my home

I’m not in Mexico anymore, I have nor been in "Mexico anymore" for the last two months. And instead of being in Mexico the last two months, Santiago has been swallowing me in its big city rhythm. I live on the 23rd floor of a tremendously huge apartment complex right by one of the main streets of Santiago. Life by the main street in a town like Paijala might not be such a buzz but with its 5 million habitants a main street in Santiago offers quite a soundtrack to my life. The soundtrack consists of a mishmash of noise coming from cars, buses, firemen, rough brakesounds, caarhorns used by frustrated drivers and last but not least, the sound of the police. I sleep with earplugs, and wake up without them. My roommates are Juan de Dios and Manè/Margarita. They are both cool and our co-living goes on really well. Every day they look less and less suspicious about my strange greencouloured veggietasting cooking’s.

The thing I like the most about the house is the fact that we have "elevatorguys". In practice that means you do not need to press the elevator button yourself since the elevatorguy drives you up to your floor. It is really nice to have a little chat with them during the elevator ride, the classical weather is a great topic. I have one favorite elevatorguy called Luis. Luis teases all kids and listens to Michael Jackson and best of all; becomes pissed if somebody/something destroys his impeccable, back slick-like, hair combing. Luis is not alone since he is part of the little mini-company that runs the house. We have a little reception with a "conserge", just like in a hotel best of all you can tell them if something is wrong; no gas, no water, broken window etc. and they might get someone to fix it in like three weeks time. Also there is the possibility to ask them about directions when you are leaving from home the last minute and realized you totally forgot to look at a map for directions, they are simply multifunctional. An so is my house, multifunctional I mean, you can sleep there, cook a soup, take a shower, take a piss, wash your clothes and much much more.

Carlos Einstein Hostel

Actually I could reduce my whole travel blog into just being a description of the hostels I’ve stayed at. Since they actually become your temporarily homes for a couple of days, the atmosphere, the meetings they generate etc. becomes fairly essential to your stay. When going to Masunte, a little beach on the pacific Coast, Johanna recommended me a certain Hotel Einstein were she had been staying 3 years ago. She did not recommend it because of nice cabañas, clean toilets, nor wonderful breakfast, but due to the owner, Carlos Einstein (if he was still alive, she added). The story does not reveal Carlos real name but a glimpse at him explained his nickname Einstein. He lives at the hotel with his son Edgard and some Quetzalis that work for him 3 hours a day to get a free bed to stay in. Carlos calls himself a shaman, acupuncturist, artist, dancer, painter, businessman and in the brief life story I was given I had difficulties keeping track of all the things this old man had been up to. One thing I knew for sure though, was that Carlos wore a necklace made of his own leg bones and that he would get sudden attacks of generosity and ask one egyptian guy working at the hostel to offer all guests a shot of mescal.

San Juan Chamula by Johanna Van der Voort

We visited a town outside of San Cristobal in the mountains by the name of San Juan Chamula. Words are not worthy of the experience we had there but as I´d like to share it with you, I will try my best to describe the exprerience: It was market day when we arrived. The local women were out and about in their woolen wrap skirts, thick woven belts that keep them standing as upright as royalty, and silk embroidered Huipile blouses, their hair in 2 braids tied with coloured ribbons and tassels. The men in wool ponchos, cowboy hats and boots. All manner of fruits and vegetables were piled in neat pyramids in pots, or piles ready weighed and measured to be sold; woven blankets, embroidered cloth and shirts, all the stalls sheltering under multicoloured beach umbrellas.
We sat on some steps overlooking the plaza and watched an ancient Tzotzil woman sitting quite still, wrapped in a purple woven shawl, only her white hair, and dark glinting eyes visible gazing silently into the distance. At her feet on weathered wooden crates stood rows of plastic orange pots piled with pyramids of fresh new potatoes still covered in soil. The woman sat so still, and seemed so at peace with the world; it struck me that she had found the answer, the Inner Peace we in the Western world are always searching for. She seemed completely empty as if her mind/soul was traveling in some other dimension. She probably sits like that day in day out, only returning to her physical body occasionally to sell a few spuds!

The church on the plaza was a simple white-washed building, the arched entrance decorated in turquoise, yellow and orange designs not dissimilar to some of the embroidered clothes for sale. The entrance door was made of worn wood. Inside the church the the light was dim; the floor was covered with a carpet of pine needles; the air smelt of insense and pine. The walls were lined with glass cabinets inside which stood garisly painted statues of saints, in front of these, and all about the alter were bunches of flowers and thousands of lighted candles.
Here and there on the floor sat groups of indigenous women, and their children. Each group spanned three of four generations. In front of each group rows of white, red, yellow, blue lighted candles were stuck to the floor with wax. Near the candles stood rows of canned and bottled coca-cola or fizzy pop, clear bottles of sugar cane Liquor, clear plastic bags of eggs and a live chicken. We joined a group of women who were beginning their ritual and listened and watched as the ancient Grandmother began to chant, only stopping as each breath wheezed to an end, resuming her chant again with each new breath. She lit the row of candles furthest away from her and chanted, waiting a while; then she lit the next, until all the rows were lit. The heat of all that fire caused the candles to wilt and bend; pools of wax formed between the rows. The Grandmother chanted as she poured liquor between the candles. It bubbled and hissed and merged with the pools of wax as it evaporated. She signalled to her Daughter who pulled a nervous chicken out of a sack. The Grandmother held the chicken by its legs and swung it over the candles. It squawked, and then was abrublty silent as the Grandmother broke its neck with one swift jerk and chicken saliva dripped into the candle flames. Then each family member took a drink of liquor from a glass, the baby of the family sucked liquor from her mother´s finger; they poured liquor into their palms, wahsing thier hands with it and wiping liquor onto their heads. Finally each member of the family drank a shot glass of coca cola!

Outside the church in the village we noticed how all the walls of shops and houses were covered in advertisements for coca-cola. Apparently someone came to the town a long time ago and told them Coca-Cola was a God and they have used it as an offering along with liquor and chickens ever since.

San Cristobal de las Casas by mi compañera

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10 days ago I was in a little village in Guatemala, on the side of Lake Atitlan and decided to escape because there were too many American New Age hippies walking around as if they had reached Spiritual Nirvana. They had absolutely no contact or relationship to the local culture and its people and I have always found spiritual arrogance very difficult to swallow. Coincidentally I met a girl, Lina, that I had met on the plane. We got along more than well and had been doing halfway attempts through email to hook up but for a months time we were always at different destinations. But anyways she was also heading to San Cristobal in Mexico, so at the earliest oppurtunity we jumped on the Chicken Bus and bounced our way across the border, meeting a French Reggae band on the way, who kept us entertained during the journey.

The city of San Cristobal is situated high in the Chiapas mountains. The climate is very pleasant- dry, warm, clear blue skies and sunshine during the day, cold and fresh at night. The majority of the population are indigenous Mayan Tzotzil Indians. Many of them adhere even more strictly to their traditions than in Guatemala, almost all of them in traditional dress, including many men. This, contrasted with the Spanish colonial Architecture- streets lined with colourfully painted houses, plazas watched over by old quiet churches- often leaves you feeling as though you are walking on a painted canvas splashed with colour and life.


Back in san Crsitobal we visited a cooperative of Indigenous Women who make theatre. It was interesting to speak to them, and learn a bit about what they do: mostly they work with themes like Climate Change (ta-taaa!!), Domestic violence, Drugs/Alcoholism, Health issues, etc. They have their own playwright who writes plays that stem from discussion and improvisation. Just right up my street I´d say!! Unfortunately we were unable to see a show or rehearsal, though...

One day when wandering about the Santa Domingo Craft Market where all the locals sell their beautiful wares, we met two Tzotzil Women sitting working at their stall, teasing wool, embroidering and making wool toys. We asked them if we could join them, help them tease wool and learn how to make some of the things they were making. What transpired were a couple of days spent really experiencing Market Life from the other side: We sat on the warm stone floor and teased wool, learnt to embroider and sew whilst they answered our questions about their culture, and we theirs about ours. It was probably one of the best experiences I have had so far (and we now know how to make woolen animals!!)


We went to the main theatre in San Cristobal to see a show called El Palenque Rojo. What a scream: directed by a Columbian, it was a wordless physical theatre piece about part of the Mayan story of Creation, the Popul Vuh. Much of the movement was graceful, the choreograpphy well rehearsed, and the use of space very inventive with actors jumping out into the auditorium, and behind and above us too, with flame torches, giant sticks and masks. But the design was terrible: tacky digital projections of moons and mountains, garishly painted wobbly platforms, headresses and masks too obviously made from foam and cardboard. Loud recorded music drowned out what live drumming, percussion and singing there was, the volume high enough to burst eardrums. The piece had no beginning, middle or end, just loud, melodramatic and overwhelming all the way through! At one point, a scene in the underworld ended in a parade; it looked like they had raided the costume and prop store and salvaged anything from past Day of the Dead (Halloween) parades. The music thumped out some dark electro dance rhythm as giant skeletons and and painted death maskes danced and screamed about the theatre. All a bit over dramatic, but a good effort non the less, and certainly very energetic on the performers´ part!

first night in Monterrico

Henriks desperate need to have a good suntan to show up in Sweden led us to the sun safe Monterrico on the southern coast of Guatemala. Together with Henrik, Tania and Larry we took the chicken bus down to the Pacific Coast. It was Saturday afternoon and the atmosphere was on top. Before that bus ride I had not been aware that grown ups can have so much fun and behave just like the kinda teenagers a Swedish bus driver would kick out immediately. Halfway we lost Larry, since he decided to stay and spend the evening with some ladies he met on the bus. So the 3 of us continued to a dark , hot and moist Saturday night Montterico. The little town was busy and all lower budget options were full, all ecxept one. It was run by Vito, an decadent Italian who sat sipping beer in the bar when we arrived. We were given a room that was really basic standard, and it actually felt quite alright at first. We were so hot and sweaty that we jumped in the pool as fast as you can say bikini. Henrik jumped from the trampoline that almost broke (he is not that fat at all) and I almost fell through to the ground since some ladder was missing. It seemed like there had passed years since anyone had done effort to make things work at that place. We returned to our room smelling intensely of color to discover that a large family of termites were also staying in our room.. They sent a drunk guy in with a poison pump and he was smoking a cigarette while trying to pump the poison wherever it happened to land and almost tipping over when trying to reach the far away corners. After he left I took up my travel guide to read about Monterrico accomodation. Before even getting to the actual reviews our guidebook said; Avoid the Hotel Boule Beach as regular thefts have been reported I asked Henrik and Tania about the name of the hotel, and since none of them knew I stepped out to find out, and to my not so great suprice the place we were staying at was indeed Hotel Boule Beach. We fell asleep under awkwardly dirty mosquito nets listeninbg to someone vomiting ib one of the rooms and people having sex in the other. We moved out the next morning.


decided it was time for some handicraft

Antigua

Woke up to the sound of noises and figured earplugs would be my next investment. Then it suddenly hit my head, the bear and tequila from NO SÈ last night. I knew I needed breakfast but I also knew that leaving my single hotel room with private bathroom, hot shower, dirty blankets, and yellowish walls, would take a while. I checked the time in the settings of my digital camera before I left, the time was 9.30. Once out on the streets I was pulled between two strong forces, my escalating hunger and my pickyness of a cafeteria. Victory to my picky taste left my stomach suffering 7 blocks until I saw “Y tu piña tambien”. I took my time drinking coffee and apparently my thoughts were elsewhere when I said adios to the woman in the bar and left without paying. A couple of blocks down the street I stepped into a little comedor, ordered a liquiado. Sitting there reading an article about mescaline and mural movements I realized my committed crime. I tried to sip my drink for a while longer and concentrate in the reading but I had to ask for the check and leave almost immediately. I guess they were aware of my escape at “Y tu piña tambien”, and I handed over he 37, mas propina, Quetzales I owed them. Across the street I entered a tiny bookstore. I did not find anything I looked for book wise but I ended up talking for about an hour to Mr Bookstorekeeper about murdered bishops and Finnish students on tennis scholarship in the US. On my way to another bookstore to find a book I decided it was time for some handicraft. The lady with the golden teeth offered me the mustard colored cloth for 190, I bargained it to 120. Then I headed to the postal Office. Or actually I did not quite do that. First I walked through the park and picked some flowers and a few minutes later I was in an huge supermarket to buy envelopes. It was the kind of supermarket that seems to cover up most possible needs. The store was literary crowded with stuff and I tried to figure what on earth could be the thing that was not for sale there. Actually the answer to my question appeared quite quickly, when, after mobilizing 3 staff members (a bad habit that I have inherited through my mother and grandmother) we found out the store did not have any hair needles. It did not even help when one girl who was eating ice cream and working called with a Walkie Talkie to the manager and said “no hay”. I left the supermarket with a bag full of other stuff and ran in to a pharmaceutics store. I knew there was something I had to buy there but I could not remember what it was. I stood there a while thinking until I realized I had forgotten and was not to remember. Finally I reached the post office to send a letter to my loved one and one to my father. It was me, 5 German girls, 2 American ladies and one Japanese chick who stood there together licking stamps and wondering about how many months it would take to our post to reach its destination. I walked back to my hotel, had a little chat with the hygiene technician (also referred to as a cleaning lady), lay down on my bed and realized it was earplugs I was supposed to buy at the pharmaceutics store.

El hotelito perdido

The word of mouth and some other travelers led us to the next destination, “El hotelito Perdido”, a small scale bungalow place in the jungle along Rio Dulce. The place was amazing, hidden behind vegetation and consisting of four wooden bungalows. In the main building there were hammocks, games, guitars, and there us 10 guests and the hosts (a coughing long haired Englishman who hated Robbie Williams and chain-smoked cigarettes, and a polish alert woman who was super kind but had a working and moving speed beating most). Every night we enjoyed dinner together and spent a lot of time hanging out since the heavy jungle rain came. Being in paradise, surrounded by a Caribbean river, wild colorful flowers and palm trees, I realized there must be a downside about a place that appears so perfect. And of cause the Englishman started to tell us about corruption, violence, deadly snakes, spiders and all the scorpions in the hood (according to him he had been bitten 50 times). That was enough to boost my paranoia, I became irrationally scared of the jungle. The last day I had a gigantic spider on my raincoat and a little black scorpion ran out from under my bag, and actually I felt quite relived.