Feliz Ano Nuevo

Photo: M. Rivlin

2008 improbably commenced with Gallo (la cerveza nacional) jubilant "Feliz Ano"s and fireworks in Guatemala City, a place surprising to anyone who thinks they know what our neighbor to the south is like; it's Belize City poor compared to Miami but Miami compared to poor Belize City.
The first of the year brought us via chicken bus to Antigua, a beautiful city full of Spanish colonial architecture, people, food and fire cracker debris from the celebrations of the previous night. The line at the ATM was long, and armed guards stood outside of it. At night, we saw two little girls ride around on their pink trikes in the park under trees lit with christmas lights. A delightful Frida Kahlo- themed restaurant (with arguably the best nachos of the trip) was full of Europeans, some drawing on eyebrows and moustaches with a burnt cork. The next day, we ducked into some art galleries, followed by massive groups of French tourists. Amongst the traditional/indigenous-themed pieces, one memorable painting featured a round-faced blonde woman with beady eyes and a double chin. The city soon disappeared under fog as we boarded an arctic overnight bus to Flores; a B slasher movie played in Spanish, and I was shaken awake by an over-zealous stewardess (bus attendant?). We finally arrived at the Belizean border in the morning, boarded another bus full of loud tourists and soon stepped out into San Ignacio, our former home that ceased to exist the second we returned. The city was not as if we had never left, but as if we had never been there; it seemed foreign and desolate under a white sky. The next day, we stared out at the city from the top of a 1500 year-old temple... and then laid by a resort pool until happy hour. Our loud neighbors at the six-dollar a night hotel were brutally American, and Jessica Simpson played on our other side; we'd traveled two-thousand miles to lie awake in a dorm.
Another dark morning; another bus ride. The 5 o'clock to Belize City was quiet and dark, then quiet and cloudy; the sun came out for a few minutes before retreating again. Caye Caulker was under a huge cloud, but Tina's Hostel has a vibes garden so all was right on the tropical island. A few games of cards and pineapple and rums later, we were talking loudly about God in front of polite Europeans, who hopefully weren't as disgusted as they should've been. Sunday night on a rainy tropical island is trivia night at the Canadian-owned sports bar, where the Red Wings/ Blackhawks game blasted from a big screen. Our partners were a young couple from Seattle, who days before had eloped in Las Vegas. One phrase sums up this pair, who did nothing less than reaffirm our faith in post-college existence: engagement puppy. The intellectual prowess of Mr. and Ms. Dreamy and four almost-college graduates led to third place in the competition, which meant $20 BZE off of our bar tab. Panty rippers, pink pussies and a huge crush on the newlyweds ensued.
Monday was finally sunny; we floated in turquoise before catching the ferry to the mainland, wondering if we'd ever be here again, as the threat of student loans and the grind loom ever nearer, as did our departing water taxi. Our bus from Belize City was filled with reggaeton and insufferable American college girls; one demanded that the Belizean man next to her move to another seat, and we imagined inflicting physical violence, or at least affecting British accents.
Our igloo on wheels pulled into Playa del Carmen at around 5 am; we stood clueless in the dark street wondering where to turn next when three muchachos approached us. They asked in Spanish if we wanted to come home with them; we laughed until they asked again, and followed Poncho, Victor and The One With Creative Facial hair back to an apartment complex a few blocks away. Before we walked through the sliding glass door, it became apparent that there were numerous bodies sprawled on few beds in the one-room apartment; sooner than we could say "Mexican sex trade" Poncho was pulling up a mattress and telling us where to sleep. I vowed not to take my eyes off of our stuff; five hours later, the room was filled with light, and our things were exactly as we'd left them. We thanked our generous freegan (?) hosts and headed through town toward the beach.
O America, when will you leave your demands, flab, haircuts at home? "Senorita! Senorita!" from a large gringa, chasing down the waitress for another bucket of beer interrupted a peaceful sleep on the beach as well as any delusions of pristinity, hell, decency, we had about this place. Round Americans rolled along the stretch of beach, cracking each other up and applying zinc oxide to their extremities. Cruise ships littered the horizon; all of the Midwest, Jersey and Alabama was in the sand. Good god. If I see another pale fleshy body with tribal tattoos... Trying to repress knowledge of the sewage content in the waves, we splashed around, remembering that it was eighty degrees, sunny, and January, and the end of our adventure was looming near.
Friends of friends met us that night for "feliz hora" at a restaurant on the main street and we contentedly savored margaritas and a song from a troubadour. It had become clear by this point that although it is in Mexico thus requiring a passport to get there, Playa del Carmen is Florida; happy tourists sipped at Starbucks and lurked in Converse and Birkenstock stores, NFL ponchos hung in windows along with the feared, the loathed, the inescapable Corona Bikini. Mariachis in traditional dress played to tourists at Italian restaurants; Baudrillard is alive and well.
All hyperreality aside, we soon found ourselves naked in deceptively shallow water feet away from a crowded outdoor nightclub, and the stars were very bright above the dark water.
After a complimentary breakfast the next morning courtesy of our quaint hostel, it was Cancun or bust. We couldn't wait to flash the world and after unsuccessfully searching for the Girls Gone Wild crew, we hopped into a cab and paid by the skin of our pesos. It had long since become painfully clear that further than 5 miles from the border, Belizean currency is worth a smirk from the banker and not much else. We were broke, tired and dirty as we checked into the most luxurious surroundings we'd had access to in what seemed like a long while. Our amazingly clean cuarto, courtesy of mi madre, came equipped with a real working shower that we had all to ourselves (!), two huge beds with clean sheets (!), a flat screen and a fridge (!!!). Cracked open our single can of frijoles, cut our tomatoes with the lid, and made the greatest comida those last few pesos could buy. Spent the afternoon lounging by the scenic pool and waiting for kind old people to buy us sundries (no such luck; but the 7-11 just stroll on the highway from the hotel had beer and candy bars), and reading Hunter S. Thompson's own Yucatan adventure circa 1970 in The Great Shark Hunt, in which his cohort bitterly complains about the development of the area by foreign (gringo) businesses. The escapade culminates with them eating copious amounts of most known recreational drugs to avoid the risk of carrying them through customs, and paranoiac hilarity ensues. Highly recommended.
The next morning we were off to the airport ourselves (sans drugs). A word of advice to all those thinking of planning a Central American adventure: leaving the countries themselves requires a great deal of money, especially if you've already spent all your cash on nachos and heady jewelry. Make sure you fly with an airline that includes such taxes ($23! US!) in the price of your flight, and you will be the envy of all your penniless comrades (Continental does this, or the guy at the ticket counter took pity on me). Also, never enter the boundaries of this region without a healthy supply of Valium. Unless you enjoy loud, dark, cold busses, a runny nose and a murderous Danny Glover dubbed in Spanish, you'll need heavy sedation.
After Starbucks (on IOU) and hugs with las amigas, I feared we'd never be this young again. Sitting next to a German duo on the plane (at least we didn't have to make small talk) and continuing with the Thompson, I fell into a true mourning of his death, almost three years after the fact. To enter 2008 without this man, and without any other nationally recognized artist that embodies the spirit and integrity that he did is truly a tragedy.
Newark meant a passport stamp and Katie Couric's enlarged, illuminated face spinning on the baggage claim; I was (almost) home. Able to exchange $40 BZE for $11.70 at about 50% its actual worth, I happily purchased the NYT. Thursday Styles and a crisp ten is my birthright. News of Tom Cruise's scientological weirdness sat alongside talk of caucuses and wars. (Men don't like Hillary because she's too emotional, women don't like her because she's not emotional enough. Everyone wants change. Whatever that means.)
Dunkin Donuts awaited, courtesy of the Carlisle Group, who makes sure that our weapons are as fresh as our coffee, and then onto a(nother) bus, this time with mi hermana hermosa, a Scandinavian princess in a toggle coat, a Nueva Hampshire, where our padre waited for us.

Spent the next two days transfixed by the endless stream of boobs and bombs charging from the T.V., as well as the cereal, bed and SUV available at my disposal. Classes started a few days later and the coffee flows like wine as reading is assigned, its completion believed to be a meaningful task.
Thanks, America. You are debilitating convenience.
Except (especially?) when Elsewhere.




"Some people write their novels and others roll high enough to live them and some fools try to do both."
-- Hunter S. Thompson