The Seventh Sign?

After a miserable day of Spanish Friday, during which thoughts of cutting my losses crossed my mind for about the four hours that I spent in class yesterday, I spent the day in an internet cafe tracking the NFL draft. I could be mistaken on this, but I think that a successful first round for the Jets is the seventh sign of the apocolypse. I suppose if the Jets can draft smartly in the first round, anything can happen.

Manana I head off to Santa Cruz, another lakeside town, for a different pursuit. I hope to have enough time at the end of the week to visit a nearby city, but that remains to be seen. The place that I'm going has cold showers and a terrible internet connection, so I don't expect to have anything more until next weekend.

Complete Turnover

There´s not much new to report other than the fact that the last remaining student from the time I arrived has now left. I´m now sharing the house with a Kiwi and a Quebecois, both of whom are leaving this week. I have one more week of study before I head to another lakeside town for a different pursuit for a week, then I´m coming back for six more.

After that, I have to make a border run. My visa expires after 90 days, and so I'll have about three to get out of the country. I have to leave for 72 hours, after which I can return for another three months. I haven't decided whether I want to spend a few days in San Salvador or try to make the cross-country trek to Belize. The problem with the latter is that there are a few places I want to visit here in the west before going to the Caribbean coast. The distances actually aren't that great, but the windy roads make short drives much longer. This country could definitely use some tunnels and trains.

Last night was a nice change of pace. I hit up the only non-hippy watering hole in town and picked up about $70 playing poker. That's obviously not much in the US, but here it's enough to cover a week of classes and housing. I've heard that there's another game in town pretty much every other night, so I'll have to make some tough decisions about whether I'm more interested in studying poker or Spanish. I think there's more hope for me getting better at poker, but only time will tell.

Eureka! I Have Found Them

Conservatives in San Pedro, that is. It took me nearly a month, but last night I finally managed to find two American conservatives in an internet cafe. They were helping an evangelical pastor set up an e-mail account. As I was surfing the conservative blogs, the man in the couple said, "Don't forget to visit FreeRepublic." We talked quite a bit about politics. They were from Arizona and hate John McCain. Unfortunately, he's a supporter of Sen. George Allen in the 2008 Presidential race. Nonetheless, it was quite a find. Hopefully that can last me another month until I can find another.

Happy Easter

It's been a busy week here in San Pedro. For the last four days, there have been processions through the streets. I walked in the one on Thursday night and accomplished something even Roger Bannister couldn't: the 3+ hour mile. Since the town is mostly evangelical (about a 60-40 split), there were more people watching the procession than participating. I'd guesstimate that there were around 150 people processing. On Thursday and Friday, a "float" with a cross led the way, followed by another with Jesus carrying the cross. Behind this, there was a small band with drums and trumpets. Bringing up the rear was the Blessed Mother, dressed in blue. I think they carried the same on Friday, but I didn't see it. On Saturday, all they had was the Blessed Mother, this time wearing black. I slept through the one today.

Yesterday I met two people who were participating in a service project through some non-denominational organization. They were helping with the reconstruction of several homes that were destroyed by Hurricane Stan last year five days a week and spending Saturdays talking to the people of the town about God. Apparently that town is largely Christian, but there is a part of the populace that prays to an idol. As I heard it, centuries ago, the town was plagued with disease. So the people created an idol and began praying to him. The idol dispelled the disease from the town, and then turned on the people, making them sicker than they originally were. At that point, the people began making offerings of cigarettes, beer, and the like to the god every Easter. Anyway, several in the town apparently live in constant fear of this thing.

After getting back to my house, I and a few other students had an interesting convseration with one of the school owner's nephews. He, his mother, and his brothers and sister had been staying at the place all week but had gotten in too late to chat until last night. I wasn't too involved in the conversation since someone else would usually pick up the conversation before I could formulate a Spanish sentence, but I did pick up most of what was said. The 18 year old rather enjoyed correcting the gringos.

Among the other students involved was a Kiwi chica who moved in yesterday. Just when I thought that there might be another remotely normal student at the school, I discovered that she sleeps with a light on. No such luck.

It's Not My Fault

Seriously, is it my fault that in Central America, they don't understand the concept of a sandwich? When you order a sandwich, it's supposed to come only with the things you said you wanted in it. Not so here.

When you order a sandwich in Central America, assume that it starts off with onion, tomato, lettuce, and some orange sauce that's kind of like Russian salad dressing. After that comes whatever you said you wanted in the sandwich. Alas, when I asked for a cheese sandwich, something I thought was the easiest thing in the world, I got a plate full of food that I wasn't supposed to eat.

I had dodged a bullet earlier last week, eating lettuce and not having a problem, so I figured that the warnings were overrated, kinda like not mixing drugs. If you wash down a tylenol with caffinated soda, you're not going to end up in the hospital. Boy was I wrong.

With my newfound confidence, I didn't hesitate to eat what was brought to me on Friday. Bad move. To be sure, it could've been much worse. I've heard horror stories from other travelers. My situation wasn't nearly that bad. Anyway, I ended up spending the weekend and Monday with one malady after the next. It started with minor stomach problems Friday. They continued into Saturday. Sunday a tooth ache and an ear ache kicked in. Monday I woke up sneezing. Now I can't say that all of those problems, most of which are now behind me, all started with the lettuce, but suffice it to say that ignoring warnings when it comes to food can only lead to trouble.

Bits and Pieces of Conversation

One of the dangers of traveling in a country like Guatemala is that people make assumptions about languages (and, to a lesser extend, politics). In San Pedro, if you have dark skin, you can speak the local Mayan language and Spanish, and probably not much English. If you're white, then you can speak English and probably at least a little Spanish (a very little in my case). Whites from non-English speaking countries, however, can get themselves into trouble by assuming that they are the only people around who speak their native language.

Yesterday, as I was going to dinner, I met a couple of Swedes who asked me if I was studying here. Apparently the notebooks and Spanish dictionary were an insufficient tip off. I said that I was and learned that they were planning to study for a week. I offered to take them to the school, show them the living quarters, and introduce them to the guy who runs it. When I opened the gate to the living quarters, three of the other students, including two Swedes, were sitting outside chatting. As we passed one of the other rooms, one of the students said something in Swedish, which I did not even notice. Today, out of the blue, he asked me if the two people I was showing around were Swedish. I said they were. He then mentioned that he had gotten a dirty look from the girl when he spoke in Swedish. As it turns out, he said, "She can sleep in my room any time." Needless to say, the new Swedes will not be studying at Casa Rosario.

Similar occurrances have taken place with politics. Those traveling here seem to naturally assume that every other traveler here is a communist too (kinda like in New York). As such, I can be rather amused by the political conversations I pick up, along the lines of "I'd love to see Bush taken out of the White House in handcuffs." Interestingly enough, the only non-native do-gooders I've actually seen in this town are from Alaska. You guessed it. Alaska's a red state.

Final Four Flop

Yes, I'm still alive. I had the misfortune of being able to see all three games over the weekend. They didn't look any better down here. It was a very small gathering of all of the normal Americans in town.

In other news, my teacher has come to the realization that I am linguistically retarded and has slowed down a bit. The espanol is still far from easy, but at least on the days that I don't study, I don't fall as far behind.

The student housing is clearing out. The Limeys left, and the fruitcake with the retreat center, Johnny Appleseed, and one of the Swedes have moved in with families, leaving me with a Swede and a kraut. I had thought that this might normalize things. Then the Swede ruined it last night by talking about all sorts of perverted practices that are legal in Sweden and the two talked about their experiences with ODing on tobacco. I think someone else is moving in tomorrow, and I'm afraid to find out what's wrong with them.

Anyone normal people want to join me for a bit?

Home Away From Home

Last night, one of other students asked if anyone wanted to go to the Freedom Bar with him. Not knowing what I was getting myself into, I agreed to go. The "Freedom Bar", on the opposite side of town, was the hive of the countless hippies in town. The moment I walked in, I thought I'd get high just from breathing in the place. The God-awful "music" was blaring and half the bar was stoned. The other half was hammered. Needless to say I was out of there faster than France was out of WWII.

The two people I went with seemed to enjoy it and stuck around. I, however, headed to the Alcate Pub, a desperately needed oasis in this desert that is the 60s. The few Americans in town who had actually bathed within the last month were there watching the Lakers-Sonics game. While I haven't paid any attention to the NBA since the strike, I was willing to take whatever sports I could get.

When I saw the World Cup countdown hanging from the ceiling, I knew I was home. During a commercial, I also discovered a schedule of events that would be televised there. This included, most importantly, the Final Four. My biggest problem with the third world was solved. Go Gators!