore down the building to start over in the spring, I'm sure many simply shook their heads and used our failure as validation of their skepticism. Dreamers. Naive. Silly fools, what were they thinking?

Vision and determination. With the generous help from friends and family, Melanie and I eventually built our straw-bale house and along the way, discovered the essentialness of these qualities that is required when one desires to succeed outside of convention.

Vision and determination.

I don't know whether Frank is right or wrong, or whether he will succeed in reaching his dreams, but I wouldn't bet against him. The nay-sayers ought to aim their stones elsewhere because this target has truck-loads of these two qualities and if he succeeds, he'll be the one doing all the laughing.

A wall made from rammed-earth and recycled car tires.

A dome wall created from concrete, glass bottles, and aluminum cans.

Another reason to drink Imperial beer in Costa Rica.

Dante, cleaning bottles and learning how to build walls from glass.

Volunteers, sleeping and working up at the farm.

Melanie, Dante, and I, camping out in our 'earthship' at Frank's cloud forest farm.

Cartago and Orosi

2011-02-28T15:32:00.000-08:00

A lifetime away from the heat and the coast, the village of Cartago and the Orosi valley rests in Costa Rica's central highlands. Other than the basilica and the ruinas of the cathedral, the former didn't hold much interest for us. Antigua and Morelia, it seems, have spoiled us.

Orosi, however, is mountainous, emerald green, and misty, and driving past the flickering palms in the afternoon light amidst the fields of coffee plants reminded me of the time spent between Lanquin and El Estor in Guatemala.

It's coffee country here and there's certainty that the cup of java you have in your hands this instant came from the coffee plantations in Orosi, Costa Rica.

The Santiago Apostle ruinas in Cartago.

Nature reclaiming the church that was never finished.

An abandoned gasolinara in Cartago.

Basilica Los Angeles

The Orosi valley

This is where your shade-grown coffee comes from.

From another angle...

2011-02-26T12:44:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of reasons for meeting up with friends while on the road. Good food, good stories, and great company.

Oh, and it's nice to have someone else take photos. Really nice photos.

My favorite, by the way, is Dante and Marc, having a I-can-hold-my-breath-longer-than-you contest.

Thanks, Marc and Sarah.

Check these out:

www.sarah-marc.blogspot.com

Beating the Heat

2011-02-25T19:06:00.000-08:00

Alright.

I realize that this is going to sound a bit rich, but here goes:

We left the beach 'cause it was too hot.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, that snickering I hear across the big wide Internet is already hurting my ears but really, we had to beat the heat the other day from the Nicoya Penninsula. Now, I realize that there's not much you can do when it's minus thirty degrees outside in Canada and most you guys back at home are into your eighth year of winter (or does it just feel like that?) but things slow down here just as much when its well over thirty on the other end of the scale. When pop bottles start to melt on the asphalt, I'm heading for the highlands, baby.

So, for a change, Melanie, Dante, and I took the Mule and charged out of the dusty peninsula, from Playa Samara to Alajuela, a suburb just outside of San Jose. Out of cattle country and into the cool air of the central highlands.

We're in the big city and have a date with the shipping companies. Over the next several days, we hope to solidify some plans to send the Mule from Coast Rica to Miami on a boat where we will meet it to drive back to Canada in a couple month's time.

Ditch the sandals and bring on the paperwork, baby. This is going to hurt.

But hey, that's okay, 'cause the sympathy I'm getting from you is gonna make all better.

Right?

This is not nearly as easy as you think. Kicking back in a hammock beside the ocean can be tough work. That sun. It glares. In my eyes.

The Mule Train, charging through Nicoya Penninsula.

Hiding from the heat.

This pic doesn't really fit in with the story, but what the heck. That's the Dman and I, having a light sabre duel with some tent poles at Playa Callejones. I pretended that I was the evil Darth Vader, in beach attire. He was Luke Skywalker, apprenticing to be a plumber. He won because I eventually fell over in the sand, laughing my head off.

When is an egg poacher not an egg poacher?

2011-02-22T10:32:00.000-08:00

Sea turtles! Sea turtles laying their eggs!

Head south west from Liberia, and you'll find yourself on Costa Rica's Nicoya Penninsula, a fist of land jutting out into the swaying Pacific. Getting there is a hot, dry and dusty affair but the reward is a series of pristine beaches where the sand sweeps across crescent-shaped coves in a carpet of smooth dark cocoa and the palms pull you into their shade faster than a cool DQ shop on a sweltering August afternoon.

Oh, and did I mention that there are sea turtles here?

After scurrying away from the Taller Panamerica mechanic shop in Libera (the Mule needed new rear leafsprings-he has a big and heavy butt), we took Bella and the Mule down the pennisula to Playa Callejones, just south of Playa Negra. Over several days, we camped beside the ocean while hiding in the shade, drinking cold drinks and taking soothing dips into the rushing Pacific waves.

One night, I awoke to hear Sarah whispering outside our tent, asking us if we wanted to see a turtle laying her eggs on the beach.

Sure, why not, I asked myself as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. I could either lie in a hot tent in the middle of the night or I could witness are really wonderful wildlife event in Costa Rica. Hard decision, I know.

In the glow of a full moon, Melanie, Dante, and I met Marco and Sarah underneath the arches of a nearby mangrove. There, we stood around a large green sea turtle as it busied itself digging a crater in the sand and laying her eggs. In the same hole with the massive turtle was a man, on his knees, digging the same sand and trying to push the animal aside. Fearing that we were witnessing an egg poacher in action, we began to field questions at the dude, who in return, provided scant information about his purpose. His English-speaking friend who showed up moments later did little to ease our concerns. The self-proclaimed guide and turtle researcher couldn't provide any identification or permit stating his permission to dig and relocate eggs. He said that he lost his ID in a previous rental car. The first guy wasn't sure as to which organization he worked for other than pointing at the back of his shirt that said something about a group calling themselves Sea Turtles Forever. The pair finished up by removing the eggs from the turtle's nest and reassuring us that we had done the right thing by questioning them. As they scurried away into the night, they insisted that their intentions were noble and they were to rebury them at another site, away from the evil egg poachers. You know, those egg poachers-guys lurking around at night, digging up eggs without proper identification or permits, and being aggressive when asked to present some paperwork.

Yeah. Those guys.

Anyways, we found out the next day that English-Speaking-Grumpy Dude and his Spanish-Speaking friend did indeed work for Sea Turtles Forever and they were on a mission to safely relocate turtle eggs. It's just that the second guy was an ex-poacher who now works for the organization in locating eggs. And English-Speaking-Grumpy Dude did have his paperwork in order and Sea Turtles Forever is a legit organization.

In the end, I guess we were simply paranoid and over-concerned gringos with little to do in the middle of the night except to catch egg poachers in action. Who turned out weren't egg-poachers. Except one was an egg poacher, who no-longer is an egg poacher. And the other who worked for an organization that hires ex-poachers in order to combat the real egg poachers. And he didn't have proof that night that he wasn't an egg poacher.

Aye. Maybe I should've stayed in bed after all.

Momma green sea turtle digging her nest and laying her eggs.

Bella, picking treasure hunt signs that we had put up on the side of the roads for Marc and Sarah to find us on Playa Callejones.

Tide out and it's fishing time. Except we didn't catch any fish. Maybe Bugsy jinxed everything when he whispered to Marc, Sarah, and Melanie that "Dada isn't very good at catching fish"....

Sunset at Playa Callejones, Costa Rica.

The Mule, taking shade between the palms.

Five Trips Around the Sun

2011-02-16T12:38:00.000-08:00

You might not realize it, but a lot happens in the period that the Earth takes to swing around the Sun. Even more so when it does it five times in a row.

Five trips around the sun. To me, that's a fleeting moment too quick to hold but in my memories. But to a little boy, five trips around the sun is a lifetime. Many miracles and hi-jinks take place during this time. Shenanigans like:

Busloads of dirty diapers stored away somewhere in some landfill.

Countless bananas eaten.

An equal number of skinned knees and noses on sidewalks.

Many noses picked.

The distance equal to the circumference of the Earth traveled in a backpack and the shoulders of others.

Adventures in Argentina. Adventures in Uruguay.

Endless kisses from Ahma, Yeah-Yeah, Gram-gram, Granpa, Tio Burro, Tee Tee, Uncle KY, and Aunties Becca and Janice.

Lessons on how to ride a bike from Unkee Chunkee and how not to play with knives and a hot plate in a dark Zambian room from Auntie Hay-Hay.

The distance equal to the circumference of the Earth spent crawling, walking, and then running after cars, butterflies, soccer balls, Jedi-Knights, and his parents.

A least a hundred dim sum dishes eaten in Vancouver.

Adventures in Zambia and Malawi, including being chased by an angry mob.

Helping momma and dadda build one and a half straw houses.

The distance equal to the circumference of the Sun spent swimming in pools, biking through parks, sliding down slides, and swinging on swings.

The height of the CN tower built in Legos.

Becoming the galaxy's biggest Star Wars fan.

Becoming buds with Jonah, Jada, Kayden, Izzy, Ella, Ollie, Dylan, Eric, and Elliot.

Having new cousins Max and Logan on the West coast to surf with.

Having eaten the universe's best bouillibase at Karl and Wendy's place next door. Every Sunday. Ditto to the world famous ribs at Colleen's place. Also on every Sunday.

Going on a wee road trip down south.

Adventures in Italy. Adventures in Amsterdam.

And more adventures in New Zealand.

Having eaten a starship's worth of gelatos and ice-cream cones.

Winning thousands (and sometimes losing) light-sabre duels with his dada.

Getting limitless hugs from his mama.

Uttering countless slurred "I love you"s moments before passing out in bed after a day of all the above.

Five trips around the sun. Miracles and shenanigans, but not one without the other. Here's hoping that the next five trips will be filled with more of these miracles and shenanigans.

Happy Burfday, dude.

Love,

Momma and Dadda.

When it's almost your birthday and you're in Costa Rica, what's a boy to do but to have another pinata party around a campfire with other travelers!

Melanie's Campfire Bakery, at your service.

Hanging out with KJ, another overlander from the U.S. He's a cool dude: laid back, chilled out, and driving a VW Syncro called the Ark down south. He found us hanging out at a grocery store parking lot in San Juan de Sur and the rest, as they say, is history. Beach time, chicken wings, and a border crossing into Costa Rica later, Dante had another best friend in KJ.

The birthday boy surprised with a treasure hunt at the campground in Liberia from Marc, Sarah, and Bella.

Looking forward to another trip around the sun...

Surf and Pulpo

2011-02-15T10:14:00.000-08:00

On a road trip, there are some places where you breeze through town, content on being a spectator to the passing scenary. Then there are some places on a journey that suck you in, pulling you deep within it's sphere of influence while making you forget about the passage of time.

Playa Maderas, just outside of San Juan de Sur on the Nicaraguan coast, is one of those places. For days on end, we lost ourselves on the beach, camping underneath the fruit trees, lounging in a hammock, and trying (emphasize trying) to surf.

The latter is a maddening ordeal. My bro out on the west coast loves it, and indeed, I tried to surf in Tofino a number of years ago. I was recovering from a broken collar bone then and thus, when I found myself floundering about in the break, I had a covenient scapegoat at my disposal.

This time in Nicaragua, however, I didn't have an ailment to use as an excuse. No bad collar bone, no bum knee, no dibilitating disease to speak of. Still, no change. A week of flopping about in the Pacific and getting hammered by the walls of water left me questiong the sanity of this...sport. Or past time. Or masochistic activity. Whatever. The hilarious thing though, was watching little kids swing past me, kicking salt water in my face while they jumped over my head as I floated about, spitting the Pacific out of my nose.

I found redemption, however, in the kitchen. Hey, welcome to my domain, surfer dudes. Around a campfire every night, we grilled pork, chicken wings, and baked bread amongst a circle of friends. Oh, and I accosted a couple of dudes on the beach to see if they were selling pulpo (octopus). They were, and for the rest of the evening, I wrestled a mass of mucous into a pot before using half of my fuel supple to boil it to death. After being saved by some tasty pasta from Marco and Sarah, I served the pulpo around the fire to my traveling buddies.

Chewy, yes, but still tasty. Kind of. Whatever the case, at least I didn't have a ten-year old kid on a surf board zinging past me seconds before being crushed by a wall of water.

At least that.

Pulpo from the ocean.

Pulpo in the pot.

Playa Maderas. The rocky part, not the sandy part.

Trying to surf.

Sunset at Maderas.

Ometepe and First Dates

2011-02-12T14:22:00.000-08:00

First, Kumu, and now, Bella. The Mule, it seems, likes his German ladies.

Now two in our convoy, Marc, Sarah, Melanie, Dante, and I drove our respective vehicles onto Che Guevera, the ferry that bounced us along the choppy surf of Lake Nicaragua. On the other side, the sweeping shadows of Ometepe's double volcanos arched towards the sky while halos of clouds circled their summits.

We spent several days on Ometepe, camping along the shores of the island, hiking to waterfalls, looking for jungle monkeys, and lounging by the waterside while watching hazy sunsets paint the horizon above Nicaragua's biggest lake. It's quintessential island life here where things move at a languid, rural pace. During the occasional moments of excitment, it's been known that the passage of time may approach the speed of wandering cows on a dusty road but for the most part, the days roll past no faster than a dreamy afternoon spent in a swinging hammock.

Speaking of cows, Bella and the Mule met a herd of such as we rounded a corner on our way to a local swimming hole. Coasting up to the head cow, our Anti-Cow Cow Skull on the Mule exerted little influence on the herd as they milled about us, soon swarming both vehicles in a sea of hooves, horns, twitching ears, and low-grade moans. The cowboy, who, it turned out, was a boy barely older than Dante, lazily rode through the crowd of cows on his donkey while directing traffic with a swinging rope. Cowboy-Boy's efforts did little to change the minds of his four-legged disciples and soon, the bovine traffic jam forced cars on both sides of the road to a halt (note to both the Nicaraguan and Honduran police: there's a lesson to be learned here about putting up effective traffic stops, I think).

Bored with sniffing his cousin's skull on our bumper, Head Cow decided it was time to move on. The herd shuffled past Mule and Bella while the grinning Cowboy-Boy took up the rear, smacking the rumps of the last few cows for good measure.

With the bovines gone, Marco and I shifted Mule and Bella into first and released the clutchs. Hand in hand, Mule and Bella continued on their afternoon island date down a road freshly covered with Ometepe's finest cow dung. That's right. This is, afterall, Nicaragua and there's nothing too classy for first dates.

Loading Mule and Bella onto the ferry Che. This ain't no Wolfe Island ferry, baby. Tight squeezes, sketchy tie-downs, and rolling whitecaps were the order of the day.

Sarah, guiding Bella onto the ferry, Nica-style.

Mule, meet Cow. Cow, meet Mule.

Volcan Maderas, Ometepe.

Granada and driver's licenses

2011-02-10T11:05:00.000-08:00

We road into Granada, in search of friends and a driver's license.

The former: Remember Sarah and Marco, the Quebec couple driving south in their Westi, who's story about a border crossing into Guatemale is worthy of dinner-time tales well into the next generation (try having a breakdown while coasting up to the officials at the aduana and then having to push your vehicle across the border)? They're a hardy and resourceful couple, able to overcome and dodge the wrenches their journey throws at them. We met them way back in Antigua, celebrated New Years together, and, like Kumu, shared tales of adventures of the road.

When we met again in Granada, we greeted each other the way that old friends do when far from home. It's at this point in our travels that I find myself grasping onto these chance meetings with fellow overlanders like gems in the wilderness, however fleeting the moments. They are sweet exchanges, full of warmth and happiness. The collective acknowledgment of the undulating last few months is a comforting affair and as a group, we laugh at the countless encounters with the police, the daily search for shelter, food, and security.

The latter: Again, I have a proper driver's license.

During a police check-point in Honduras, I discovered, to my disbelief, that my Ontario driver's license had expired back in January. Don't ask me how I could have thought about the number of underwear I needed for this trip but not of the expiry date of my driver's license. For a road trip, of all things.

Sigh.

The sudden feelings of vulnerability left me scurrying between police stops like a nervous mouse in an open field, waiting for the talons from unscrupulous officials to descend from the skies. Luckily, my pleadings to MTO didn't fall on deaf ears and, with Mike and Nancy's unmeasurable help, Purolator arrived into Granada with my temporary license none the moment too soon.

Take that, policia de Nicaragua. You'll have to go back to your red safety triangle scam to get me now.

Sarah and the Dman, looking cool.

Dante and Bella, also looking cool..

Marco, teaching Dante the art of being cool.

Cool, dude.

Asteroids and choking on food in Mexico.

2011-02-02T07:51:00.000-08:00

Finally, some perspective amidst all the hysteria.

It's pretty funny. A five year average of tourists getting assaulted or being killed in Mexico hovers around 2.1 incidents. Per 100, 000 visits. Yeah. That's five zeros behind that lonely one.

Apparently, the Earth is ten times more likely to be struck in a catastrophic collision with an astroid in the next hundred years that you getting tangled up in some bad situation with the bandidos in Mexico. It's also more probably that you will choke and die on your next piece of dinner than getting beat up in Mexico.

Huh. I guess the lesson of the day is if you're really really worried or freaked out, then at least try not to eat a taco. In Mexico. While you're standing beneath a crashing asteroid.

'Cause that would be bad. And the media would have a field day with that one.

Nicaragua and an old friend.

2011-01-30T16:05:00.000-08:00

Four days of booking it in the Mule and we're through two more countries. We're on the threshold of our seventh but the repeated rinse-wash cycles of wake-up, pack, truck inspection, drive, stop for police checks, drive, search for fuel, drive, and the inevitable evening hunt for dodgy hotels has left us panting and looking for a slice of reprieve from both the road and a string of gritty, forgettable Central American towns.

We found it in San Juan de Sur, Nicaragua. Pounding the sun-bathed scalloped beach, the Pacific surf called out to us like a long-lost friend; it's been, gasp, over a month since I threw my sandals aside to run gleefully across the beach. We rushed into the ocean and with that, the miles gathered between La Ceiba, Tegucigalpa, Danli, the Nicaraguan border, and Esteli washed away like swirling sand in the surf. Even our missed reunion with Kumu and the Parking Lot Gang at Playa Maderas did little to weigh down our spirits.

With our fridge again full and my trusty Coleman running hot on paint thinner, we made our first meal from the Mule in over a week. Bang, bang, bang, went our kitchen acrobatics in the truck; in the dark, my hands are like old dogs returning to familiar places and I can find my way around our kitchen in the Mule faster than Gordan Ramsay in his. Eyes closed and it's all by feel at this point in our trip: hands searching for a knife here, a bowl over there, stove lighter here, onions here, spices there, and just like that we're dining on a balcony to the gentle swishing of palms and the broad afterglow of another dramatic Pacific sunset.

We're in Nicaragua. Dinner was fantastic. The Mule is healthy. My stove works. And the beach is a skip away from the foot of our beds.

Life, for those still unconvinced, doesn't get much better than this.

No fish for dinner at Lake Yojoa.

The water, far from being blue, at Hotel Agua Azul.

A series of stinky bathrooms in 'rustic' hotels.

...But none of that matters when the Pacific is so blue and the race on the beach is such a gleeful affair.

Funny fuels

2011-01-29T06:07:00.000-08:00

No, this stove is not full of camp fuel. I ran out of that precious liquid moons ago. But my Coleman and MSR Whisperlite are thirsty beasts, their diet of distilled naptha and alcohol more gluttonous than the Mule.

What to do? With my excursions to camping outfitters and hardware stores in Guate and Antigua resulting in the shakes of heads and shrugging of shoulders, I find myself in a bind.

This is no Coleman fuel. It's tiner (en espanol), or thinner in English. As in paint thinner. My preliminary tests with my multi-fuel Whisperlite didn't leave me engulfed in a ball of flames or high on fumes. Of course, that little gem from MSR will burn just about anything, including diesel and gasoline, as demonstrated during our foray to Zambia a few years ago.

Will this work on my trusted Coleman? Who knows? Will my pizzas taste....funny? Who knows? Will I finally get to show Dante how to use the fire extinguishers in the Mule? Who knows?

Is there anyone out there who knows? Anyone?

Wanderlust is a family thing.

2011-01-28T15:56:00.000-08:00

Wanderlust. It must run in the family. Melanie started traveling when she was a kid, bouncing from one continent to another. When I first met her, I remembered asking her where she hadn't traveled, versus where she had. Her sister, Christi, has been around the world while playing water polo. Just recently, she returned home from England and Brazil and last week, she took off to Australia. Llew, Mel's brother is just the same. He's an engineer living in New Zealand. In between contracts, he's anywhere in the world, backpacking from Asia to the Middle East, from Europe to South America, and back. Soon, he and Sarah are off on their second around the world trip before they call North America home, if just for the summer.

Strap my Spot GPS on any one of them and it would have its work cut out.

But it all comes from somewhere, right? Mike and Nancy, or according to the Dman, Granpa and GramGram, is to blame, I think. They live in Toronto, but when I try to get a hold of them, I never know whether they are in the continent or not. Several years ago, when they visited us in Argentina, Mike and Nancy were in the middle of their world tour. In one year, they traveled to all seven continents, including Antarctica. Somewhere in the middle of their mad continent hopping, there was even a summit attempt to Aconcagua.

Just last week, they came to visit us in Honduras. We stuffed Mike and Nancy into the Mule and as an extended family, we lumbered our way to La Ceiba on the Caribbean coast where we eventually found ourselves lounging under the palapas of a luxurious jungle lodge at Pico Bonito. Melanie, Dante, and I went from living out of a truck one moment to swimming in a crystal blue pool with palm trees, lush green mountains, and misty waterfalls as a backdrop the next. It felt like having a dream within a dream.

With a cavernous kitchen at our disposal, the week eased by with us gleefully milling about the stove, cooking up pizzas, frying tilapia, and making tacos complete with hand made tortillas. Pitter patter, pitter patter went the balls of dough, well into the tropical evenings. When the sun shone, we chartered a boat and snorkeled at Cayo Cochinos, just off the Garifuna coast of Honduras.

Like all great things though, our time with Mike and Nancy drew to a close. With sad faces (Dante, poor guy), we bid adios to two of the most intrepid travelers I've met. Home was calling, but only as a way station as their preparations for a pending trip to New Zealand was in the books. Which, not surprisingly, will be followed by a return voyage to Annapurna of Nepal in May.

And after that? Who knows? Spin a bottle on a world map and where it lands will close to where they'll be.

Wanderlust. Indeed, its a family thing.

Hiking to the waterfalls at the Pico Bonito national park with Granpa.

Salty-Dog Dman on a boat ride out to the bay islands in Honduras.

Warming up after snorkeling at Cayos Cochinos.

A Garifuna fishing boat.

Fishing on the Cangregal river.

The Dman and GramGram crossing the river.

The Coconut Kid

2011-01-27T21:52:00.000-08:00

So, when you're hanging around with Granpa and Gram-Gram at a fancy-pants jungle lodge in Honduras, life's pretty simple. You spend the day kicking back at a pool, making food, going for hikes, making food, reading books, making food...

...and dealing with coconuts.

Just like The Coconut Kid. Here's how it's done:

First, you break the coconut.

Then you rip the coconut.

Then you drill the coconut.

Then you pour the coconut.

Then you drink the coconut.

See? Easy!

Copan Ruinas

2011-01-27T21:07:00.000-08:00

The Mayan ruins of Copan was an hour's drive south-east past the border into Honduras. We stayed in the town with its namesake, a kilometer from the archeological site. A number of years ago, Melanie and I traveled to Belize and crossed into Guatemala to see the ruins in Tikal. That was some pretty impressive stuff. The site at Copan, however, couldn't have been more different: unlike Tikal, which rose out of the Guatemalan jungle in magnificent grandeur, Copan stood in the Honduran sun, a monument of sculptures and hieroglyphs. A city that stood between the fifth and ninth centuries, it represented the epitome of Mayan art and story-telling.

The Dman loved it too. He ran around all day, climbing the ancient steps and running across ball courts like a wild Mayan dude. He's really into this whole Mayan ruin thing now. Especially Tikal, when he heard that the end of Star Wars was filmed there. That's right. Star Wars and Tikal. Darth Vader and Great Sun First Quetzal Macaw, dueling it out. Lightsabres versus sharp spears. Awesome.

I can't wait to see his first "This Is What I Did On My Holiday" presentation at Mulberry school in Kingston. Those hippies there are going to love it...

One of a number of intricately detailed stela in the main plaza at Copan.

Stone and trees at the Acropolis.

Where's Waldo? Actually, that's the Dman, pretending to be a Mayan ball player, running wild in the ancient ball court.

A flat tire, traveler's karma, and Tom Waits.

2011-01-22T08:57:00.000-08:00

A flat tire, Tom Waits, and traveler's karma.

Yeah, that's right. For a moment the other day, the stars of those three magically aligned themselves with each other. I'm not kidding. Even the bit about Waits, despite knowing that I have a tendency to relate most things in life to him. You gotta trust me on that last one. Check it out:

After visiting the Copan ruins just past the Honduran border, Melanie, Dante, and I headed up north towards the Carribean coast. On the way, I had to control an overly excited Bugsy as he bounced off his car seat in anticipation of meeting up with two new travelers: his grandparents from Toronto!

After picking up Nancy and Mike at the airport in San Pedro Sula, we continued our way towards Tela and Le Ceiba. After checking ourselves into the extravagant jungle resort of Pico Bonito (just wait for that blog entry!), we drove back into town to grab some groceries.

Walking up to the Mule with fists-full of groceries, Melanie, Nancy and I met a Honduran family trying to fix a flat tire on their vehicle in the parking lot. The partriarch of the family, who wore a cowboy hat, came up to me and asked me whether I could help them out. I don't know; I like to think that maybe I look like a handy local with automotive mechanical skills oozing out of me but I doubt that was the case. I think he just noticed the Mule and realized that anyone driving that thing must have some proper tools kicking around.

Which I did. And which they, unfortunately, didn't. Kneeling at their flat tire, the son was trying desperately to loosen the last lug nut on the wheel. He had not inserted the tire iron deep enough into the lug and, as a result, the first half of the bolt was stripped. I scrounged around in the back of the Mule amidst the bags of eggs and tortillas and found some PB Blaster, my trusty floor pump, a hammer, and a tire iron.

First, we tried to pump some air into the tire. Working up a ridiculous amount of sweat in the afternoon heat (mostly me), we succeeded in inflating the tire. As soon as we pulled off the pump, however, the tire gave out in a hissing sound. Clearly, the tire valve was the culprit in their flat tire.

"No funciona", I said to Cowboy Hat as I pointed to the valve. "Este un problemo, no?". Yeah, that was me, the fluent, Spanish-speaking Honduran me.

He agreed and we all stood back, looking at the tire. "I know", I said. "Bubble gum!". As Nancy ran back into the grocery store to buy some gum, I tried to tape the valve closed. That didn't work and neither did the gum. Hisssss went the tire.

Next, we tried to remove the flat tire from his truck. I sprayed some lubricant into the last lug nut before we banged the tire iron into the bolt. To my surprise, and to a round of applause, the son and I managed to wrestle the lug nut off the wheel. As I looked up from the ground, I saw a crowd had started to gather around the makeshift garage in the parking lot. A couple of dudes, Cowboy Hat's entire family, and a security guard stood around the truck, looking at the growing spectacle. And what a spectacle: A sweaty, bare chested, Chinese dude trying to fix a flat tire in a parking lot with his Caucasian wife, his Caucasian mother-in-law, and a family of local Hondurans.

Cowboy Hat's son pushed a tiny bottle jack underneath their truck and began to raise the vehicle. With his head underneath the truck, I nervously winced at the unfolding situation after noting that his jack was the size of my thumb and looked equally as worn out as their truck. Quickly, I slid the spare wheel underneath their vehicle, hoping that it would prevent any heads being squished at a Honduran parking lot should the jack give way.

Not surprisingly, when we tried to install the spare wheel, we realized that the vehicle was not raised high enough. Summoning the parking lot crowd, Cowboy Hat directed everyone to lift the front end of his truck, while his son worked underneath, wrestling with the jack.

Aiya.

After several attempts at trying to hoist the truck by its squishy front bumper with our hands (it was tied onto the frame with a piece of wire), we all came to the conclusion that the bottle jack was simply too small and too sketchy. Suggesting to the son that it was best not to hang around the underside of the truck, we again all stood around the parking lot, scratching our heads.

The parking lot crowd and the pressure to fix the problem had now grown in size.

"I know!", I shouted. "Tom Waits!". Melanie stared at me as I rummaged through the back of the Mule. Acknowledging that the bottle jack was too small, I knew that we needed to elevate it from the ground before raising the vehicle. Grabbing the wooden shower platform that I had built in La Paz, our kitchen cutting board, and my hard-cover Tom Waits biography, I thought that all three things stacked up ontop of each other would sufficiently elevate the jack, and thus, the truck.

Plus, I said to myself, this is a pretty cool thing, in a bizzare Tom Waits kinda way: A beat-up truck, resting on a beat-up jack, resting on Tom Wait's biography, resting on a cutting board, resting on a homemade shower platform, all the while resting on a Honduran parking lot. If Waits knew about this, I thought, he'd find it oddly appropriate.

So, for a second time, the son scrambled underneath the truck, shoved the bottle jack ontop of the three items before trying to raise the truck.

Of course, that didn't work. Even with us letting out all the air in the spare wheel, the bottle jack was just a sliver of an inch too short from raising the truck to a sufficient height. Either that or Waits' biography could've been a few chapters longer. Are you reading this, Barney?

In the end, I ended up having to use my Hi-Lift jack from the Mule on the truck's sketchy bumper to raise the vehicle. Several hours after our grocery stop, we successfully installed the spare wheel, torqued the lugnuts, and sent Cowboy Hat's family on their way home that I later found out was several hours away.

Cowboy Hat, his son, and his wife gave me a big hug and told me that I was now his amigo and a fellow Honduran. Cool. Maybe now the locals will stop calling me El Chino.

Anyways, he tried to pay me but I politely refused. I didn't know how to say it in Spanish, but I wanted to tell him that this is all about a thing called traveler's karma. I'm not religous or anything like that, but I believe that as a traveler, what goes around will eventually come around. There's a ledger in my head, you see, and throughout my many travels, Melanie and I have been lucky enough to be at the receiving end of numerous gestures of kindness from strangers. Yesterday was merely payback, something that I needed to do in return for the countless favours I've accepted from decent people while on the road.

Plus, it's another Tom Waits story that I now get to tell. And that, truly, is priceless to me.

Chicken Buses

2011-01-20T13:47:00.000-08:00

One more about Guatemala.

It's about those chicken buses. I really miss them, in a twisted kind of way. If you've been to Guatemala, you'll know what I mean. From Le Mesilla all the way to Atitlan, Guate, Coban, and beyond, you can't drive down a winding road without one of these rainbow behemoths bearing down on you, often on your side of the lane, scaring the bejeezus out of you. The chicken buses are the local transportation here and they are engrained into Guatemala as much as hand-made tortillas, diced fruit in plastic bags, the quetzal, TIGO billboards, or lush green mountaintops. In a way, one can argue that chicken buses IS Guatemala, in a nutshell.

Here's my take on it.

Their name: Chicken bus. It didn't come from the Guatemalans, it came from the gringos. When English-speaking travelers first discovered these old Ford schools buses being used by the locals to transport people and livestock (including chickens), they called them chicken buses. Now everyone calls them chicken buses. Like many things in Guatemalan life, the English-speaking culture has infiltrated deep into the everyday routine. Diesel is called, well, diesel. Gasoline? Gasolina. Mobile internet? Internet movil. WiFi? WiFi. Overalls? Overolls. A chicken bus? Un chicken bus...

You get the idea.

Their colours: A chicken bus is not a chicken bus unless it is painted in wild and kaleidoscopic colours. There's no holding back in their colour schemes. Some are bright red with dazzling yellow lightening bolts flashing across the sides and the hoods. Some have more chrome on them than a Harley motorcycle. Others have pictures of eagles and jaguars and other aggressive animals spray-painted on the back. Whatever their looks, chicken buses are always always full of over-the-top vibrancy.

Just like the Mayan textiles. Everywhere in local markets, you will see cloth, aprons, skirts, and dresses weaved by the local women in the most vibrant and complex of colours. Go visit the weekly market at Solola and you'll know what I mean. When I think of Guatemala, I think of splashes of red, oranges, blue, pink, and purple everywhere. Just like the chicken buses.

Their craziness: Driving in Guatemala is crazy. It's no different that riding a chicken bus. When Melanie, Dante, and I took a bus from Solola down to Panajachel, it was a wild and white-knuckle affair full of careening corners, lurching cliffs, and near vehicular accidents around every corner.

It's the same when you are the driver of a vehicle in Guatemala. On many occasions, I had to drive on the wrong side of a four-lane highway that was suddenly reduced to a two-lane road due to mudslides. Passing slow moving trucks while entering mountainside corners is an imperative. Stopping at intersections seemed to be optional. When lane markers disappear (as it often does), the traffic on the road turns into a free-for-all/Daytona 500 weaving spree that involves everyone in their vehicles jockeying for the best position and picking the best line prior to entering the next corner.

Their religiousness: Traveling in Guatemala is like going to church, whether you are religious nor not. Faith is a big thing here and there's no place more serious than a calm, cool, chapel in the middle of a throbbing and bustling Guatemalan city

Stepping onto a chicken bus is kinda like going to church. In a TV-evangelistic kind of way. The constant theme of these buses, aside from their wild colours, is to paint religious mottos on the hoods, windshields, and backdoors. It's like putting a Jesus-Fish on the back of your mini-van back at home, except you have to multiple the brashness-factor by a hundred million times and add a few lightening bolts to really make things stand out.

In Canada, people quietly stick 'No Fear' decals on their windshields. In Guatemala, you'll see giant pictures of flames in your rear-view mirror with phrases like Fen en Dios!, or Dios es Amor! in lightening bolts bearing down on you seconds before the bus flies past, leaving you choking in a cloud of diesel smoke. It's kinda like being struck by the hand of God on the road while traveling at eighty-kilometers an hour and trying to dodge stray dogs. All at the same time.

Their dangerousness: Riding a chicken bus is not for the faint hearted. One can describe their behaviour on the roads as being reckless and lawless, weaving in and out of traffic like an itchy lion in a chicken coop. At first, I thought that their namesake came from the way they always seemed to play chicken while barreling down on me, head on, on the highway.

Mechanically, some buses are well maintained while many are not. Chicken bus drivers are regular victims of gang extortion. In Guatemala City in particular, many encounters between the drivers and the latter ends poorly...for the driver.

It's a lot like traveling in Guatemala in general. Most of the time, life is pretty tranquilo and safe here. But on other occasions, violence and dangerousness seems to be the order of the day.

Their gregariousness: If you are agoraphobic, you might want to skip a ride on a chicken bus. Just like in Guatemalan culture, people's lives spill onto each other during every bus ride. People are always packed inside like the proverbial sardines in a can. There is little room for privacy. There's the driver who likes to rev the big school bus motor while bouncing wildly down the cobbled streets. And there's the helper, the second part of the chicken bus team who is in charge of throwing luggage onto the roof, yelling out destinations to the people inside, and gathering money all the while hanging off the back ladder with the bus careening through the mountains at a million miles per hour.

To me, the last bit of this chicken bus/Guatemala duality is my favourite. It's what I will take away from having travelled here. The gregariousness and openness of the people, the fact that my life spills out onto your life, and yours life into mine. The bus might be full, but the door is always open and there always room for one more.

In that sense, a chicken bus feels like my home. And that's why I really like Guatemala.

Where there's one, there's always two...

2011-01-18T06:19:00.000-08:00

This one is for my mom. And Chris and Kristen of The Darien Plan and Drive the Americas. And those of you who love spiders out there. Oh, and for my sister.

Especially her.

Back in the police parking lot in Antigua, Guatemala, a French couple retired to their camper for the evening after having dinner with us at the truck. They cheerfully waved good night before heading inside. Within moments, I heard a scream, some cursing in French ("Mon dieu, mon dieu!") and mad shuffling within their camper. Dominic and Francois stumbled outside, gestured wildly to us with their flashlight and pointed into the interior of their vehicle. In the glow of their flashlight beam, I saw this thing, clinging to a wall of their camper.

They didn't find it very funny when, as I quickly scurried away, I yelled something to them about the fact that if you find one, you'll always find two. Or three.

Yeah, from now on, I always give the inside of our tent a quick go-through with the flashlight before crawling in. There is, after all, enough room only for three.

Welcome to Honduras!

2011-01-17T20:09:00.000-08:00

Forty-seven bucks and sixty minutes later, we're in Honduras.

What a dream.

I don't know. Maybe the traveling gods were looking down on us the other day. Or maybe it was the border crossing that we chose to use. Or maybe because it was Sunday and everyone was at home watching the local futbol match. Or maybe because decent people actually work some of these border crossing.

I'm sure that it was a combination of all those elements but whatever the mix, the border crossing into Honduras was nothing like what we were expecting. From Rio Dulce (which was, for us, an underwhelming experience) we made our way to the border at El Florido with nervousness in my stomach and our Drive The Americas instructions tight in our hands.

In the end, not much happened. We rolled up past a line of semi-trailers as recommended in all of our references before driving up to a barricade. A guard directed us to a parking lot where we were not met with a hoard of 'helpers' but one single money changer with a wad of cash the size of a brick in his hand. Because we still had a wad of Guatemalan quetzales in our pockets, we conveniently changed all our cash into the Honduran limpares.

Easy easy. No fuss, no muss. Out of habit, I scanned the area around the truck but I didn't notice any 'sketchy' characters lurking about. A few money changers kicked about on the curb, a uniformed dude with a big shot gun leaned against a nearby building while other officials sitting on lawn chairs looking bored as they gathered around a television to watch a futbol game. Not one single vehicle crossed the border while we gathered ourselves for the pending obstacle course at the immigration offices.

Speaking of which, here's a little primer on crossing the borders with a vehicle in Mexico, Guatemala, and now, Honduras. Unlike driving into the U.S. from Canada, you have to deal with more than just showing the official dude with a gun your passport. You have to get an exit stamp on your passport from the country you are leaving, pay (or not pay) an exit fee, and obtain several photocopies of this transaction. Next, you have to fish out your vehicle import permit from the country you are leaving, get that stamped, get the receipt, and get several photocopies of that transaction. Then some dude with a big shotgun goes to your car and orders you to let him in before he peels off the import sticker on your vehicle.

Next, you go to another building (the officina de migracion) of the new country that you are entering, which could be or could not be the next stall to your right to get your passport stamped for entry. You could (or not) be asked to pay a fee (which could, or could not be an 'official' fee). You'll be asked for several photocopies of this transaction.

After that, you walk to another building (called the aduana) where you will be asked to have three copies of your driver's license, your registration, your passport, and you newly cancelled vehicle permit that should be stamped from the country that you are leaving. Typically, the country that you are leaving from won't give you any photocopies so you'll be surprised that the receiving country will ask for these photocopies. Which they will. Which means, of course, that you get to walk back across the border, with said original document in hand, find some beat up photocopier in some hole-in-the-wall corner store and beg to use their photocopy machine. You might have to beg because at this point, you've already changed over all the money from the country you are leaving into the currency of the country that you are trying to enter and the only thing you can offer them is a smile and a crumpled up one dollar bill from the U.S. Oh, and if you are still following this, count on the fact that the country you are trying to gain entry into doesn't have a photocopier for you to use, which necessitated that trip back into the previous country to make copies. Without your passport, of course, because the new country has those documents.

But hey, don't worry about walking back and forth across the border without proper documents 'cause the dude with the big shot gun is watching you.

Anyways, after obtaining three copies of your stamped exit vehicle document, you can then present them to the new official at the new aduana. She (or he) might (or might not) check out your vehicle before hopefully filling out the vehicle import document and stamping it with that all important stamp. To pay for all of this, you might (or might not) be asked to make the payment in yet another building, where typically, there is another dude with another big shotgun watching you.

Make the payment and get the new sticker on your windshield (or not, as in Honduras). With your passport and your vehicle passed, you're free to go on your merry way!

Simple? Yeah, that simple. No really, it was that simple. As complex as the above process seemed, we managed to get into Honduras in under an hour. We payed three bucks each to get our passports stamped into Honduras and thirty-five bucks to get our new vehicle import permit. I think we were fleeced a buck each for getting our passports stamped in Guatemala but hey, things could've been a lot worse. Like that dude with the shotgun getting mad at me. Which he didn't.

Oh yeah, and I almost forgot. I spent one dollar American to get photocopies. In Guatemala. Or maybe it was Honduras.

Tough to say.

.

Into Honduras.

2011-01-16T05:47:00.000-08:00

Out of Guatemala and into Honduras. Fifth country in four and a half months. Guatemala has been good to us and there's a bit more that I want to write about this place that we are leaving. There is, however, a border crossing that we have to deal with first.

I've heard many nasty things about the crossing into Honduras. Insane line ups, corrupt officials, undecipherable paperwork, shady characters.

I'm crossing my fingers and going in with a good attitude. Like Miin said, it's all about the attitude. Not everyone is trying to rip you off. Not everyone is trying to rob you. There are actually a lot of decent people in this world. Like the ones we met in Canada. And the U.S. And Mexico. And Guatemala.

Here's to more of the same. I hope.

See you on the other side!

K

East road out of Lanquin

2011-01-16T05:12:00.000-08:00

Okay. Here are the numbers:

Six. One-hundred and fifty. Twenty-something. One.

Here's the rest:

Six as in six hours. Six hours as in it took us that long to drive one-hundred and fifty kilometers. Twenty-something as in we averaged twenty-something kilometers an hour. For six hours. One as in one ripped off bumper after I tried to pull some Guatemalans and their poor car up the side of a mountain. Their bumper, not mine. But it is still a hilarious story.

After leaving Antigua, we traveled north to Coban. Luckily, we saw little of the duel between the military and the narco gangs that we had read so much about during our overnight stay there. From Coban, we drove east and into Lanquin, a deep canyon village that rested on the shores of a turquoise river. Melanie, Dante, and I wandered through impressive caves there while marveling at the sounds of bats and rock formations.

Impressive as the caves were, they were nothing compared to our drive out of Lanquin the next day. In our guide book, the author described the eastern mountain route between Lanquin and El Estor as being "difficult but possible". Right. A bit of an understatement, in retrospect.

Our drive out of the canyon and into the Guatemalan highlands began with torrential rainstorms that churned the gravel mountain pathways into rushing layers of water and mud. When the skies opened up, I remembered staring upwards in disbelief. Rain? What's that? It hadn't rained a single drop since San Franciso! It's not suppose to rain!

I put the Mule into all four legs and for the next six hours, we picked our way through muddy and rock encrusted roads. The grades were breathtakingly steep on some sections and I resorted to using our low-range gearing for the first time on our trip. At times, walls of water on our left washed out portions of the road before disappearing over the unguarded cliffs on our right. In 4X4, I held my breath and eased the Mule over the washouts while making a point not to look over the edge of the mountain.

Soon, we caught up to a car that was trying to claw it's way up a section of a steep and winding road. Three Guatemalans, after giving up on trying to drive up the hill, waved us down in hopes of having us tow them up the mountain. I agreed and in the rain, I fished out my tow strap and attached one end to the back of the Mule before crawling under the smaller car.

"Aqui?", I asked from underneath the car, pointing at one of his two anchor points. "O aqui?".

The driver shrugged his shoulders, showing that he knew even less about his car than I did.

I stared at one anchor to the other. Both looked secure. Finally, I also shrugged my shoulders before snapping the cable on the anchor to the left. Fifty-fifty chance that I'd get it right, right?

Seconds after I gassed the Mule to tighten the tow strap, I heard a crunch from behind and a yelp from the driver. As I climbed out of my truck and saw the dude's front bumper hanging off the front of his car, I quickly realized that I had lost out on my little gamble of chances.

Sigh. I switched anchors and tried several more times to pull their car up the hill but with their wheels spinning and unable to gain any steady momentum, I was unable to keep the tow strap tight. After several minutes of yo-yoing on the hill, we gave up, fearing that we would have two broken bumpers sitting in the mud. Like typical Guatemalans, the passengers and the driver, despite the setback, didn't forget their sense of humour. In the rain, they laughed at the mess, thanked us for trying to help and crawled back into their little car before driving backwards back down the hill. The last I saw of them, they were waving to us as they limped back to the bottom of the canyon.

We continued on through the rain. During breaks in the storm, the lush green Guatemalan highlands emerged from the mountain mist. Deforested hills, to my surprise, never looked so beautiful and haunting. As we climbed, small and humble villages appeared from atop of steaming mountain ridges. At times, the Mule edged past chickens, cows, and farmers taking their wares to the markets.

It was an unforgettable drive through the highlands. For hours, we bounced and splashed our way through the mountains in the mud, rocks, and rain. We forged streams and waterfalls, crawled up muddy hills, and picked our way alongside steaming cloud forests. Oh, and we pulled off someone's bumper.

When we cleared the highlands, we dropped out the clouds and onto the broad plains of Lago Izabel and Rio Dulce. For the first time during the day, the sun shone through the clouds and the pavement into El Estor felt like a dream.

A perfect ending to a crazy day.

Rain? What's that? The rain storm going into Lanquin was the first rain we encountered in two months.

For a short time, some hills near Semuc Champey were lined with paving stones to make the climb and descents more manageable.

The descent into the Grutas de Lanquin.

The Mule, preparing to pull another car up the hill.

The Mule, succeeding in pulling off the other guy's bumper. That's Melanie, trying to explain to the passenger of the other car that I'm not very good at playing the odds.

Driving through the misty Guatemalan highlands.

Parking Lot Parties

2011-01-15T18:42:00.000-08:00

What is home when you're away from home?

For me, home is my family and my friends. It's about being in and out of each other's lives. Home, to me, is about an open-door policy, where having friends over for dinner only means an extra plate and chair at the table. Home is about sharing the kitchen, cooking great meals, and telling fantastic stories to each other.

Melanie, Dante, and I found a piece of home in Antigua. For thirteen days, we camped out at the Tourism Police parking lot, where, amongst dilapidated buildings, we found a fantastic soccer field, showers, toilets, and a wonderful group of fellow travelers who made our trip seem like a walk in the park.

Let me see. There was Daniel and Ramona from Germany, who, as part of their year and a half long trip, backpacked through Mongolia. Now, they are on their way to Panama in a Toyota Previa and living out of their van the entire way. Daniel's biggest challenge to date, from what I saw, was trying to survive one week of Spanish lessons in Antigua. Que tal, Daniel?

Marc and Sarah from Quebec had some crazy stories; they were rear ended soon after leaving home. Then they had to push their van across the Belize/Guatemalan border when it broke down. Despite that, they are still on the road. And wanting more.

There was Ray from B.C. who's been traveling pretty much everywhere in Central America in his truck and camper. He saved my butt in Guatemala City when I almost got into a car accident. He saved my butt a second time on that same day when I almost got lost in the big bad city.

There was Melanie and Gille from Switzerland, who are driving all the way down to Ushuaia in their Dodge Ram van. If you think the Mule is big, you should check out their rig.

Jean-Francois, from Quebec, is traveling from Mexico all the way to Panama. On his bicycle. He has an infectious laugh and he makes the best parking lot pizzas that money can buy.

There was Emma and Kev from Britain, who are also on their way to Panama on their bicycles. The catch was that they had yet to purchase their bicycles when we met them! We ended up giving them a lift from Panajachel to Antigua and while we stayed in our hotel for New Years, they stayed in our tent. The next day, we hiked on a volcano and Kev taught Dante how to cook marsh mellows and a grilled cheese sandwich on hot lava rocks.

And then there were our good buddies from Alberta, Shona and Andrew. Remember them? We met them while crossing the ferry from La Paz to Maztlan. We hung out for a few days on the Mexican Pacific coast, with Kumu and the Mule skimming across the sand plains of Novillero beach. They taught Dante how to surf and build proper sand castles on that sun-dipped afternoon. The Wildman has never been the same since.

It's funny how I ran into Kumu again. I was out for a run in Antigua when around the corner came a familiar looking white VW Van. "Noooooo way!", Andrew shouts from the open window as I ran up to the van with the biggest smile on my face. Friends in a foreign land. Yeah, that's how it works out, I guess.

Like at our home in Kingston, our camping spot at the parking lot ended up to be the social centre during those few evenings at Antigua. Every night, we pooled our resources, cooked together, ate fantastic meals, and shared gut-busting stories about life on the road. One night, Jean-Francois built a pizza oven out of discarded bricks from the lot and we feasted on homemade thin-crust pizzas. For my birthday, we hung a pinata from Kumu before turning it into a Mexican punching bag. Dante pretended he was Luke with a lightsabre before he took the pinata to town.

Home. Yeah, we're far away from it, but for those few days during those parking lot parties in Antigua, we made our own home in Guatemala. Good food, good stories, and a warm circle of friends. That's home to me.

Dante vs. The Pinata. The pinata lost. Bad.

Kev, with the Dman while climbing the Pacaya Volcano.

Kev and Emma from Britain with the Dman. By the way, that's Melanie in the background, knocked out at New Years from yet another bout of the runny-tummy.

Marco's brother, showing off his circus tricks.

Luke and Shona having a lightsabre duel on top of Cerro de la Cruz.

Parking lot pizzas, courtesy of Jean-Francois and the Parking Lot Gang.

The Parking Lot Gang.

Antigua is real.

2011-01-13T04:52:00.000-08:00

After two weeks at the historic town of Antigua, we finally left. It was that nice. And it was that pretty. And it was that fun. Part of the reason for our long stay here amongst the mountains and volcanos was the fact that we found a place to camp (a police parking lot) and a fantastic group of travelers to spend New Years. Melanie took Spanish lessons here in town for a week. Oh, and someone bought me a pinata to smash for my birthday. More on all of that in the next post.

Like Morelia and San Cristobal in Mexico, Antigua is a colourful colonial city nestled in the mountains. Aside from New Years, we found this charming place to exude a gentle atmosphere. In the mornings, the sun appears above the mist-tipped volcanos that surround the city as buses and cars rumble over the cobbled streets. The local market by the bus station is a bustling and vibrant affair and the people who live here are uber friendly and helpful. Antigua is full of texture and colour; from the famous Arco at the city centre to the numerous ruins that dot the downtown, it's no wonder that Antigua has become a UNESCO World Heritage site. Built in the early sixteenth century, Antigua was once the capital of central America (the Kingdom of Guatemala) until it was destroyed in an earthquake in the late 1700's. It was rebuilt and many of the now-famous colonial buildings was preserved.

Some discount Antigua (including the author of my guide book), citing it's pristine streets and well-organized affairs as being far from the 'real' Guatemala. That's seems a bit silly because in the end, what is the 'real' Guatemala? It's like saying that Morelia isn't the 'real Mexico' because it is too well preserved. Or that Vancouver isn't the 'real' Canada because it's pretty there and no one in the city owns a proper shovel. Or that the South Luangwa isn't 'real' because they run safaris out of it and that it's actually an interesting part of Zambia.

What's real? In my books, if it's not Disneyland, then it's pretty real. Heh. Even THAT is part of the US experience, isn't it? Antigua is beautiful, it's a splash of colour in an already colourful country, and it has a fascinating history. Apparently, it was real enough that the Spanish used it as the capital of this entire region at one time or another.

Take that, Lonely Planet.

Atitlan

2011-01-09T14:09:00.000-08:00

Wanting to stay off the roads during the holidays, we parked ourselves at the volcanic lake of Atitlan for several days. We heard a lot about this lake; nestled within a ring of volcanos, Lago de Atitlan is something of an anomaly; many years ago, after a series of eruptions, the land beneath the lake collapsed to create a deep watery bowl surrounded by sweeping mountains. Today, villages perched on the lush green slopes dot the perimeter of the lake and at night, lights along the shore twinkle like stars.

Thus was the dichotomy of our visit here. On one hand, we managed to rent a room and eat Christmas dinner at a hostel in Santa Cruz that overlooked the shimmering waters of Atitlan. On the other hand, the lushness of the lake belied the truth behind the beauty; year after year, hurricanes, rainstorms, and mudslides swallow villages whole, taking families and houses into their watery grave. The destructive powers of Hurricane Stan was a testament to the tenuous hold the Mayans have on the mountains here.

The people whom we met at the hostel furthered that sense of contradiction during our stay at Atitlan. On one hand, Melanie, Dante, and I met some wonderful travelers at the hostel; we became fast friends with John, Joanne and their children, Jesse and Jordan. Over many dinners, we talked about learning Spanish, life in Centra America, politics, and traveling with children. It's funny how I am drawn to certain personalities while on the road. My affinity towards those with a liberal perspective on life, an open-mindedness towards others, and a certain degree of humbleness while traveling in someone else's country runs strong. Likewise with Nicole and Marcel from Swizterland. They've been on the road for six months, traveling from Europe all the way down to Ushauia and back up to Central America.

Then there were the others. The others meaning the horde of backpackers and travelers at the hostel who's primary reason for being in Guatemala, it seemed, was to get drunk, get high, and to get laid. Those of you who travel know the people I'm talking about; it's the party-goers who hop from hostel to hostel with nary an effort to learn about the local culture or the local language. It's the ones who seem oblivious to the sensitivities of being a visitor in someone elses country. The ones who travel on the cheap not because they have to but because they believe that hard traveling and penny-pinching the locals is the only 'real' way of traveling. The ones who make a point to look grungy and dirty because looking clean while on the road represents some form of failed authenticity. The ones who feel that there are no rules in poor countries and they can do things that they would never get away with at home. Like drugs. Booze. Illegal sex. Public desplays of debauchery. All that stuff.

Many complain about the big multinationals taking advantage of poor countries. Exploitation, I think, is a funny thing, though. It's easy to think that it only happens far away with the big wigs dealing in billions of dollars. But you know what? This kinda stuff happens in hostels as much as in the boardrooms, backpack or not.

Yes, I speak Landcruiser...

2011-01-07T14:03:00.000-08:00

Immediately after crossing into Guatemala, we ran smack-dab into Toyota Nation.

Now, when I say Toyota Nation, I don't mean fanboys drunk on their drag-street courage driving their Toyos up and down the streets with whale-tails, dropped suspensions, or ground-effects. What I really mean is that the entire nation of Guatemala seems to drive one vehicle: old, new, beat-up, and/or shiny Toyotas. It's heaven for a Landcruiser die-hard: between La Mesilla and Huehuetenango, I passed countless 40, 60, 70, and 80 series TLC's. Some were in their pick-up versions while others were souped-up for desert expeditions. I even saw a brand-new eighty-thousand dollar 2010 Landcruiser bobbing down the cobbled streets of Antigua as it dodged a sea of tuk-tuks and Mayan women with baskets of hand-made tortillas on their heads.

Whatever the model, the common theme of all the Toyotas here is that they are all worked to the bone. No trophy trucks here, my friends. It wouldn't be out of place to see Tom Waits cruising down a dusty road here in a dented and tired 40 series pick-up with a circus bear in the back and fire-eaters on the roof.

As we headed towards Huehue, we ran into a constant stream of beat-up and heavily ladened Toyota Hilux pickups full of chickens, people, cows, and baggage going the other direction. To give you an idea of the workload on the trucks in Guatemala, the Mule even passed a few of the pick-ups while going uphill! Unlike in San Francisco and Seattle, it was a relief to see that people here actually used their trucks for what they were ultimately built for: heavy-duty work.

It also felt nice to be surrounded by so many of the Mule's brethren. In a grocery store parking lot, a Guatemalan and his family pulled up ahead of us in a 60 series Landcruiser that had seen more miles than the Mule. When the dude stepped out of the truck and saw the Mule, he nodded to me before I nodded to him. The Cruiser hello, I call it. Within seconds, and between my broken Spanish and his broken English, we spoke to each other about our trucks. His was a gasser while the Mule is a diesel. His was an in-line six, as is mine. He has two-hundred thousand kilometers on his. The Mule has seen three-hundred and twenty-six. His was muy fuerte. Just like the Mule.

And on and on and on until Melanie showed up at the trucks with the Dman in hand to give both of us the 'you-guys-are-weird' look. Funny.

In the end, I got more out of that conversation than my last bit in Mexico and Guatemala. Si, my espanol might be lousy, but you'd never know it during those few minutes at that parking lot. Landcruiser-talk, it seems, is a pretty universal language wherever you go and in whatever part of the world you find yourself in.

Into Guatemala

2011-01-03T18:25:00.000-08:00

We made the border crossing into Guatemala a few days before Christmas. Although our experiences at borders thus far have been pretty mild and painless, I'm always expecting the worse. If you were to chart my level of anxiety prior to a border crossing, it typically would float somewhere between going to the dentist for a couple rounds of descaling and appearing at work on the first day after a long holiday. Yeah. Not nice. I mean, we've got three passports to deal with, three tourist visas to complete, photocopies to make, money changers to avoid, sketchy characters lurking in the corners to stare down, and a truck with a cow skull on the front to import.

Crossing into Guatemala didn't disappoint.

From San Cristobal, we coasted downhill to the border town of La Mesilla. We immediately knew that we were in trouble when the road took us straight into a horde of people and street-side vendors selling jeans, pirated DVD's, sides of cows, and vegetables. Apparently, we didn't know that trying to cross the Mexican/Guatemala border on market day was a bad idea. The only way I can describe the whole experience is this: picture trying to drive a big truck through the Kingston Fall Fair on a Sunday afternoon when they just announced that the beer and the cotton-candy is free. Multiple that by a hundred and you might get the idea.

Yeah. It was that crazy.

Hundreds of people spilling onto the streets to the point where I couldn't see the road. Stray horses here, women with firewood on their heads there, shoe-shine boys here. Piles of burning garbage, sizzling sides of cow on street-side grills, thumping music blaring from towering speakers, and magazine stands that seemed to situate themselves on the middle of the road. Hilariously, as we crept through the market, we realized that we missed the Mexican customs office on our way to the border, which meant that we had to turn the Mule off a narrow dirt street and onto an even narrower street. Shoved the truck into first, rev'd the old 2H motor, and climbed a steep cobbled hill only to have someone wave us around to another route back towards Mexico.

We eventually found the Mexican immagracion office a few kilometers back from where we came in, waited in line to cancel our vehicle permit, waited in line some more to get our exit stamps, and turned the Mule around to wade through the sea of market-goers for a second time.

Yippee! Driving the Mule through market-day at La Mesilla twice in one day felt like Moses trying to part the Red Sea with a cow's skull taped to his chest.

The gong show eventually ended later on in the afternoon with less fanfare. Some dude with a gun jumped out of the crowd to point us to the spot where we had the Mule fumigated. After that, another dude with another gun jumped out of a different crowd to point us to the Guatemalan immigration office. We got our passports stamped, paid for our visas, had the truck inspected, got our sticker, and received our import papers without a nary of a hassle. On the way out, the market blocked the main road out of town so another dude with another gun jumped out, pointed us to a hand painted arrow on a piece of cardboard taped to a wall, which in turn pointed us down a steep cobbled street that ended up taking us through the backside of La Mesilla.

Crazy, hilarious, and bewildering, all at the same time. And you know what? After all of that, no one even asked me whether I had fruits or vegetables in the back of the truck.

Imagine that.

Traveling on my stomach.

2011-01-02T20:58:00.000-08:00

Okay. One more about Mexico before Guatemala.

It's the food, you know. I miss it already. What did Napoleon once say? Something about his soldiers marching on their stomachs, I think. Hey, if that's true, then I think that I travel on my stomach. There's no better way of seeing how other people live and the relationship they have with their land than to eat what they eat. You can tell which part of the country an Italian is from by looking at what's on the dinner table on a Sunday evening. Same with the French. Same with the Argentines. Same with the Chinese. Rice noodles and shrimp? Yeah, you're probably from the south. Steamed pork buns made from wheat flour? Hail to the north.

Mexico's no different. For the past month and a bit, Melanie, Dante, and I were lucky enough to have traveled through the country on our stomachs, eating everything from street food to fish from the sea to molës from the mountains. It was fantastic stuff. Here's a sampling:

Baja California: The best tacos de carne that money can buy. And at the prices that the street vendors sell them at, you can buy a lot. Like empanadas, quesadillas, and gorditas, tacos are really a category of food called antojito's, or Mexican snacks. Think of them as dim sum for the Chinese: morsels of culinary goodness that explode in your mouth. In my opinion, the best tacos hail from Baja California. On every street corner, from the north of the peninsula all the way down to the south, you can be sure to find tiny taquerias serving up salty, diced meat on warm tortillas with all the fixings, all day long. We had memorable taco experiences in Tijuana and La Paz. In the former, we found a joint right around the corner from where we imported our truck. Had there not been a schedule, I think I would've stayed a few days in that town, hanging out at the street corner like some taco groupie.

The best taquerias offer a rainbow of toppings all the way from salsas that will set your hair on fire to sweet chilies, crispy cabbage, and juicy onions. Some places you stand, some places you sit, but the best ones are always on the street, always simple, and are always crowded. Know before hand whether you want flour (arena) or corn (maize) tortillas. Go for the hand-made ones if you can. And good luck to you if you don't get there before noon because you'll be on the loosing end of the fight against the locals for a piece of this mouthwatering action.

Morelia: That town's all about gazpacho, which is a fruit salad treat that is spiked with a hot chili sauce and cheese. Yeah, you got that right....hot, sweet, AND salty, all in one go. Step off the street and you'll find vendors dicing up water melon, pineapple, and cantaloup, before adding orange juice, a set-your-hair-on-fire chili sauce, and crumbled cheese on top. There is no better way to confuse your palate with one of Michoacan's specialty.

The Mexican Pacific Coast: From Novillero down to Escondido, we ordered plate after plate of whole fried fish straight from the sea. In the morning, fisherman drag buckets of fish from the water and by noon, you can be sitting underneath a shady palapa with a plate of pescado fritos in one hand and an ice cold cervesa in another. The fish is fried in it's entirety, head, body, and tail. For Dante, the most exciting part of a fried fish meal is when I dig out the eyeballs before chewing on them. Yum.

Guerrero State: Melanie and Dante fell in love with the pozole here. In this hearty Mexican soup, you'll find pork or chicken, and hominy (corn kernels) amidst a steaming chili/tomato broth. Thrown in a fist full of cabbage, sliced radishes, cilantro and onions and you'll be able to brave a Canadian winter with your eyes closed. Almost.

Oaxaca state: Ahhh, the molés. There's really nothing better than sitting down at a Mexican restaurant before a plate of chicken smothered in this deep, rich, and earthy sauce. Made with a million spices including chilies, cumin, cloves, anise, and garlic, molé is prepared by grinding the spices in a clay pot before simmering it over a fire. Oh yeah, and chocolate is sometimes added at the end of the preparation. I ate red molé with chicken, rice, and tortillas and thought that I went to heaven. It's that good.

Chiapas: There's a barbeque, and then there's a Mexican barbacoa. The stuff I had was, surprise surprise, cooked on the side of the road in a cast iron pot over a caldron of coals. Cuts of beef braised in tomato and chili sauce for hours on end while served up with rice and vegetables will keep you at the table, extending your lunch hour into dinner time.

Anywhere in Mexico: Hand-made tortillas. Walk through any market at noon and you'll hear the soft pitter-patter of hand's forming small mounds of dough into perfectly shaped tortillas. These are better than machine-made tortillas: thicker and rougher, these gems go perfectly with fish, lobster, or octopus. The last time I returned home from Mexico, the only souvenir I brought with me was a couple bags of tortillas. You should've seen the dude at the border when he asked me whether I had anything to declare...

Yeah, so that's a bit of Mexican cooking for you. It's spicy, it's rich, it's fresh, and it's always good. Whatever you order, remember that the best parts of eating in Mexico are the dinky little shacks on the side of the road with smoke pouring out of them in the middle of the day. We found most of our tastiest meals not far from our truck, at some family kitchen where they just happened to put out an extra table, some plastic chairs, and a couple of extra plates. You'll be lucky to find a menu and reservations are definitely not required. Simple, unpretentious, and drop-dead delicious.

Eat what the locals eat. If it's good enough for them, you know it's good enough for you.

Salud!

Baja California Sur: Street meat of the best kind.

Eating/drinking gazpacho in Morelia.

It's nice and all, but...

2010-12-24T10:44:00.000-08:00

So we're sitting here at the shores of Lake Atitlan in Guatemala. Made the border crossing the other day and THAT was a scene, although everything went quite smoothly. Emailed my buddy Mike and described it as trying to drive a big truck through the crowds at the Kingston Fall Fair, times ten. I've pictures of that wild ride but my internet connection is limited so you'll have to wait for a bit.

Dante decorated his Christmas tree today; we bought a 'travelers' size in Mexico in addition to a handful of decorations. He's loving it, trying to figure out how Santa will arrive tonight through the windows in our cabin.

It's nice here. Really nice. We're sitting at the lake and across the shimmering waters, I can see all three volcanoes. The sun is out and it's warm. All that, but we miss our friends and family. I've spent one or two Christmases out of the country and it's never the same. On that one day of the year, I'll take some snow. Just a bit. Just for that one day. And the warm circle of friends and family that Melanie, Dante, and I are fortunate to have.

Not that I'm complaining. But oh, what I would do if I had a TARDIS right now...

Happy holidays!

Love,

K

San Cristobal de la Casa

2010-12-22T02:20:00.000-08:00

With an elevation of over two thousand meters above sea level, the crisp San Cristobal de las Casa is a vibrant colonial city nestled in the high mountains of the Chiapas. If I was to superficially compare Morelia with San Cristobal, I'd describe the latter as a palette of primary colors splashed on stone and concrete as opposed to the stoic and austere stance of the former. San Cristobal is like a carnival in the mountains, with the indigenous tribes in their kaleidoscopic attire and the lavishly painted colonial buildings. The Zapatista movement is still strong here, the coffee is fantastic (this is the Chiapas after all), and you won't get better views of the fog laced mountains in the mornings than here.

It's an easy city for pedestrians and we wandered the narrow cobbled streets for several days, taking in the bustling atmosphere, food, and rest before our crossing into Guatemala. Real de Guadeloupe was one of my favourite calles; it's a cobbled pedestrian path where you can catch a glimpse of both the Templo de Guadeloupe and San Cristobal while noshing on Mexican, Lebanese, Argentine, or French cuisine all at the same time. The local mercado at the edge of the historic center was a cyclone of movement and colour; here, amongst the throbbing crowds and muddy streets, you can buy fresh chickens, pirated DVD's, nice shoes, and giant dried fishes all at the same time. Not as crazy as the market in Lusaka but it was a close second.

At our hostel, we met travelers from Italy, Canada, Switzerland, and England. Some were on guided tours, some were working in Mexico, and others were not sure of their next destinations other than hopefully buying some bicycles in Guatemala before cycling through Central America. Geez. I even met a dude from China who was taking holidays in Mexico from his job in Washington. At breakfast, I spoke to him in Cantonese, which was a bit odd as I was translating for Melanie in English while I ordered my coffee in Spanish. Eventually, think I messed up on all three languages and ended up just nodding my head in the conversation.

Sigh. At least Dante understood me when I asked for his eggs. I think.

The Canyon and El Baracho

2010-12-20T21:44:00.000-08:00

The Mule huffed and puffed up into the mountains of the Chiapas the other day. We rolled into Chiapa de Corzo on Friday evening after saying adios to the Mexican coastline for the last time. Corzo is a bit of a jewel; it's a compact and pretty colonial city lined with cobbled streets and a lively town square. At it's heart is an ancient ceiba tree and a 16th century gothic fountain in the shape of a crown. Lining the main plaza were artisian shops and food vendors selling molé and hamberguesas well into the night. Hmmm. Imagine those two together.

The main attraction, or what I thought was the main attraction, was the boat ride along the deep Sumidero Canyon. Melanie, Captain Dman, and I took a lancha the next day, scooting down the river along the deep fissure in the earth and gawking at the towering cliffs. Impressive. Nice.

Not as impressive as the sea of floating garbage on the water though. That was not so nice. Apparently, the swell of plastic bottles and trash floating in from Tuxtla Gutierrez chokes the river to the point where the national park officials have to send in floating garabage trucks to deal with the mess.

The main attraction, however, was the story of the drunk dude who sat behind me the entire boat ride. This one's a bit of a keeper:

El Barracho, as I'll call him (The Drunk) seemed to walk straight out of a bad travel movie. Not only was he late for the departure, he was the last one to stumble onto the boat and the only one with a plastic bag full of cheap Mexican beer in his hand. He barged his way past everyone before loudly squeezing his fat arse in the seat behind me. He nearly took my head off with his swinging beer store before promptly cracking open a cold one. Burp. Apparently, the party was on.

Without missing a step, El Barracho whipped out his camera and snapped photos of the back of my head and the bottom of the river while gasping at the scenery between slurps of his beer . All of this and the driver had yet to start the motor.

As we sped along the water, he howled and yee-hahed like a cowboy on a broncho each time we hit a patch of waves. When the driver stopped the boat to show the rest of the passengers the dramatic entrance into the canyon, El Barracho got off his seat, busted everyone's knees to get to the bow and, while he stood there like Leo on the Titantic, insisted on having his picture taken by someone. Hilarious. I'm pretty sure he was one of those poor dudes who never understood the whole thing about people laughing at him versus people laughing around him when he was in grade school. Yeah, should've payed attention to that bit in class, buddy.

Wait, it gets better: At the turn around, the driver refused to drive us back until everyone gave him a tip. When there wasn't enough money in his hat, the driver and El Baracho went on this two-man show about how we were bad people and that we would be crocodile food unless we were willing to give more. A woman at the front got pissed and started to argue with El Baracho, who now had become the official spokesman for the driver. I'm still not sure how my back-seat buddy became a part of the comedy show, but I can only assume that someone with his personality always finds himself in situations like this. El Baracho and the woman then proceeded to toss verbal jabs at each other while the rest of the boat smiled nervously at the whole scene. In the back of our minds, I'm sure many of us wondered whether we'd get back to the dock in one piece or whether the driver with his hat full of our cash and The Drunk with his yee-hahing and crushed beer cans would be the only ones left standing.

We eventually did arrive safely but not before El Baracho finished the rest of his six-pack of Modelos with a round of whoo-ahs and yee-haas down the river. The last I saw of El Barracho as I hurried my way back to the truck was him chiding the lady who challenged him while tripping over his pile of beer cans. Oh, and he was still waving his arms like the Titantic was sinking and taking photos of everything around him like there was no tomorrow when we left.

Speaking of which, there's the evil part of me that wishes that when he develops his pics, all he has are pics of the back of my head, all the way down the canyon.

I'll give a big yeeeeeee-hah to that.

The Canyon...

...and El Baracho.

Beach Bums.

2010-12-18T05:34:00.000-08:00

Headed into Oaxaca state the other day and we've been beach bums ever since (actually, we've been beach bums since arriving into the mainland, but who's counting?). Dante, Melanie, and I spent a couple days in Puerto Escondido watching buff surfers handle the Mexican Pipeline and the beach bunnies. Yeah, they were huge. The waves, I mean.

In Mezunte, Dante enjoyed the tortuga (turtle) sanctuary. Grabbed some lunch there and continued our way south on the serpentine highway 200, twisting our way through the mountains and palm and banana groves. Eventually, we headed down a dirt road, crossed a small stream, and found ourselves on Bahia de St. Augustine. It's a small fishing village just outside of Huatulco (where Dante resorted with his grandparents last year...weird that he was there and now we're driving past it) where you can camp underneath some palapas and hang out at the beach and aquamarine waters all day long. There's even a wonderful coral just meters off the beach that is perfect for snorkeling.

It's our last bit on the beach for awhile. Two days here and we're heading up to San Cristobal in Chiapas state before attempting the border into Guatemala. Hopefully we'll be at Lago Atilan for Christmas Eve before we park the Mule for a few days of festivities.

Yeah, Christmas. It's hard to imagine that here, on the sand. I wonder if Santa wears beach shorts?

Camping at St. Augustin.

Some dudes, about to be crushed by the Mexican Pipeline at Escondido. I think they had better luck with the ladies on the beach...

Bahia de St. Augustine, our piece of heaven for two days.

Two thirds of Team Beach Bums.

Somewhere outside of Ometepek.

2010-12-17T20:11:00.000-08:00

Sitting here somewhere just outside of Ometepek. Left some hotel at some junction on some road early this morning, thinking that we'd get 'good time' heading towards Puerto Escondido. Three hours later, we were still sitting at the same spot on the road. Apparently, there was a roadblock up ahead. No one was really sure what was going on, other than it was suppose to be 'politico, perro no narco'. Hmmm. Not entirely confident about that after hearing about the going-on's around Morelia shortly after we left the city. Supposedly, we were lucky enough to get in and see the city when we did. Huh. Maybe all that military presence wasn't for the Guadelupe parade after all.

The roadblock was not entirely a waste. Had a fried fish lunch at a family restaurant across the road before catching a pic of this truck making a delivery, Mexican style. And I thought the Mule was loaded down...

Dia de la Virgin de Guadelupe

2010-12-17T19:26:00.000-08:00

If you thought that the Vancouver Olympic parties were wild, you haven't been to Mexico. On the 12th of December. As a Catholic.

I'm not (a Catholic) but the Day of the Virgin Guadelupe here in Mexico is a pretty crazy thing, religious or not. Ever since arriving to the mainland, we've been running into street parties, fireworks going off day and night, crazy street bands, parades of wildly dressed up cars (and boats), and throngs of people marching at night with fists full of candles. Oh, and shrines of Guadelupe on every street corner.

I still don't really understand the whole thing...but here goes: The Dia de la Virgin de Guadelupe, from what I gather, is a celebration of the Catholic faith among millions of indigenous Mexicans. In 1521 (or 1531...not sure as I seem to get a different story from different people), a certain Juan Diego saw the image of the virgin Guadelupe on several occasions near Teypeyac, Mexico. Being a lowly indigenous dude, Juan failed to convince the head hanchos at the church of what he saw. When he returned to the place of the saint's first sightings, he was told by the Virgin to pick some rare flowers and return them to the church as proof of her existence. When Juan arrived to the church, everyone was surprised to see not the flowers but an image of Guadelupe herself on the Mexican's coat. The Bishop was floored, a church was built, and the beginning of a national party was born.

From then on, December 12th, and the buildup to it, is a month-long party. Millions make the pilgrimage to the Mexico City Basilica (some on their knees) to pay homage to their patron saint. Some say the whole celebration is even bigger than Christmas. All month it's songs, shrines, candles, music, parades, and of course, fireworks of every kind at every hour on every street corner.

Yeah, pretty wild stuff. VANOC çould've learned a thing or two from Juan, break even or not. He, at least, didn't leave a bunch of empty, over-priced condos on False Creek behind. But that's another story...

Resources

2010-12-14T12:40:00.000-08:00

I like adventure...but I'm not a fan of being reckless. I've got too much riding beside me and in the backseat of the Mule to experiment with the latter.

With that in mind, I've been thinking about our process of gathering information for this trip. We don't use a GPS to find our way because I don't like feeling like a robot but we use maps because we eventually want to find our way around town. The following is a mish-mash of resources that we use (and are still using) to get ourselves to where we want to be in one piece. You might find these useful, you might not. Or you might have better suggestions. I'd love to hear from you. What I've discovered so far is that the overlanding/traveling community is tight and everyone seems to share information with each other freely. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours:

I realized I mentioned the mag Overland Journal in the previous post the other day. You should check it out. It's my style of traveling (aside from throwing on a backpack). One of my concerns prior to purchasing the Mule a few years ago was being pigeon-holed into a group of motorists that I don't have much in common with: the 4X4 off-roaders/mudders who get their thrills from ripping up the earth with their oversized vehicles.

Overland Journal seems to promote independent traveling first and vehicles as a means to an end. I met Scott Brady, the owner of the outfit way back in San Ignacio in the Baja and we talked briefly about this style of traveling. Vehicle-dependent traveling, overlanding, whatever. It started in Africa, it's huge in Australia. Pack up your vehicle with the focus of being self-sufficient and travel to places with a sense of exploration as your compass. Cool stuff. For inspiration, check it out: Overland Journal.

A Quebec couple RV'ing in Pie de la Cuesta gave us a photo-copied Church and Church's guide to camping and RV spots in Mexico and it's been very useful. There is, of course, our Lonely Planet guide books that we have for the American West Coast, Mexico, and Central America. For maps, we use a combination of CAA Tripticks that my mother-in-law got for us, the maps in our LP guide books, and the fantastic Guia-Roji maps.

On-line resources include Lonely Planet's Treethorn forums. You need to take individual comments on public forums for what they are worth (sometimes, not much). Nevertheless, it's a good source of supplementary information or starting point.

I have to give a shout-out to one exceptional on-line resource: the Drive The America's website has been a site that I return to over and over again for specific information on driving the Pan-American highway. A couple from the US started this website when they were on their way to Argentina and since then, they've complied a fabulous on-line library of information that includes everything from vehicle information to country information to border crossing details. Melanie and I especially like their deets on crossing the Central American countries (they even have pictures of the documents you need to wade through!). I also refer to their own personal website for a lowdown on the places we are planning on going to.

I try not to take too much stock in the six o'clock news or government alerts. Too often, the talking heads on CNN and the bureaucrats in Ottawa and the US place so little perspective in their reports that you'd never leave your own house if their words were the gospel (the H1N1 crisis and the terrorism threat levels anyone?).

Finally, the best source of information that we continually use is information from the locals. My Spanish is pretty rudimentary, but I'll stop any dude in the grocery store or gas station to ask directions or to talk about the safety situation down the road. Talking to people who actually live in the places you are traveling in is, in my opinion, your best bet.

Plus, you'll always get the deets on where the best taco joint in town is...