The Hills Are Alive With The Sound of Bleating

Make a difference. Adopt a goat today.

I decided if I were to make any progress in my "speaking-in-the-present-tense-with-some-creative-adjectives-and-made-up-verbs" Spanish-speaking abilities I would have to apply myself a bit more, hence accompanying the Lazaro Spanish congregation to the mountains to preach. 

One little, two little, three little Mexicans, four little, five--GAAAAAAHHH!!!

 CLASS FIVE GRANDOTA ALERT!

This is not an optical illusion, people. This is Mother Nature's anomalies at their finest. Ah, I love that sister. Almost as much as she loved that goat.

We piled into a collectivo and took the windy, vomitrocious road to the mountains. You can see the brothers placidly hanging out the back of the collectivo. What you didn't see was THIS!:

Ahhahah, I caught Raul in the middle of a story looking positively batty. I have never laughed so much as in that car ride. There's something about only understanding two-thirds of what's being said, having people fly off seats and into your lap, and capturing pictures of people looking like escaped Tyrannosaurs that really gets hilarious.

We searched hill and dale to find interested persons, which turned out to be almost everyone. I was able to sit with an illiterate, aged woman and teach her some Bible truths. She gave us all she had to sit on, a bucket and a broken stool. She was absolutely delighted to learn God has a name, tears welled to her eyes as we talked to her. At another door a man offered us seats and told us how he was studying the Bible in the United States but now didn't know how he would continue, considering he was living on the outskirts of nowhere. After speaking for 20 minutes, he was like, "Oh...I speak English." What are the odds? I can tell you. Not very high. Anyway, since I wasn't able to come back the Lazaro cong is going to come back and take care of every one. Well, I mean, not like they have a choice, Jehovah is just making sure we find everyone who's looking for him, isn't he?

After a long morning we feasted on chicken soup...chicken and water, baby, spiced up with lime and salt. I made tortillas. No, I tried to make tortillas...I promise I can do it while I'm alone, but under the watchful eyes of my miniature jefe (behind me) you can see why mine came out like sheets of shameful swiss cheese.

Everyone who picked up a deformed tortilla threw their heads back in laughter at my handiwork. They still tasted good, OKAY? Where I come from, tortillas grow out of plastic packages...

Goats - The portable friend you can eat.

My next Latin American quest will likely be in Spanish, so I need keep it up. If anyone wants to watch movies in Spanish with me, or sing Enrique Iglesias songs with me, or carry me around like a goat, give me a ring. 

Surprise!

I'm back in San Diego. 

I'm also experimenting with a new blog template. 

I'm not sure which one you should be more excited about. You can play around with the dynamic templates and see what you like...change is good...at least that's what I keep telling myself.

Lots of pictures and stories from the last few months; I intend on revealing them all spontaneously in the near future, if you're allowed to plan something like that.

La Familia, Al Fin

Greetings. My family visited in ahem, JUNE; it is now October; so apparently we are looking at a 3-4 month lead time between events actually happening and me recording them. But it's past midnight on a Friday night, which is an ideal time for catching up on all things we haven't got time for. Ready? Behold! Above. The shanty hut that housed my brethen.

 Look familar? It's the same palace the Fleets stayed at. Also possibly Rock Hudson, and Cleopatra.

 Hermanas! Reunited! Ah, how good and pleasant it is for sisters to dwell together on brightly colored couches. We quickly assumed our familiar positions...horizontal, reading.

I was engrossed in Mark Helprin and Paul in Zane Grey, not sure was Tara was onto, possibly an instructional booklet on impersonating Rosie the Riveter.

When reading became too strenuous we climbed inside tires. Well, Bronnie and I did; Melika floated atop a raft of luxuriousness.

 My whole family hopped on my bike; even good ol' daddio. My mom had the first honors; in the dark; in the rain; over the river and through the woods, on a mission to get soy milk we go! Props, Mom.

 Beaching at Carrazilillo, the enchanted cove of delight. Tara looking riveting. 

Mis padres. Ridiculously good looking, these two. 

 Lots of rain; but volleyball carried on. 

 Fishing was fruitful. We all caught fish. Mario, our driver, caught a turtle. 

And released it, of course.

My mom caught a fish. And...a bird, pictured above. Repeatedly. The feeble-minded creature would keep taking the bait, flap about until it detached itself, then do a recovery lap and come back for another nibble. If he weren't so stupid, he would have been talented. 

Not counting the bird and sea turtle, we still did alright.

We also discovered Monopoly Deal, a way faster and more fun version of regular Monopoly. I highly encourage you to pick your set up today, we found ours for $2.44 in the Target bargain bin. Watch out for Dealbreakers and players trying to "pull a Helen".

Ze laughing lovers were reunited with the land of their love. It's been two years since these simple days. Oh the things that we have lost; oh the things that we have gained! 

Time went swiftly. We basically just basked in the others' company and ate lots and lots of tacos. Which is a pretty ideal holiday, if you ask me.

Of course, there was the occasional Mexican mishap; like one taco outing, where assorted female drivers drove themselves into sink holes and had to be hoisted out by these strapping young lads.

Ah, a splendid time was guaranteed for all, and indeed, it was had. A few aunts, uncles, a cousin and some grandparents were missing, but otherwise it was close to perfect.

Let's see what country I can lure my family members to next.

An Apology to My Mom

On the honor of this mutinous sea turtle, I WILL update soon! 

Happy New Service Year!

pi·o·neer

noun /ˌpīəˈnir/  pioneers, plural A person who is among the first to explore or settle a new country or area A person who is among the first to research and develop a new area of knowledge or activity A member of a movement for children below the age of sixteen that aimed to foster communist ideals in the former Soviet Union. A member of an infantry group preparing roads or terrain for the main body of troops A plant or animal that establishes itself in an unoccupied area

For those of you who get more excited for September 1st than January 1st, so begins another year of fine works and perfect wages!

(For those of you who are a plant or animal establishing yourself in an unoccupied area, you're on your own.)

Three Scenes of Happiness, In No Particular Order

Scene 1. At the pool. 

Natalie: See you tonight at the Split Coconut!

Chelsea: What?

Linda: We're all the going to the Split Coconut for dinner!

Chelsea: Ah, not I!

Linda & Natalie: You have to come.

Chelsea: Oh...but I was going to stay home tonight.

Natalie & Linda: But you must.

Chelsea: I can't.

Natalinda: You must.

Chelsea: I will. But only if we dress up like glamour girls from the 1920s. 

(Chelsea gloats inwardly at her foolproof plan) 

Lindanat: Ok, that's fine. Be at our house at 6 pm.

Chelsea: What, really?!

Natalindalie: Bring your red lipstick.

(Time elapses. Jenny joins us and shows up looking smashing. Celebrations occur, barbecue spare ribs are eaten, sunset modelling shoots commence, several fall prey to the meat sweats.)

Scene 2. Sunday. Post District Convention. Some local brothers have rented out a mechanic shop after hours and turned it into a chaste, florescent dance floor. A most welcome treat after three days of sitting and eight months of not dancing BECAUSE WHY DON'T WE DANCE IN PUERTO ESCONDIDO?? We bounce spasmodically to "El Sondito". We line dance without synchronicity to "Cotton-Eye Joe". I scare everyone with my tribal interpretation of "Waka Waka (It's Time for Africa)". Hours later we drop Helen at her hotel; the last time we'll see her before she heads back to England. She floats off into the CityExpress in a most Helen-like fashion. The cold Queretaro air hits our unaccustomed faces.

Scene 3. My Mexico family meets my real family. Two worlds collide. I love this picture. I love Vince's crazy red eyes, I love the spicy elbow pose that both Jacinta and my dad are popping. I must just love these people.

Anyway, these pictures make me happy and I felt like posting them. There's always so much more to say, but that is for another night.

Choose Your Own Adventure

Do you remember Choose Your Own Adventure books? They were fantastic. They probably still are. What other books at your local library can afford such freedom of choice, subject matter, and destiny? In elementary school, I’d check them out by the armful like some sort of option-wielding bandit. Although aimed at slightly older children, I devoured them voraciously from ages six to nine.

Should I maraud through The Cave of Time? Scour the land in search of The Lost Jewels of Nabooti? Perhaps impersonate a shark in the Choose Your Own Adventure classic, You Are A Shark.  Don’t get me started on War With the Mutant Spider Ants, or The Search for the Mountain Gorillas. If you think I’m making these up, you have sorely underestimated the genius minds of the Choose Your Own Adventurists.

If you are unfamiliar with these novels, let me explain. You are not only the reader but the protagonist, the main character, the hero. You are not an outsider, looking in. You are an insider, acting out. You make the decisions that affect the outcome of the story, nay, the outcome of your very life. For example, in You Are A Shark, you may be faced with this sort of decision.  

You encounter a school of fish. Do you:
    gaily feast on the chum?......turn to page 49.
    favor the pair of human legs dangling in the distance?
    ..................................turn to page 12.

Usually the scenarios are a bit more interesting. The point is, no matter how innocuous the choice, there are no right answers. If you choose to gaily feast on the chum, perhaps it will be a carefree feeding frenzy. If you choose the pair of human legs, you could turn to page 12 to find that those were not human legs, they were HUMAN LEG SHAPED EXPLOSIVE PACKED DETONATORS, and suddenly your adventure is over. Cue shark cartilage confetti.

Because of these sorts of unpredictable developments, reading these books was a stressful and ambidextrous experience for me. I would have no less than five fingers lodged in critical plot junctures, in prime position to rectify any unexpected situation. I remember feeling, at times, that the books were out to get me, and my multi-fingered tactic was the only way to survive.  

“HAH!” I would declare to the inanimate pages. “I have NOT fallen into a Mayan booby trap and died! I’m going enter the cave on the left, instead. Thought you could trap me, did you, page 86?” Then I’d giddily fling my phalanges to the alternate option. If, perchance, the hypothetical cave on the left was undesirable in my eyes, a few finger flips would find me safe and sound, ready to rewrite my fate in The Cave of Time.

Occasionally, even when I had achieved the happiest possible ending, I would hurl myself right back in the fray. Looking for what, who can know? Perhaps I was drunk with freedom of choice, or driven by an insatiable need to explore the unknown. The mind of an eight-year-old is a gloriously complex mechanism.

You can imagine how this sort of behavior impacted my future decision making skills. Before I was ten years of age, I had already lived as a cave explorer, a time traveler, an astronaut, a warrior and a shark, to name a few. I had made and revoked hundreds if not thousands of decisions, rewritten a dozen destinies. How was I to confront reality, whose insistence on linear plot development precluded my cautionary measures?

I’m not sure how I managed, but I gradually grew more confident. I found that though most decisions are irrevocable, their effects are not often irreversible. Few decisions are truly important, and almost no decisions end in being eaten by mutant spider ants.

Though these thoughts at times have brought me clarity, I often find myself in a familiar predicament.

The novel of my life, in my hands.

The options, laid before me.

The outcome? It awaits on page 49. Or perhaps it is hidden on page 12. I long to be that eight-year old girl, fingers fixing five different fortunes; invincible, presciently wise.

Have I learned nothing? Remember, there are no perfect outcomes. You have the right to choose your own adventure; singular. Exactly one. Today is an episode, tomorrow, a plot twist. There is only one adventure. Knowing the ending would spoil the surprise. Pry your fingers from the pages and choose. That is the only truly great adventure. 

Plundered Booty

Who are these mysterious people, shrouded in darkness? When shall these shade-dwellers see the light? Why hasn't an entry about our glorious family reunion yet materialized? How many cups of sugar does it take to get to the moon? All this and more shall be revealed, my children. In the meantime, if you are not sufficiently intrigued, what say you to....

THIS!

YARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If that didn't make you laugh in horror, or shudder with delight, then I have no further business with you. 

I was going to update tonight, but I have a bit of indigestion. Escorpión frito disagrees with me. And I only ate a leg. Others were scarfing down whole torsos.I know tacos are cheap. But scorpions are...free. And plentiful. And what else? Oh, the incarnation of evil. 

May Great Oden's Raven help us if the Scorpion Anti-Defamation League ever finds us.

Go Native

Let me just say, the original idea was to have a Pride & Prejudice party. It soon transformed into Afternoon Tea, which morphed into a crazy hair and makeup theme party, which devolved into drinking champagne and eating treats in various states of cosmetic tomfoolery. The Pride & Prejudice DVD from England wouldn't work in the DVD player from Canada, nor in the Kiwi or Norwegian DVD players, so instead we watched my American copy of The Shop Around The Corner in the house of our dear Australian/Maltese/South African friends. Kirstie posted the rest of the evidence here.

The theme was crazy hair and makeup, but given the opportunity to dress as a Native American, I will take it. Melika was the other wasicun winyan (white woman) to join my tribe. Afterwards, there was only one way to get our makeup off. 

Other happenings! Our favorite Austrian has gone missing...Gloria left for home on Sunday. As have Jenny, Eugene, Eli, Kylie, Critter, and Oggy, leaving holes of various sizes and shapes in their absence. I have a new job, teaching English over the phone to business professionals in Spain. Sitting on the couch in my swimmers making Euros? Count me in. I have moved from the palapa to the bottom floor for the next couple months; there is an Italian muchacho who wants to live upstairs during the rainy season, he is clearly a madman because when storms come through it's nothing short of a hurricane up there. Kitchenware sails through the air. Papers and books are spirited away. You half-expect to see a bikini-clad Wicked Witch of the West fly by on her broomstick.

It's a nice change though, having walls. However, the lack of fresh air and absence of enormous amounts of natural light has sent me into a deep hibernation. After six months of waking up with the sun, my body refuses to arise, pretty much ever. In fact, my body has been taking three to four hour naps without even asking permission. I'm also not impressed with the wildlife on the bottom floor. In the past month, I have encountered exactly:

8924 Mosquitoes

3 Spiders

49 Flies

256 Moths

1 Cockroach

47 Geckos

1 Centipede

32 Shrimp*

and 

4 Scorpions

*These were found in my Shrimp Flavored Cup 'O Noodles, but I didn't want to them to feel left out.

Why yes, that is a dead rat strapped to my motorcycle. 

And yes! This is a toad smashed to smithereens. 

It's a good thing I'm not tallying creatures found outside my house. And now, I feel a rant coming on. Brace yourself, it's been 42 days since my last post and I have lots of verbalizing to do. 

I met my first centipede last week. Anything that is fiery red, had a hundred legs, and can still live after being cut in half is not welcome in my home. I thought I was clever by smashing it a few times with the Insight Book, Volume Death. I scampered off to the internet to Google centipede facts (because that's what all good hunters do after a kill), where I learned they are even more indestructible than scorpions. You can't kill them by smashing or cutting them up. You must also set them on fire. I went over to inspect the corpse of the centipede, but of course, it was gone. It was in my closet. I had no choice. The only thing scarier than an evil-looking, 100 legged creature is an evil-looking, 100 legged creature, engulfed in flames, walking (?) around your flat.

Speaking of flammable, indestructible house guests, there have been four too many scorpions for my liking in this house. In fact, the last scorpion that dropped in was here just an hour or so ago, climbing under Melika's chair. Hold on. Scary stories to follow. 

PREFACE THEM WITH KITTENS!!!!!

Now, when swimming at Carrazilillo earlier in the day, Melika had said to me, "I don't want to freak you out...but there is something in the water." The calm panic in her voice meant I was to understand that sentence as "There is a shark, behind you, swim to safety; now." Naturally we swam like hell to shore and then stood there panting for a while and grappling with our own mortality. Was there really a shark? As far as I'm concerned, yes, there were sharks with frickin' laser beams attached to their heads.

Anyway, as I spotted the scorpion under Melika's chair, I wanted to imitate her earlier cool-headedness. "Oh, um...maybe you want to put your feet up real quick." As she did, the scorpion began to climb her chair. "Oh..um...maybe you want to jump off that chair across the room or something." The calm panic in my voice meant she was to understand that sentence as "There is a scorpion, underneath you, leap to safety; now." As she leapt onto the table, I grabbed my trusty scorpion killing sandal and struck with deadly force.

Unfortunately, my deadly force wasn't backed by fatal accuracy, and I missed. It scurried. I struck again. We giggled triumphantly. As it crawled out from the sandal, we choked on our girlish laughter. My sandal thundered down again. Melika put pressure on it, just to be sure. As the thing literally reared its ugly head out from under the Havaiana, scorpion sympathies were at an all time low. We screamed. The last thing the poor thing saw was a makeshift flame thrower coming for it. 

We may have got a bit carried away, but as my pappy always said, "When a fiend goes near a friend, fry the fiend with fire before it finds your fine friends." 

I actually don't have a pappy. I mean, I have a father, but I call him Dad, or Daddy. He gives great advice, but rarely about scorpions. I was able to bask in his non-scorpion related advice and the inestimably splendid company of my family when they visited last month. It is still surreal. They were here! Here! In Mexico, in Puerto Escondido...eating tacos with me, swimming in the sea, bringing me unsolicited Thigh Masters! I am daily and eagerly checking the mailbox for pictures from their trip to arrive, so I may savor them, upload them, and craft an unworthy blog post in their honor.

In other news, I am tired of being wet. I have been damp for upwards of 92 hours. After you bathe, you see, you are wet. But the air is wet, so you stay wet. Then you start to get dry, then it rains. Then you are wet. Then the rain stops, and you go swimming, becoming entirely wet. Then you take a shower, and yes, you are wet again, and as you exit the shower, you find yourself, well, you know; bedewed, besprent, boggy, marshy, squashy, swampy, waterlogged, clammy, moist, sodden, soppy, drippy, humid, misty, muggy, steamy, rheumy, undried, utterly…watery. I am afraid of molding over. I dream only of basking like a lizard on a sun-drenched rock.

The reason I'm still typing and not sleeping is that I earlier poured a pot of boiling water all over my left hand. Be cursed, ye ol' Shrimp Flavored Cup 'O Noodles! My ice-wrapped hand is nicely healing as I engage in writing therapy. It really helps. A few rambling stories, a nice long winge, and I feel ready to deal with the next day of Mexican madness. Next month, I will have my third consecutive birthday in Mexico. 22..23...24....Is this not fascinating? It's been good for me. At least, I'm a lot closer to being the Native American warrior princess Christian young lady I strive to be.

May the Great Spirit walk with you! 

And more importantly, may you walk with him (Micah 4:5).

Guat's Emala With You?

Take me down to Guatemala City where the sky is brown and the rats are pretty, take me home! 

No, no, we didn't go to Guatemala City. We were rescued from that fate. Christian, world traveler, saved us from my bright idea to go to from the Tapachula border crossing (the miserable border town we got stuck at last year when the mudslides slid...) to Guatemala City to renew my visa. Why? Because it's "ugly, and dirty, and dangerous, and you're not going there." So Uncle Christian made a new itinerary for us, which involved Lake Atitlan and Antigua, and then he was spirited away back to England. Later, I saw on the Lonely Planet website that Guatemala City was voted the #1 Least Favorite Place by travelers.

We left from San Cristobal around 8 am. Considering there are no bathrooms on the shuttles, and my aforementioned gastrointestinal discomfort, I plotted to endure by fasting and popping anti-diarrhea pills. As young European guy after young European guy boarded our shuttle, I realized this was potentially going to be the most mortifying journey of my life. It took about 4.5 hours to get from San Cristobal to the Cuauhtemoc (La Mesilla) border crossing, and 6 hours to Panajachel. And it all passed without incident! Plop plop, fizz fizz, oh what a relief it is to not shame yourself in front of strangers.

As you can see, the roads in Guatemala are almost as good as in Mexico. Actually, save bits like the below, the roads were quite nice. Hardly any gaping crevasses and only sporadic chicken suicide attempts.

By the time we glimpsed Lake Atitlan, we had become fast friends with our shuttlemates, who had no idea what they were doing in Guatemala either. So we all bonded together over our ignorance and over Steve, the only one of us who knew what he was doing. He was German, he had plans, he had maps, he had Lonely Planet: Guatemala...the latest edition! Ooooooh.

Lake Atitlan is actually a collapsed volcano surrounded by three other volcanoes, which I assume will eventually collapse and become lakes as well, and then Lonely Planet will have to update their guides, and Steve will have to buy the latest edition.

 Wim (Belgium), Hasan (Alemania), Chelsea, Bronnie, Steve (Deutschland)

There are many things to love about Wim and Hasan, but what I love most can been seen above. They're huge. Look! I look small. I look...short. Hasan's grandparents are from Montenegro, which is apparently where the tallest people on earth are, and consequently where I'll be travelling to audition for the next season of Who Wants to Marry a Giant? There are things we love about Steve too, but mostly we love him for his gargantuan mind, and ability to memorize boat schedules.

We spent the day in Panajachel, where there was splendid things we had been missing, like homemade ginger ale and authentic curries. The next day we took a boat to San Pedro, and after splashing around in the collapsed volcano, discovered more things to rejoice over, like a natural health store that was some sort of Henry's/Trader Joe's oasis. Le sigh. I could only afford to buy Grapefruit Seed Extract, which killed whatever was trying to kill me, and brought me back among the living.

Peanut, Bronnie's travelling companion. I think he's been to more countries than I have. He was very well behaved the whole trip, but insisted on having his picture taken.Wim also had a teddy bear travelling companion, Alfonso, but he had partied too hard the night before and had to stay at the hostel. 

The laundry service in San Pedro was superb. In fact, one laundry mat had a sign outside that said "YOUR CLOTHES WILL SMELL NICE." They obviously know how to sell to backpackers. Also, over lunch it was revealed that Hasan and Wim were similarly afflicted by debilitating diarrhea, and had we had all been secretly popping Immodium and the like trying to stay alive. From that point on it was a free-for-all of toilet-related jokes and discussions.

 Our secret anti-diarrheal stashes.

The next day, Bronnie and I took a boat to San Marcos, poked around looking for breakfast but only found a restaurant that looked like a garage sale/animal sanctuary, so we skipped out and headed back to Panajachel. We got a tuk tuk around town doing last minute things, then it was off to Antigua. 

 Antigua! A land flowing with milk, and honey, and...

GREAT SCOTT WHAT IS THIS FOUNTAIN????

Ahem. Antigua was nice, a colonial town that reminded us a lot of San Cristobal. But all the breast-fountains in the world couldn't make us forget that we were tired, and we would have to take frequent breaks to lean against decaying churches to catch our breath. 

We did get the bright idea to rent bicycles in town. Which was half demented and half brilliant, demented because the roads are made of  highly spaced apart cobblestones, brilliant because we got to fly through the streets and use muscles that had been in hibernation for some time. 

In fact, we were told about a look out point with a monument just outside of town, on top of a hill that we were advised to walk our bikes up or carry the bikes up stairs if we couldn't make it. Hah. Telling the Destroyer and the Machine to push their bikes up a hill is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. We had to stop several times, and I had a sudden-onset hyperventilation attack half way through, but we made it.

We were greeted by this sign in German, which I'm pretty sure says, "Why are you so sweaty? Come on...Get your act together, fatty." But of course, my German is rusty.

 There he was! Some guy! Riding his steed with great dignity!

 And there I was! Some thing! Mounting my bike with great difficulty!

I actually don't know if I was getting on or off. Or if I was trying to do a Captain Morgan thing. I showed this picture to a Dutch girl in our hostel, and she started laughing even harder than I was. "You are like man!" she said. Thank you, my sweet Netherlandish friend.

Anyway, we were pretty beat after the bike ride. Not that the bikes collapsed in a heap in the background are a giveaway. Although I staged a coup toward the end of the trip and tried to go off by myself to go on a volcano camping trip, the universe realigned itself so that Friday after dinner, crepes, and a few frenzied dances to Don Omar I too was on a bus heading back for Puerto. 24 bus hours later we arrived back, just in time for the meeting.

We took another tuk tuk in Antigua, maybe you can get the sense of just how cobbly the cobblestones were.

Probably no updates for a while, but the next time I do I will likely have had some special visitors. Verrrrrry special indeed. MY MOM AND DAD AND PAUL AND TARA ARE COMING IN TWO WEEKS IS THIS NOT THE BEST NEWS EVER?