The prominence of how life is not just a series of chapters but a chronicle of stories told seems to resonate very much right now. I’m sitting in a hostel in the South of France, driving to Italy with my great mate Paul, enjoying the changing scenery that flickers past my window as we cross from sea to sea, over mountains and through canyons. In some ways this has acted as a form of picture book as I have the opportunity to remove myself from the life that I have been carving since I got back. The rain is pouring down almost obscuring the view of the beautiful Mediterranean, lapping upon the Cote de Azur, reminding my of the rains that seemed to pour endlessly in Rio just under a year ago, and the torrential early evening showers of the sticky Caribbean coast from Columbia onwards.
It feels like since I got back in late November, my life has been so crowded with other things, that I have had little to no chance to reflect upon, and write about, the endeavour that consumed my 2008. Most prominently the ups and downs that Emily, the first, and hopefully not the last, real love of my life, provided in planning for the future, and then ripping away from me through acts of indecision and deception. But now the planning, and the hope, the subsequent tears that flowed and the aching sense of loss is slowly beginning to clear leaving me with a chance to finally finish this blog. Regardless of whether my writings were read by anybody or not, this blog feels like such a massive achievement. I have written thousands upon thousands of words describing my experiences in a way that instantly takes me back to some of the most happy, and some of the most difficult times of my life. In a way it feels like it has been a kind of companion throughout, there to talk to when utterly lonely and burnt out, and there to tell about the wonderfully exciting life changing experiences that presented themselves. I did it, and I have a diary of it all, that I have been able to share with all of those who so kindly worried about me during my absence.
So where to actually start concluding after such an eventful year. I stood upon glaciers, dodged tropical waves on the Caribbean, swam with dolphins and crocodiles, rafted through raging Argentinian torrents, boated through the jungle, surfed 15 foot waves (badly!), learnt Spanish, learnt about revolution, revolutionaries, communism, walked to Machu Picchu, sand-boarded, jumped from a plane, attempted to fish in coral reefs, ate a Kg steak, stood just under 5km above sea level, and of course, fell in love for the first time. The list goes on and on. I also made so so many new friends, some of which I will treasure their contribution to such a life changing experience. Notably (and in no particular order) Katherine, Adam, Dan, Matt the Bear, Scott, Bobby, Justin, Matt Sanchez, Rob, Hannah, Andy, Alex, The Barry Brothers, Majo, Suzanne, Johan, and most most prominently, Emily.
I remember writing in Salta how I felt that I was not really changing or experiencing things, but just floating from one place to the other. How things changed from there on. Now that I really think about it so much has happened that I’m very possibly not the person who sat there staring from his office window well over a year ago. I think I’m a better person, a more conscious and morally directed person, who I would say I definitely like and respect more than I did before going. I think that my future looks different now too. After feeling the most wonderful, and the most painful experiences of my life in falling in love I know that I want to find it again, and that my life will be hollow and shallow without it.
And that, I think, is one of the things that one can really take away from travelling: the opportunity to gain perspective on life; a view of what really matters. We fill our days with the endlessly ebbing calls of day to day life that seem to occupy our thoughts so much that we perhaps just don’t have a spare moment to put ourselves in sometimes sapping, but ultimately rewarding circumstances. Now, of course, there are many ways to define ‘travelling’, in the same way that the definition of working would vary between, lets say, an artist, a teacher and an accountant. However, in whatever respect travelling is undertaken, I think that it gives us a perspective on life that is different from anything else. Perhaps it can also be attributed as one of the most selfish things we can do, but then again should at least a degree of our small time on this earth be devoted entirely on ourselves without distraction. Although, in some way my travelling was selfish, i didn’t work or volunteer, but maybe that was never what it was supposed to be about. I know I want to devote myself something to help people later on in life, but this experience was for me, and me only, and I don’t feel guilty about that.
So travelling, what is it like? In short all I can really say is that it’s eclectic, from my experience. It can be the hottest place one month and the coldest the next, it can be great friendships struck and great friends lost (but not for good), it can be a lonely day far away from home and the most beautiful life moment shared with someone kindred, it can be exhausting treks or days at the beach with a great book, it can be a beautiful brown tan and sun bleached hair or terrible sickness and mosquito bites. It can be many many things. And that is the beauty of it, as far as I’m concerned. It was almost never mediocre; it was living life and the highs and lows that associate with it. In some ways it feels kind of impossible to articulate everything that I have seen, been and done. I’ve written so many words but still never really touched upon that which touched me, if that makes sense. All I can say is that I wouldn’t change a thing.
So, although I think I could probably write endlessly on this topic I will try and cover the final few bits concisely. If I could give any advice on how to travel alone to whatever destination one chooses to travel to it would be:
Do it - if it is possible then don’t keep making excuses not to. Now is the time.
Travel how the locals do - don’t fly everywhere and take tourist buses, the experience is in the journey.
Take gaffa/duct tape - it has a million uses - seriously, trust me.
Travel light - you really don’t need that much stuff to live on.
Don’t take anything you’re not prepared to lose, break or have stolen.
Be cautious but not overly so - bum bags are a sandwich board that say rob me. just keep your hand on your wallet in dodgy areas and you’ll be fine. Just relax and let it show.
Hide emergency money and take a spare credit card - your bank will block your on a regular basis.
If you find yourself on the backpacker conveyor belt then remove yourself from it. Every time I branched out on my own something great happened.
Take a pack of cards - essential!
Take many memory cards and swap them round often and back them up online if possible. I was so sensible about this but still lost a load of photos.
Learn the language - it’s so much more fulfilling when you can chat with the locals - they appreciate it.
Don’t book ahead - OK first night, but otherwise wing it - I almost never booked and never ever found myself without a bed for the night.
Try everything! - This is the time to do so.
Take a few books and swap wisely - books are gold for travellers, take a few good ones and don’t accept silly swaps because you’ll struggle to replace them.
Last but not least, let me know how it goes!
So what now? Well, in honesty I'm not all too sure really. After returning it feels like there are many decisions and opportunities to sway me this way or the other. Plus with the unexpected freedom acquired in February, I suppose my range of options have significantly increased. In the months since returning I have started my own mini consultancy which gives me no real job security or opportunity to settle. However, perhaps another way of looking at it is to say that I have put myself in a position where I won't come back to staring out the window thinking that "life is just not what I expected it to be". I now have the freedom and financial security to work when I want and take as much time off as I want. Perhaps this isn't everything I expected at this point, but it's more than enough. For now if life is a compromise then I got an excellent deal.
I have little doubt that this won't be my last bout of travelling & blogging, however for now, Liam in the Latin is all wrapped up.
Saturday 9 May 2009
Wednesday 15 April 2009
Communist Everywhere; Communists Nowhere
Many months have passed since I returned from Cuba. The final posts have sat shelved in my head, silently waiting for that chapter to be put to a close. I think it's probably time. So much has happened since then that the words about my travels already feel like fiction. Most prominently the one I loved and missed like a limb is now long gone, and the journey, for now continues on my own. But as I sit in the park next to Westminster, the spring sun just about warming my arms, I feel that I understand that the journey never ended; just continued. That chapter, however, is done, and the next is about to begin. But for now, perhaps, a touch of retrospect. Cuba.
The morning after the evening before, I awoke with a raging hangover. In spite of my usual caution I had let the guy I was living with con me into paying a large bar bill of whiskey we had accumulated. After spending the evening trying to understand his drawl-like Spanish, spoken with increasing rapidity, and telling opportunistic local girls that I had a girlfriend, and that no she wasn't here, and that no I still wasn't interested despite her not being here, I returned back to my room with the landlord who I now intended to avoid as much as possible. Five days and I would be leaving, hopefully to see the blue skies and beautiful beaches to relax and unwind after many months of relentless travelling. The end was so near and before long it would be Christmas. Still, even then, it became clear that suddenly being without Emily, and desperately missing home and the people I loved there, this was not going to be a walk in the park.
I dragged sore head from the pillow, and my rather unkempt self from the bed, planning to go out and explore the capital of the land of inspiration, passion and revolution: Cuba. I was here, exploring a land living under the flag of an ideology that had, many years ago, threatened to spread all over the world. But first I needed to get some food inside me. I left the room, slipping from the apartment unheard, and began to walk the streets. At this point I became rather aware of the fact that I was going to struggle without any form of written information or guidebook. I walked the streets for a while turning my nose up at the rather ill-equipped and poky looking eateries, before happening upon a supermarket. Result. I skipped inside to be presented with the strangest sight: There was virtually no branding. Rows upon rows were filled with white tins marked 'Banana' or 'Manzana'. Something so commonplace everywhere in the world, and so taken for granted, as branding was missing. To add to that the selection was utterly dreadful, with only basic necessities being provided. In the end I purchased a tin of peaches, a packet of biscuits and some juice. For someone as utterly obsessed with food as I, this was another issue that I was going to have to tackle. I walked to the sea front and sat eating some biscuits, whilst trying to digest the scene around me. It was a cold and grey Sunday; not raining but occasionally spitting, with a chilly but not cold wind. On one side of me the aggravated waters of the Atlantic harshly beat upon the large stone grey walls producing massive leaps of sea spray. On the other side was a large mesh of metal leading to an open arena where staunch communists came to loudly protest against the evil plight of Capitalism upon the world. At the end of the area stood Lenin holding a child in one arm in one hand and pointing towards the fairly proximate shores of the United States. On this chilly grey Sunday, however, there was no shouting. Just an empty space covered by a metal frame silent against a backdrop of grey, crumbling, tower blocks. Occasionally an old car from the 50s would trundle past emitting smoke and noise. Sporadically placed people would occasionally stop and stare silently at the body of water that separated them from an unknown world. More as if they were on Robben Island than that of the land that Fidel sold as being full of devoted men and women struggling for a common good. I wandered around the adjoining streets for another couple of hours, observing a general sadness that seemed to seep from every dark and crumbling corner. I returned to my room feeling rather lonely, clearly affected by the morose surroundings. The remained of the day was spent reading in my room, only broken by a trip to the hotel down the road to write a message to Emily (which alone took an hour due to the dreadful connection speed).
Another morning, followed a long night. I couldn't sleep. I didn't want to be in Cuba, but my flight was about a month away. My money had seriously depleted following a falling pound and changing the ticket would cost a fair bit. But then again Cuba was dreadfully expensive for tourists. In fact my room, one of the cheapest I could find was more expensive than what had been my daily budget. I dragged myself from bed, ate a couple of biscuits and a pear from a tin, before showering and going for a walk. Fortunately the sun was out, and the place looked much less cold and depressing. With very little else to do I walked down to where I had been the day before and walked along the front watching the ever-frantic Atlantic throw itself upon the sea wall. Within no time I found I was being harassed by locals on a very frequent basis, starting seemingly kind and inquisitive conversations, which were rude to not respond to. I knew what there game was but I was alone and not planning to annoy any scruffy locals who had likely seen me using my camera earlier. After the sixth or seventh it was quickly becoming inexporably irksome, and I just wanted to get away from it. But where? I went to get some food and to read my prized economist that I had picked up at the airport in Mexico. Unsurprisingly before long I was once again besieged by people keen to sell me something. I ignored them, and carried on reading as they gesticulated to each other how rude I was in Spanish.
I finished my food and continued walking along the front. The whole place was so run down it was unbelievable. Anywhere else this would the most expensively developed area in the city, yet the buildings looked like they were in the wake of civil war. Clearly the communist agenda did not want to invest heavily in cosmetics. I continued along to an old fortress, which was rather pretty but hardly spectacular. The city had clearly once been utterly charming and beautiful but although I'm sure that the package holidays had carefully selected routes on their bus tours that showed the charming side of the city, but that's not what I saw. the people stood around with nothing to do. Their local shops barely provisioned with a half rotting vegetable or two. They looked sad and helpless, oppressed by a regime that they didn't want to be under. From what I could see Havana was a city full of people waiting for the end of Communism but not sure when, living in a crumbling city run by a crumbling system. I felt sad for them and hope that they get what they want soon.
As for me, I had had enough. I was ready to go home. With each day I missed Emily more and more, and although going home wouldn't result in me seeing her any quicker, at least being able to perhaps speak to her whilst at home with my family would help the time apart pass. But then I went to the cash point to get some money and found that Barclays had blocked my bloody card again! And this time I was unable to call them. This was a potentially massive issue. I had around £20 in cash and would need that the taxi and departure fee. How could I change my ticket? I back to the apartment and asked the owner who cheated my out of most of my money if I could use his phone. He wasn't keen but relented eventually, and I was able to call the local office. They said they would check and to call back the next day. With no money, energy or resilience, coupled with the fact it was getting dark I returned to my room hopeful, but utterly depressed. I hadn't realised how much I had been propped up by Emily's bright presence, but now with it absent I was desperately alone. I tried to read for a while and then eventually fell asleep. The next morning I called the office again, where to my relief they confirmed that they had a space on the evening's flight, and that they could take my emergency credit card with a signature (I didn't know the PIN). I walked to the office, filled in the necessary paperwork. I was going home. Within 24 hours I would be back on home soil!
So with one more day to kill and feeling revitalised and energised that this was my final day I left the apartment planning to see what I could do in the city armed with half a pack of biscuits, no money and a smile. I began walking down the street when I saw what looked like a blonde western looking girl, under 50 and not in a tour group. I quickened my pace, could this be a real English conversation. I came up behind her and hastily uttered “excuse me”, she spun around in surprise. “Hi sorry to startle you, my name is Liam. Will you be my friend”. In hindsight the absurdity of this statement is undeniable, but immediately she smiled and responded that she would. “Where are we going then?” I muttered back. She didn’t know. So we began walking. It was wonderful speaking English again. I had struggled so much with the Cuban drawl and, although I’m ashamed to say it, I had begun to think that every local was just using me for something. We spent the day wondering around looking at propagandistic memorials, while she informed me about how she was staying there studying Spanish at the university. She hated it and couldn’t wait to leave too. After 3 weeks Havana had had a similar impression upon her. As the day drew to a close we said our goodbyes, and I went back to thank my hosts insincerely, pack my things and head to the airport. As I sat in the airport drinking the coke that I had purchased with my last few dollars I sat and contemplated my short time in Cuba. In different circumstances I may have been able to see the beauty that lay within the cracks, however I arrived ill-equipped and under prepared. Cuba had been a nightmare for me and I was more than happy to be going home.
Cuba was done and so were my travels. I had travelled as far as Cancun overland, from Rio to the freezing South of Patagonia, upwards along the spine of the Andes to the sticky hot Caribbean Cartagena. After sailing around the Darien Gap to Panama, I, along with Emily, had raced around Central America to Cancun where, with no other option, I flew the last leg to Cuba. Sitting in the departure lounge it felt more like a burden, but as time passed I would begin to see the achievement of how far I had travelled. There are no more adventures to be had on this journey; just a review of the experience and the subsequent conclusions to be made. I think, and I hope, that I have learnt many valuable lessons from this experience, but I’m sure that they will manifest themselves as time goes on.
The morning after the evening before, I awoke with a raging hangover. In spite of my usual caution I had let the guy I was living with con me into paying a large bar bill of whiskey we had accumulated. After spending the evening trying to understand his drawl-like Spanish, spoken with increasing rapidity, and telling opportunistic local girls that I had a girlfriend, and that no she wasn't here, and that no I still wasn't interested despite her not being here, I returned back to my room with the landlord who I now intended to avoid as much as possible. Five days and I would be leaving, hopefully to see the blue skies and beautiful beaches to relax and unwind after many months of relentless travelling. The end was so near and before long it would be Christmas. Still, even then, it became clear that suddenly being without Emily, and desperately missing home and the people I loved there, this was not going to be a walk in the park.
I dragged sore head from the pillow, and my rather unkempt self from the bed, planning to go out and explore the capital of the land of inspiration, passion and revolution: Cuba. I was here, exploring a land living under the flag of an ideology that had, many years ago, threatened to spread all over the world. But first I needed to get some food inside me. I left the room, slipping from the apartment unheard, and began to walk the streets. At this point I became rather aware of the fact that I was going to struggle without any form of written information or guidebook. I walked the streets for a while turning my nose up at the rather ill-equipped and poky looking eateries, before happening upon a supermarket. Result. I skipped inside to be presented with the strangest sight: There was virtually no branding. Rows upon rows were filled with white tins marked 'Banana' or 'Manzana'. Something so commonplace everywhere in the world, and so taken for granted, as branding was missing. To add to that the selection was utterly dreadful, with only basic necessities being provided. In the end I purchased a tin of peaches, a packet of biscuits and some juice. For someone as utterly obsessed with food as I, this was another issue that I was going to have to tackle. I walked to the sea front and sat eating some biscuits, whilst trying to digest the scene around me. It was a cold and grey Sunday; not raining but occasionally spitting, with a chilly but not cold wind. On one side of me the aggravated waters of the Atlantic harshly beat upon the large stone grey walls producing massive leaps of sea spray. On the other side was a large mesh of metal leading to an open arena where staunch communists came to loudly protest against the evil plight of Capitalism upon the world. At the end of the area stood Lenin holding a child in one arm in one hand and pointing towards the fairly proximate shores of the United States. On this chilly grey Sunday, however, there was no shouting. Just an empty space covered by a metal frame silent against a backdrop of grey, crumbling, tower blocks. Occasionally an old car from the 50s would trundle past emitting smoke and noise. Sporadically placed people would occasionally stop and stare silently at the body of water that separated them from an unknown world. More as if they were on Robben Island than that of the land that Fidel sold as being full of devoted men and women struggling for a common good. I wandered around the adjoining streets for another couple of hours, observing a general sadness that seemed to seep from every dark and crumbling corner. I returned to my room feeling rather lonely, clearly affected by the morose surroundings. The remained of the day was spent reading in my room, only broken by a trip to the hotel down the road to write a message to Emily (which alone took an hour due to the dreadful connection speed).
Another morning, followed a long night. I couldn't sleep. I didn't want to be in Cuba, but my flight was about a month away. My money had seriously depleted following a falling pound and changing the ticket would cost a fair bit. But then again Cuba was dreadfully expensive for tourists. In fact my room, one of the cheapest I could find was more expensive than what had been my daily budget. I dragged myself from bed, ate a couple of biscuits and a pear from a tin, before showering and going for a walk. Fortunately the sun was out, and the place looked much less cold and depressing. With very little else to do I walked down to where I had been the day before and walked along the front watching the ever-frantic Atlantic throw itself upon the sea wall. Within no time I found I was being harassed by locals on a very frequent basis, starting seemingly kind and inquisitive conversations, which were rude to not respond to. I knew what there game was but I was alone and not planning to annoy any scruffy locals who had likely seen me using my camera earlier. After the sixth or seventh it was quickly becoming inexporably irksome, and I just wanted to get away from it. But where? I went to get some food and to read my prized economist that I had picked up at the airport in Mexico. Unsurprisingly before long I was once again besieged by people keen to sell me something. I ignored them, and carried on reading as they gesticulated to each other how rude I was in Spanish.
I finished my food and continued walking along the front. The whole place was so run down it was unbelievable. Anywhere else this would the most expensively developed area in the city, yet the buildings looked like they were in the wake of civil war. Clearly the communist agenda did not want to invest heavily in cosmetics. I continued along to an old fortress, which was rather pretty but hardly spectacular. The city had clearly once been utterly charming and beautiful but although I'm sure that the package holidays had carefully selected routes on their bus tours that showed the charming side of the city, but that's not what I saw. the people stood around with nothing to do. Their local shops barely provisioned with a half rotting vegetable or two. They looked sad and helpless, oppressed by a regime that they didn't want to be under. From what I could see Havana was a city full of people waiting for the end of Communism but not sure when, living in a crumbling city run by a crumbling system. I felt sad for them and hope that they get what they want soon.
As for me, I had had enough. I was ready to go home. With each day I missed Emily more and more, and although going home wouldn't result in me seeing her any quicker, at least being able to perhaps speak to her whilst at home with my family would help the time apart pass. But then I went to the cash point to get some money and found that Barclays had blocked my bloody card again! And this time I was unable to call them. This was a potentially massive issue. I had around £20 in cash and would need that the taxi and departure fee. How could I change my ticket? I back to the apartment and asked the owner who cheated my out of most of my money if I could use his phone. He wasn't keen but relented eventually, and I was able to call the local office. They said they would check and to call back the next day. With no money, energy or resilience, coupled with the fact it was getting dark I returned to my room hopeful, but utterly depressed. I hadn't realised how much I had been propped up by Emily's bright presence, but now with it absent I was desperately alone. I tried to read for a while and then eventually fell asleep. The next morning I called the office again, where to my relief they confirmed that they had a space on the evening's flight, and that they could take my emergency credit card with a signature (I didn't know the PIN). I walked to the office, filled in the necessary paperwork. I was going home. Within 24 hours I would be back on home soil!
So with one more day to kill and feeling revitalised and energised that this was my final day I left the apartment planning to see what I could do in the city armed with half a pack of biscuits, no money and a smile. I began walking down the street when I saw what looked like a blonde western looking girl, under 50 and not in a tour group. I quickened my pace, could this be a real English conversation. I came up behind her and hastily uttered “excuse me”, she spun around in surprise. “Hi sorry to startle you, my name is Liam. Will you be my friend”. In hindsight the absurdity of this statement is undeniable, but immediately she smiled and responded that she would. “Where are we going then?” I muttered back. She didn’t know. So we began walking. It was wonderful speaking English again. I had struggled so much with the Cuban drawl and, although I’m ashamed to say it, I had begun to think that every local was just using me for something. We spent the day wondering around looking at propagandistic memorials, while she informed me about how she was staying there studying Spanish at the university. She hated it and couldn’t wait to leave too. After 3 weeks Havana had had a similar impression upon her. As the day drew to a close we said our goodbyes, and I went back to thank my hosts insincerely, pack my things and head to the airport. As I sat in the airport drinking the coke that I had purchased with my last few dollars I sat and contemplated my short time in Cuba. In different circumstances I may have been able to see the beauty that lay within the cracks, however I arrived ill-equipped and under prepared. Cuba had been a nightmare for me and I was more than happy to be going home.
Cuba was done and so were my travels. I had travelled as far as Cancun overland, from Rio to the freezing South of Patagonia, upwards along the spine of the Andes to the sticky hot Caribbean Cartagena. After sailing around the Darien Gap to Panama, I, along with Emily, had raced around Central America to Cancun where, with no other option, I flew the last leg to Cuba. Sitting in the departure lounge it felt more like a burden, but as time passed I would begin to see the achievement of how far I had travelled. There are no more adventures to be had on this journey; just a review of the experience and the subsequent conclusions to be made. I think, and I hope, that I have learnt many valuable lessons from this experience, but I’m sure that they will manifest themselves as time goes on.
Thursday 5 February 2009
From behind the Coconut Curtain
“So this is Cuba. I’ve been here a matter of hours, although I can’t be totally certain about this as I don’t own a watch, but what I can tell is that Cuba won’t be a walk in the park by any means. I arrived at an overpriced, fully booked hotel in the centre of Havana to be told that every hotel in the city was booked up for the night. Although Cuban law states that you cannot enter the country without booking your first three nights in a hotel, I wasn’t too keen to have it stuck at me by the man and just made it up at the customs desk. I was obviously relatively convincing as the guy either believed me or didn’t care. After leaving Emily at the airport with a frog in my throat I arrived feeling delicate and a little incomplete, which was an apt start for things to come. A friendly guy working at the hotel, upon hearing that I need a bed for the night, said that he knew someone who could help me out. He called a guy who sold cigars to tourists, hanging around outside, and told him to walk me to a place around a block away, and I, happy to have a bed, followed. The apartment was owned by a couple with a young daughter and I began to feel at ease straight away. The price was much cheaper than everywhere else and the room has a fan, fridge and a bathroom. After filling in all of the necessary forms that are required to officiate a bed for the night in a communist country, which is a lot, the cigar seller offered to walk me back to the hotel. I accepted and politely listened to him tell me what a wonderful price he could do me on cigars, before going into the hotel. This is where things began to turn sour.
Internet is slow and mostly unavailable in Cuba, and you can only expect to find it in the pricey hotels, which charge at least $6 an hour to experience the rush of their mind bogglingly slow internet speed. The problem here is that modern web pages are much more complex than they used to be and require quick speeds to load. I sat staring at a blank screen loading for 30 minutes before giving up for the night. I could return to my room, read my book and try again tomorrow. However, I was soon to find out that this was not to be when I returned to the flat to find that my key didn’t work in the lock and nobody was answering the door. So here I sit in a strange city, in the corridor of a random apartment block waiting for people I don’t know to return from wherever they may be. The Internet is totally useless meaning that I have no contact with anyone I know. I feel utterly defeated and lonely, missing my girlfriend, and this is only few hours into my time ‘behind the coconut curtain’... ”
Internet is slow and mostly unavailable in Cuba, and you can only expect to find it in the pricey hotels, which charge at least $6 an hour to experience the rush of their mind bogglingly slow internet speed. The problem here is that modern web pages are much more complex than they used to be and require quick speeds to load. I sat staring at a blank screen loading for 30 minutes before giving up for the night. I could return to my room, read my book and try again tomorrow. However, I was soon to find out that this was not to be when I returned to the flat to find that my key didn’t work in the lock and nobody was answering the door. So here I sit in a strange city, in the corridor of a random apartment block waiting for people I don’t know to return from wherever they may be. The Internet is totally useless meaning that I have no contact with anyone I know. I feel utterly defeated and lonely, missing my girlfriend, and this is only few hours into my time ‘behind the coconut curtain’... ”
The Last Goodbye
Our last evening had arrived, and Emily sat in front of me looking sad and as unsure of our future as I was. The next day I was to leave for Caye’s Caulner and Emily was to go to Tulum on the north eastern coast of Mexico, but I couldn’t muster anything other than sadness. No. Dread. I actually physically dreaded parting from the person who had been my world for the last three months. Things hadn’t been easy, and we were both aware of that, but we were still there, sat together dreading the next morning. Neither of us wanted to part and as the evening passed my reasons for going to Belize diminished and my feeling of necessity to stay with Emily for another few days grew. Belize was supposed to be a beautiful laid back country unlike any country I had visited before. More like a Caribbean Island than a part of the otherwise totally Latin mainland, yet I knew that I would be miserable without her. So after sharing my decision to continue with her for a little longer, we both left to the tourist office to buy another ticket to Tulum in Mexico. Our journey would continue, even if only for a little longer.
The next day we woke early for our ride through northern Guatemala, Belize and then into Mexico. This would be another mammoth day journey travelling from 6am until late in the evening. Although the journey was not that bad as far as comfort, any 16 hour trip with 2 border crossings will almost never be a high point. It wasn’t. We arrived in Tulum shattered, and after checking into the first available, reasonably priced, hotel we crashed for the night. Fortunately our room had a comfortable bed and air conditioning, so at least the hot sticky night would not interrupt the sleep that we both craved for. The next couple of days were spent day tripping down to the utterly beautiful crystal clear waters of the Caribbean, hanging out at a swanky beach hotel resort after making friends with the bar staff. This was one of those occasions when being able to speak Spanish helped, as we could chat with the staff and take the piss out of the American holidayers who hadn’t managed to find time to learn ‘por favor’, ‘gracias’ and ‘si’. After watching the value of the pound dip over the past few months everything also began to feel, and become, a lot more expensive; especially the food. Both Emily and I were beginning to worry about our equal lack of money, and tried to spend as little as possible.
Yet again, Emily and I were faced with another rapidly approaching point of having to part ways. Every time this came we would both become subdued and sad, this was no exception. After visiting, and quickly leaving, yet more utterly disappointing Mayan Ruins (this time the Tulum ruins), we strolled along to the beautiful white sands to watch the sun set. We sat and talked of the future and our uncertainties on what it would hold for us, both scared that we wouldn’t see each other again. As the sun dipped behind us, the darkness crept up from the horizon, our shadows growing longer towards the water until they were no more. The next morning Emily would go on to have a few days in Playa del Carmen, whilst I would shoot up to Cancun in hope of somehow getting to Cuba. The likeliness of being able to catch a boat there was so remote it was almost zero, and I had no idea how long it would take to get a visa. The next morning came, after a quiet evening eating at our favourite spot just down the road, before having a beer and watching a film. We packed our bags and yet again everything told me to hang around for a little longer. Originally, Emily had said that she needed a few days on her own before a busy month in Texas, however had said the night before that she didn’t want to split off from me just yet. I kept quiet, mulling it over until the next morning. As it happened Cancun and Playa del Carmen were only around 30 minutes down the road from each other, so I decided to stay with Emily a few more days. After throwing a few small hints that I was staying, I eventually decided to put her out of her misery. Almost immediately the dark cloud was shelved for another few days, and we hopped on a bus to Playa del Carmen.
Playa was yet another over Americanised town, except this time perhaps a step further, with Starbucks, McDonalds, Subway, Ben and Jerrys and tens of other large American chain places. The small strip of beach had bodies everywhere, and everything was yet again dreadfully expensive. Emily and I retreated to a much cheaper, yet still quite pleasant, hotel for the first night. I was happy to be with Em for a little longer but this place was hell: a sort of Caribbean Benidorm. We found a cheap and cheerful restaurant named Billy the Kid that did tacos for 25p each and my how we feasted upon them. We left full and happy. As Emily got ready to go for a drink and wander to slip off for a cut throat shave at a traditional Mexican barbers, finally removing my considerably sizeable beard that was almost fit for Taliban membership. Emily almost didn’t recognise me, and throughout the evening I caught her looking at me strangely. I hadn’t realised that this was the first time she’d ever seen me clean shaven. Oh the life of a traveller: where people look at you strangely if you’ve shaved.
Our final days at Playa del Carmen were spent ambling around the town, looking for last minute gifts in the run up to homecoming and Christmas, and generally eating, drinking and preparing for the next month. On my side of the preparations I began my research on Cuba, purchasing my flight over in the process. However, every time I learnt something more about Cuba, it became more daunting. It became apparent that there was virtually no communications to the outside world, with only slow and extremely expensive internet. After some more research it became apparent that there were no hostels and that I would probably have to stay with a Cuban family (or in a £50 a night hotel), something which could potentially be enriching but ultimately lonely. My vision of an idealistic, wondrously different and cultural land was already starting to fall apart at the seams. The prospect of not just being away from Emily, but having no contact whatsoever began to loom over the both of us. I know that to some this may sound a little dramatic, somehow describing every potential parting as the proverbial fall over an unknown precipice, but in reality that’s kind of how it felt. For three months we had lived in each others’ pockets in a world totally devoid of our own. The fact that most travel relationships don’t work in the real world, or even make it far enough with the geographical and logistical complications, was one that we were well aware of. To put it simply, I was scared by the fact that we were about to enter the most challenging part of our relationship at a time when we would potentially have no way of communicating for a month. The word precipice felt rather apt at this point.
The final day came. My flight was due to leave at around 2pm and my bus would be leaving Playa del Carmen fairly early that morning. Emily was planning to stay, but wasn’t really looking forward to hanging around the town without me. Her flight was to leave the next day, so merely hours before my bus left I suggested that she came to the airport to see if there was any way she could change her flight to one a day earlier. She was really happy with that idea, as there was very little to want to stay in Playa for anyway. We jumped on the bus to the airport, once again thinking of nothing but the imminent parting of ways. That morning we had both been a little teary, and were trying to hold ourselves together. This time there was no doubt that we were going to be going in different directions. The bus pulled into the station, tickets were acquired and check-ins were performed, only leaving the gate to be walked through. We stood outside for a while holding each other, our kisses salted by the tears running from both of our eyes, both saying that it would only be a month apart before seeing each other again, but thinking that this could be the last time we ever saw each other.
After what seemed like an age, yet an unfairly short amount of time, I crossed through the gate looking back at Emily. We waved for the last time before walking away in our own separate directions. After finding another way to stay together time and time again we had finally had to say our last goodbye. Yet again, as I had been three and a half months before, I was back on my own to finish the adventure that I had dreamt up on a rainy afternoon in Warwick. All that was left was one more country and then home, so it was perhaps fitting that my final country was also to be the most challenging of them all.
The next day we woke early for our ride through northern Guatemala, Belize and then into Mexico. This would be another mammoth day journey travelling from 6am until late in the evening. Although the journey was not that bad as far as comfort, any 16 hour trip with 2 border crossings will almost never be a high point. It wasn’t. We arrived in Tulum shattered, and after checking into the first available, reasonably priced, hotel we crashed for the night. Fortunately our room had a comfortable bed and air conditioning, so at least the hot sticky night would not interrupt the sleep that we both craved for. The next couple of days were spent day tripping down to the utterly beautiful crystal clear waters of the Caribbean, hanging out at a swanky beach hotel resort after making friends with the bar staff. This was one of those occasions when being able to speak Spanish helped, as we could chat with the staff and take the piss out of the American holidayers who hadn’t managed to find time to learn ‘por favor’, ‘gracias’ and ‘si’. After watching the value of the pound dip over the past few months everything also began to feel, and become, a lot more expensive; especially the food. Both Emily and I were beginning to worry about our equal lack of money, and tried to spend as little as possible.
Yet again, Emily and I were faced with another rapidly approaching point of having to part ways. Every time this came we would both become subdued and sad, this was no exception. After visiting, and quickly leaving, yet more utterly disappointing Mayan Ruins (this time the Tulum ruins), we strolled along to the beautiful white sands to watch the sun set. We sat and talked of the future and our uncertainties on what it would hold for us, both scared that we wouldn’t see each other again. As the sun dipped behind us, the darkness crept up from the horizon, our shadows growing longer towards the water until they were no more. The next morning Emily would go on to have a few days in Playa del Carmen, whilst I would shoot up to Cancun in hope of somehow getting to Cuba. The likeliness of being able to catch a boat there was so remote it was almost zero, and I had no idea how long it would take to get a visa. The next morning came, after a quiet evening eating at our favourite spot just down the road, before having a beer and watching a film. We packed our bags and yet again everything told me to hang around for a little longer. Originally, Emily had said that she needed a few days on her own before a busy month in Texas, however had said the night before that she didn’t want to split off from me just yet. I kept quiet, mulling it over until the next morning. As it happened Cancun and Playa del Carmen were only around 30 minutes down the road from each other, so I decided to stay with Emily a few more days. After throwing a few small hints that I was staying, I eventually decided to put her out of her misery. Almost immediately the dark cloud was shelved for another few days, and we hopped on a bus to Playa del Carmen.
Playa was yet another over Americanised town, except this time perhaps a step further, with Starbucks, McDonalds, Subway, Ben and Jerrys and tens of other large American chain places. The small strip of beach had bodies everywhere, and everything was yet again dreadfully expensive. Emily and I retreated to a much cheaper, yet still quite pleasant, hotel for the first night. I was happy to be with Em for a little longer but this place was hell: a sort of Caribbean Benidorm. We found a cheap and cheerful restaurant named Billy the Kid that did tacos for 25p each and my how we feasted upon them. We left full and happy. As Emily got ready to go for a drink and wander to slip off for a cut throat shave at a traditional Mexican barbers, finally removing my considerably sizeable beard that was almost fit for Taliban membership. Emily almost didn’t recognise me, and throughout the evening I caught her looking at me strangely. I hadn’t realised that this was the first time she’d ever seen me clean shaven. Oh the life of a traveller: where people look at you strangely if you’ve shaved.
Our final days at Playa del Carmen were spent ambling around the town, looking for last minute gifts in the run up to homecoming and Christmas, and generally eating, drinking and preparing for the next month. On my side of the preparations I began my research on Cuba, purchasing my flight over in the process. However, every time I learnt something more about Cuba, it became more daunting. It became apparent that there was virtually no communications to the outside world, with only slow and extremely expensive internet. After some more research it became apparent that there were no hostels and that I would probably have to stay with a Cuban family (or in a £50 a night hotel), something which could potentially be enriching but ultimately lonely. My vision of an idealistic, wondrously different and cultural land was already starting to fall apart at the seams. The prospect of not just being away from Emily, but having no contact whatsoever began to loom over the both of us. I know that to some this may sound a little dramatic, somehow describing every potential parting as the proverbial fall over an unknown precipice, but in reality that’s kind of how it felt. For three months we had lived in each others’ pockets in a world totally devoid of our own. The fact that most travel relationships don’t work in the real world, or even make it far enough with the geographical and logistical complications, was one that we were well aware of. To put it simply, I was scared by the fact that we were about to enter the most challenging part of our relationship at a time when we would potentially have no way of communicating for a month. The word precipice felt rather apt at this point.
The final day came. My flight was due to leave at around 2pm and my bus would be leaving Playa del Carmen fairly early that morning. Emily was planning to stay, but wasn’t really looking forward to hanging around the town without me. Her flight was to leave the next day, so merely hours before my bus left I suggested that she came to the airport to see if there was any way she could change her flight to one a day earlier. She was really happy with that idea, as there was very little to want to stay in Playa for anyway. We jumped on the bus to the airport, once again thinking of nothing but the imminent parting of ways. That morning we had both been a little teary, and were trying to hold ourselves together. This time there was no doubt that we were going to be going in different directions. The bus pulled into the station, tickets were acquired and check-ins were performed, only leaving the gate to be walked through. We stood outside for a while holding each other, our kisses salted by the tears running from both of our eyes, both saying that it would only be a month apart before seeing each other again, but thinking that this could be the last time we ever saw each other.
After what seemed like an age, yet an unfairly short amount of time, I crossed through the gate looking back at Emily. We waved for the last time before walking away in our own separate directions. After finding another way to stay together time and time again we had finally had to say our last goodbye. Yet again, as I had been three and a half months before, I was back on my own to finish the adventure that I had dreamt up on a rainy afternoon in Warwick. All that was left was one more country and then home, so it was perhaps fitting that my final country was also to be the most challenging of them all.
Saturday 24 January 2009
The 51st State
Emily and I had always planned to go as far as possible before splitting off, so she could spend her final days relaxing before returning to Austin, the party rich Texas hippie town that I have heard much about. I on the other hand had more time left and planned to spend my final weeks in Central America snorkelling and swimming at sporadic coastal spots in Belize. As far as we could foresee our trip to Tikal would be our last joint endeavour before splitting off to go our separate ways. Both of us were clearly not looking forward to facing a long absence, or even the possibility of a permanent one, and our long two day journey to Flores, via Coban, was marred by the prospect of moving on independently. But first we would have to brave a taste of the so called real world as we entered the conveniently plush world of U.S. tourist destinations.
After leaving Antigua, passing through Guatemala City briefly to change some left over Honduran money, we braved another long bus journey north. From now on it was all North on both of the final legs of our trip. We arrived late, treated ourselves to another rather pricey evening meal before settling in for a recuperative sleep before doing it all again the next day. The next morning we flagged a taxi to the chaotic frenzy that was the local bus station. Minivans and buses were crammed in everywhere with people shouting the names of unknown destinations and their respective prices, while taking every opportunity to drolly squabble amongst themselves. Following a lot of cynical conversing and wrestling our bags back from some overzealous minivan operators, we managed to get a decent (ish) price directly to Flores, a rather pretty bridged island on the small but charming Lago de Peten Itza. From here we would relax for a day or two, drag out a few more days together until we had to split off. We booked ourselves into a fairly decent hotel and popped a few doors down for an ambitious but rather poor meal. The cocktails, however, were cheap, served fast and greeted warmly. We returned to a stunted sleep before having to change hotels the next morning.
As if the rather decently priced, yet lovely hotel had not been enough the night before we decided that our last free day would be spent in the most pricey hotel yet (around $50), which had a lovely little swimming pool, massive bed, air con and a big balcony. After grabbing a late breakfast and booking our trip for the next day, we spent the day drinking beer in the pool that only we seemed to want to use. The rest of the day passed quietly in and around the hotel, leaving once or twice for another piss poor meal, and some over-priced tat shopping. The next morning, we changed hotels once again before sitting by the side of the road to be picked up for our trip to Tikal. Or so we thought. We waited, and waited, and nothing came. After checking at the front desk of where we had booked it, we were told we had been forgotten. Another precious day was wasted in a rather lifeless and overpriced tourist spot, however it did mean we had another day together. We moaned relentlessly for a while before rearranging the trip for the next day. The next morning the office actually managed to pick us up and we were finally on our way to Tikal, one of the most famous Mayan ruins in the middle of the jungle, with monkeys jumping from the trees, tarantulas skittering about and dense tree canopies high above us. We were pretty excited to say the least. Great anticipation can, however, result in overwhelming disappointment, and on this occasion that was certainly the case. Within moments of arriving it became clear that we had entered some kind of historical theme park; tour guides roaming the grounds followed by crowds of (mostly) American tourists dressed for safari. This was further worsened by the revelation that the University of Pennsylvania had rebuilt almost all of the ruins to make it more aesthetic. In fact most of the ruins were no longer how they should have been and we left after an hour or so.
We returned to our hotel in Flores aware that there were no more adventures to be had before parting ways the next day. I would go to Belize before heading up to Cuba after a brief stop in Mexico, Emily passing her final days on the coast of Mexico before heading to Austin. The last evening had an air of sadness, and we were both quieter than usual. From here on we were to go in our separate directions in the hope that it wouldn’t stay that way.
After leaving Antigua, passing through Guatemala City briefly to change some left over Honduran money, we braved another long bus journey north. From now on it was all North on both of the final legs of our trip. We arrived late, treated ourselves to another rather pricey evening meal before settling in for a recuperative sleep before doing it all again the next day. The next morning we flagged a taxi to the chaotic frenzy that was the local bus station. Minivans and buses were crammed in everywhere with people shouting the names of unknown destinations and their respective prices, while taking every opportunity to drolly squabble amongst themselves. Following a lot of cynical conversing and wrestling our bags back from some overzealous minivan operators, we managed to get a decent (ish) price directly to Flores, a rather pretty bridged island on the small but charming Lago de Peten Itza. From here we would relax for a day or two, drag out a few more days together until we had to split off. We booked ourselves into a fairly decent hotel and popped a few doors down for an ambitious but rather poor meal. The cocktails, however, were cheap, served fast and greeted warmly. We returned to a stunted sleep before having to change hotels the next morning.
As if the rather decently priced, yet lovely hotel had not been enough the night before we decided that our last free day would be spent in the most pricey hotel yet (around $50), which had a lovely little swimming pool, massive bed, air con and a big balcony. After grabbing a late breakfast and booking our trip for the next day, we spent the day drinking beer in the pool that only we seemed to want to use. The rest of the day passed quietly in and around the hotel, leaving once or twice for another piss poor meal, and some over-priced tat shopping. The next morning, we changed hotels once again before sitting by the side of the road to be picked up for our trip to Tikal. Or so we thought. We waited, and waited, and nothing came. After checking at the front desk of where we had booked it, we were told we had been forgotten. Another precious day was wasted in a rather lifeless and overpriced tourist spot, however it did mean we had another day together. We moaned relentlessly for a while before rearranging the trip for the next day. The next morning the office actually managed to pick us up and we were finally on our way to Tikal, one of the most famous Mayan ruins in the middle of the jungle, with monkeys jumping from the trees, tarantulas skittering about and dense tree canopies high above us. We were pretty excited to say the least. Great anticipation can, however, result in overwhelming disappointment, and on this occasion that was certainly the case. Within moments of arriving it became clear that we had entered some kind of historical theme park; tour guides roaming the grounds followed by crowds of (mostly) American tourists dressed for safari. This was further worsened by the revelation that the University of Pennsylvania had rebuilt almost all of the ruins to make it more aesthetic. In fact most of the ruins were no longer how they should have been and we left after an hour or so.
We returned to our hotel in Flores aware that there were no more adventures to be had before parting ways the next day. I would go to Belize before heading up to Cuba after a brief stop in Mexico, Emily passing her final days on the coast of Mexico before heading to Austin. The last evening had an air of sadness, and we were both quieter than usual. From here on we were to go in our separate directions in the hope that it wouldn’t stay that way.
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