Lost in translation.

When you are traveling abroad-- alone or with someone-- getting from place to place requires some amount of communication with locals, either by speaking their language, speaking your language, using various hand movements, playing charades, drawing illustrations on toilet paper, whatever. But it is necessary. If you know the local language, all the better. If the local person to whom you are speaking knows English, you can be as lazy as you want about language acquisition. But sometimes, even when those two cases are true, something just gets lost in translation.

Here we are, enjoying a delicious late night snack with
our friends Mariann (white sweater) and Morten (standing, left)
and their family (my dad is standing, maroon sweatshirt; I am taking
the photo). Yes, it is really night, probably around 10:00, in August.
It was a memorable evening.

One of the few trips abroad I have taken that was not to Latin America was with my father a few years ago to Norway. This had been a dream of his for decades – to visit the place where his grandfather was born. The trip was pretty spectacular. I have good friends who live fairly close to Oslo, on a gorgeous farm that has been in their family for centuries. It was our “home base,” a central place where we could rest, plan and return to after traveling. Morten and Mariann were amazing hosts, entertaining us, feeding us delicious food, helping us with travel plans, and showing us around their beautiful town and surrounding area.  

Additionally, we were able to meet some distant relatives in Trondheim, probably third (or so) cousins. Not only did we meet them, but we stayed with them and spent a few days talking about our family tree, visiting distant family gravesites, traveling to the house my great-grandfather lived in before he left for the United States, and drinking Norwegian beer. So this was also an incredible part of our trip. It meant a lot to my dad to be able to do those things, and connect with his roots. It did to me, too.

My dad and I, standing in front of the house my great-grandfather
lived in near Trondheim before he came to the U.S.  It has been empty for years.

The last part of our trip, before we returned to Morten and Mariann’s farm and then home, was to the west coast of Norway, to the lovely city of Bergen. There we had no personal connections, no friends, no long lost relatives to visit. We just wandered the city, took the Fløibanen Funicular up the mountain, ate good food, listened to the street musicians perform, visited some great museums, and enjoyed really creamy ice cream. We also lucked out and had sunny days the whole time we were there, an unheard of occurrence in the rainiest city in Norway.

For the return trip to my friends’, we planned to take the train from Bergen to a town near their home. They had encouraged us to make a stop along the way and take the Flåm Railway down to the village of Flåm because it was a lovely trip, on an interesting and historic train (one of the steepest in the world) with beautiful views. We had already experienced the train system in Norway earlier in our stay. The trains were convenient, very modern, clean, technologically superior to those in the U.S., and a wonderful way to travel. One of the nice things about taking the train was we didn’t have to worry too much about where we were arriving or where to disembark. As we approached each station stop, the conductor would get on a loud speaker, announce the station – in several languages no less – and tell us on which side to disembark. Piece of krumkake.

Until it wasn’t. A piece of krumkake that is. For some reason, on that train ride from Bergen to Myrdal (where we would catch the Flåm Railway) the conductor didn’t do this, at least not at the stop we needed. So we thought we were at the right station, but we weren’t sure (until other passengers confirmed that we were indeed in Myrdal). Then, as we pulled to a stop, the conductor also failed to tell us which side we should exit on. And when the doors on the right were the only ones to open, on the side where there was no platform, what were we to do? We were standing there, with our luggage, and the only door to let us out was at least five feet off the ground, next to a gravel covered slope. This is where we were supposed to exit? We feared the train would pull away and we would miss our chance to see Flåm and the tunnels, and the waterfalls, and the fjord if we didn’t get off the train. So I told my dad, “We have to get out!” And then he threw his suitcase off the train, and jumped. He jumped down, landed on the gravel, fell down, and somehow managed to not roll down the hill. 

As soon as he did all this, the door on the other side slid open and there was the platform, on the side of the train facing the depot, level with where the rest of us were standing inside the train. Otherwise known as the correct door. What I remember is mild chaos and veiled panic on my part. However, my dad was quickly back on his feet, not hurt in any way, and someone helped him get his suitcase back on the train. Being six foot two inches made it possible for him to get back up into the train, with the aid of a strong Norwegian (as if there were any other kind).  We exited on the correct side, walking out onto the platform without having to jump. But I was very worried because my dad had just had both knees replaced the summer before. And he had just jumped off a train! I am sure I would’ve followed him had that door not opened in that instant, and I would not have fared as well since I do not have joints made of titanium.

At the Myrdal depot, as we were waiting for the Flåm train to arrive to take us down to the fjord, and after many “Dad, are you sure you're okays,” I decided to speak to someone. I went up to the window at the train depot, and spoke with the young, pleasant woman behind the counter, who, of course, knew English. I said, “Hi. I don’t know how you are here in Norway, but I’m from America and we like to complain.” And then I proceeded to tell her what had happened, and that the conductor had not said where we were, which side to disembark on, nor had he opened the correct doors at first. “See that old man over there? That’s my dad. He just had knee surgery last year, on both knees, and yes, his knees are new, but he is old. Look at him! And he jumped from a train. He jumped from a train! I just thought someone should know.” So I got that off my chest and felt the mishap was at least acknowledged since she confirmed that it was standard practice for the conductors to announce both the train station and which side to exit on. My dad really was fine. And the trip down to the fjord was beautiful. Now it is one of my dad’s favorite stories to tell people. Only I think he may tell people that I pushed him. But hopefully they know he is just embellishing for dramatic effect. 

Here I am standing in Flåm in front of the Aurlands fjord. Was this
view worth all the drama? Yawh, you betchya!

Another time when I was traveling with someone, we ran into Latin American friendliness that presented itself in the form of severe miscommunication. My friend Monica and I were in Oaxaca, Mexico and had planned a day trip to see the ruins at Monte Alban. We were told we could take a bus from some hotel that was located near the market. So we walked and walked to where we thought it was based on what we had seen on a map. But no hotel. So we asked a bus driver on a city bus, and he told us his bus would take us there. So we got on his bus, and ended up at some other market where the other bus should be. But no bus. And the city bus was gone. We then asked a taxi driver and he again referred to the hotel and pointed in the direction from where we had just come. We were sick of walking, and spending so much time searching, so we had him take us. And there were the buses for Monte Alban. At the hotel. But we wondered why the city bus driver had told us to go to the other market. It was totally incorrect information. It wasn’t even sort of correct. It was a complete detour. And I just don’t think a 5¢ bus fare would be enough inspiration to lead us on a wild goose chase. So I attributed it to the friendliness of the people. I had run into this before – people in Latin America are so friendly that they don’t want to tell you “I don’t know.” They don’t want to leave you without any information, so instead they guess and tell you something rather than nothing. Even if nothing would be way better.

The point is, whether you know the local language or not, whether they know your language or not, sometimes there is a lack of communication that can cause delays or problems. But you have to remember that this happens at home, too, in your own neighborhood, with your own friends and family. It’s just a human thing and doesn’t necessarily have to be chalked up to some kind of cultural difference or language barrier. It can be frustrating at the time. It can become stressful and worry you. But if you’re lucky, the experience will become a funny travel story you can share with others, maybe even for years to come. 

Get off my back.

Today, I am going to get back to travel basics. Let’s talk luggage, or more specifically backpacks. Backpacks are a very practical way to carry your belongings for a trip. You can stuff a lot into them, and you just put it on your back, fasten the straps, and go where you need to go. You can also strap other things onto them, like water bottles, shoes, a sleeping pad if you’re camping, pots and pans if you’re camping, a lantern if you’re camping, etc.

So let me just say that I don’t camp. I have camped. I might camp again in the future. But when I am traveling in Central America or wherever, I typically do not camp. So if I am strapping anything to my backpack, it will be a water bottle, an extra pair of shoes, a sleeping bag stuffed into a compression sack (for those cold nights in the highlands), maybe a plastic bag full of junk food. But no pots or pans.

I also like a backpack because it’s easy to throw underneath a bus, or on top of a bus, or into the trunk of a car. Typically, they are pretty indestructible so you can really throw them anywhere. And when I say “you,” I mean the guy driving the bus or car. Or anyone standing nearby. I certainly don’t mean me.

After years of traveling mostly with my backpack, I am now to a point in my life that I think we may have to go our separate ways. Actually, the backpack I have now is fairly new and has only been used on one trip. The pack I had before this one crossed a lot of borders, accumulated dirt from many locales, and eventually started deteriorating to the point that I couldn’t use it anymore. (It actually burst open in exhaustion on the baggage carousel at Logan Airport after four months in Guatemala, as if to say, "¡Basta!" Enough!) It wasn’t even a “true” backpack; the kind you open at the top and shove all your stuff into. It was like a “suitcase-backpack” in that the hardware was backpacky and how you got it on your back was backpacky, but it zipped open on the sides like a suitcase, and you could zip an attached cover over the hardware to carry it like a duffle (I only did that when I checked it onto a plane). It was canvas like a traditional pack, and a couple other smaller bags zipped onto the front of it if I wanted more space. It was from EMS and was pretty cool. But they don’t make them anymore. 

I have a personal aversion to shoving my clothes into a deep, dark hole. That is what it is like for me to use the other type of backpack, the traditional backpack that loads from the top. I don’t like having to dig out all my crap to get to one thing that I can’t find because I can’t see it or feel it. I don't like sticking my hand into an unknown abyss. Who knows what could have crawled in there (see this post)? And I don’t like how wrinkled my clothes would undoubtedly get. Oh sure, experienced users of the traditional pack will tell you that there is a way to roll your clothes to prevent an overabundance of wrinkles. But I have not discovered how to do that. And the reality is that many of those folks are walking around in clothes with a heck of a lot of wrinkles. I’m just sayin’.

So I chose to replace my deteriorated EMS suitcase-backpack, the backpack that lasted  for about 14 years, and was still adamant that it not be top-loading. I found one, more of a traditional backpack than my last one. It loads on top, but also has a side zipper so you can open it and see all your goodies, much like my last pack. I like it, at least theoretically. It is a good size and is a lovely shade of blue.

Here’s the problem: I am no longer the traveler I used to be. And I have had some back problems. I just don’t know if I can carry that sucker around, however briefly. I don’t even know if it fits me that well (I have been told there aren’t many backpacks out there that fit women really well). First, I must clarify something. There are backpackers and there are backpackers. Backpackers are those people you see, walking for miles, even days, with a backpack strapped to their back, replete with other necessary gear such as the aforementioned pots and pans. These are the true backpackers, and I have never been one of those, nor have I ever claimed to be. A backpacker, of the non-italicized nature, is merely a traveler who carries a backpack – in my case from baggage claim to bus or taxi, from bus or taxi to hostel, hotel or home. Sure, there are times when I have walked a few blocks with the backpack, maybe even several. But my Point A to Point B is considerably shorter than that of a backpacker.

So now that I have clarified that, what should I do? The last thing I need to do is blow a gasket from carrying a heavy backpack I have no business carrying (and it is always heavy). But taking a wheeled suitcase to Latin America just seems wrong somehow. I think maybe I’ve done it. I vaguely remember taking one when I went to Oaxaca, Mexico with my friend Monica. But that was only for a week and we had very specific plans; we weren’t traipsing all over the countryside. When going for a longer time, traveling to a number of places, I don’t know that a wheelie seems to fit. Many streets in Latin America are cobblestone, so you couldn’t just pull it along like you do in the airport. The sidewalks and roads are often very uneven so if your bag is strapped to your back, it’s not a problem, but with a wheelie, you might have to pick it up, which could be even worse for a questionable back. And throwing a wheelie suitcase onto the top of a chicken bus (more on those another time), is kind of like bringing luxury sheets to a youth hostel.

It is possible that I am just too attached to the idea of a backpack, to the ruggedness and the grittiness it seems to project. People in Latin America call those carrying backpacks mochileros, which means backpackers. True, there may be negative local connotations with this that I don’t even know about – like mochileros tend to give off an aroma that suggests infrequent bathing. Or mochileros never want to pay a decent price for local wares. Or, oh no, here come those stinky mochileros who want to buy all our bananas. All the same, it seems cooler than “person who travels with suitcase.” I don’t even know the Spanish word for that, or if there is one. Maybe it’s just the all-encompassing viajero, or traveler.

Hmmm, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

But whatever you choose to use for luggage on your trip, and whatever label you prefer for yourself, the most important thing is your comfort and only you can determine what is best for you. If I do give up my backpack for good, there will always be my daypack, the miniature version of the backpack. I often use that for weekend trips and for walking around the city or town I’m visiting. So I guess I don’t have to get that weight entirely off my shoulders. At least not until they start to fall apart, too.

This photo is from a trip to the Darién Province of Panama in which some
local guys helping us took our bags, put them into huge baskets, and made their
own type of backpack. This was before I had a backpack, but these small-statured
gentlemen with superhuman strength helped us all out. The guy in back
had at least three heavy bags in that basket! Maybe more!

Use it or lose it.

Last week I wrote about the many benefits to taking Spanish immersion classes in Latin America. On that same subject, and because I have known some people here in the U.S. taking Spanish classes, I would like to say:  you’ve got to use what you know or there is no point. If you are learning Spanish, on your own, through Rosetta Stone, from a friend, as a part of your high school or college studies, in another country, whatever, you will never really learn it, or retain it, or absorb it if you do not speak it!

I am feeling a little rusty myself these days. I do not have much of an opportunity to really speak Spanish lately except if I’m singing to Maná or Juanes (look ‘em up) or conversing -- in a very one-sided fashion -- with whatever is on the Spanish language TV channels. It’s kind of a bummer. But when I’m in the U.S., even if speaking with native speakers, we usually resort to English. I am not sure why. When I am in Latin America, I'm totally different. Someone can speak to me in English, and I will answer in Spanish. I’m in their country, and I want to speak Spanish, so why shouldn’t I speak it? That’s one of the reasons I’m there. In Nicaragua, at the little inn I made my home base, the manager was also from the U.S. I talked to her quite often, and I think through all our conversations, we spoke English for maybe three minutes total. Otherwise, it was always Spanish.

So I think I need to take that approach even when I’m in the U.S. But I don’t. If I’m in a restaurant with Spanish speaking staff, I will only speak Spanish if I think they did not understand my special request (which is hardly ever). They’re busy enough, why do they need to humor the lady who wants to speak a little Spanish? But since I am writing this and telling you that if you are learning Spanish, you need to use what you know, then I need to do that as well.

It is important to speak with native speakers, even if you feel lousy-stupid with mispronunciation, low knowledge of tenses, and lack of vocabulary. You need to hear how they say things, the figures of speech they use, how they emphasize words, phrases and sentences. If you feel compelled to practice with the other students in your class, that is fine, but it should be supplemented with conversations with native speakers. If you’re only speaking with students from your class, you will learn to speak Spanish with a Minnesota, Texas or Massachusetts (or whatever) accent. And that is fine in and of itself. You may always do that anyway, even if you speak to native speakers everyday. But for the reasons I mentioned, it really will help you.

Having a conversation exchange with a native Spanish speaker is a good way to practice. Find someone who wants to practice English and then spend an hour together every week, or more frequently, speaking 30 minutes in Spanish and 30 minutes in English. And make a promise to each other that you will correct one another and not feel bad about it, on either end of the correction. Leave your ego at the door.

When I was first learning Spanish in Panama, I know I made a lot of mistakes. One day I particularly remember, I was upstairs in my room and my roommate, a Panamanian named Darío, yelled at me to come downstairs. I was in the middle of something and yelled back, “Estoy muy preocupada” which means “I am very worried.” What I meant to say was “Estoy muy ocupada” which means “I am very busy.” I’m sure Darío was like, “Um, okay. Since you’re worried, then by all means, do not come downstairs. You freak.” My other friend and coworker in Panama, Victor, was trying to learn more English. One day he called me on the phone from the front of the house. He said, “Jill, where you are?” And I said, “In the office, Victor, where are you?” He said, “I’m in the chicken.” So I said, “Victor, it’s kitchen, not chicken!” And then he just laughed and laughed. But really, how else do you learn?

My hostess in Guatemala was a great woman who took the time to talk to me a lot. Her whole family did. I could always tell when I’d said something that befuddled her. She would wrinkle her brow in a certain way and I would ask her in Spanish, “Is that not a word?” And then we’d try to figure it out. Once we were changing the sheets on my bed and I commented on the awesome wool blanket that helped keep me warm on those chilly nights in the Guatemalan highlands. When I referred to the blanket, I could not for the life of me remember the Spanish word for blanket. So I just Spanishized the English word and called it a “blanketa.” She gave me that look, and then just busted out laughing. Then I started laughing and pretty soon, we were laughing so hard we were crying. I don’t know why she thought it was so funny. She did not speak English, so I don’t think she realized how pathetic my attempt had been. And I’m not sure if “blanketa” means something in Guatemala of which I am not aware, something way different than an actual blanket ... maybe “pipe wrench” or “elbow” or something dirty. But she found it funny, and as a result, so did I.

So yes, you need to be willing to put yourself out there and just try. Make mistakes. Laugh at your mistakes. Learn from your mistakes. I don't recall a stranger ever laughing at me (just my host mom and friends). And even if they laugh at you, then you know you’ve said something incorrectly and can try to find out the right way to say it. I can promise that once you make a big goof, you will remember the correct way to say it from then on.

Wait, I still cannot remember how to say blanket.

Maybe we were laughing too hard.

Step to the head of the class.

When I took my first trip to Latin America, Costa Rica to be exact, I didn’t know a lick of Spanish (or very few licks at least). I didn’t think much of it at the time; I was going with a group of people who were helping to build a house, and knowing Spanish was not a prerequisite for going. But once I got there, how I wish I knew it. I wanted to talk to the great local people we met and understand what they were saying. I wanted to speak with our bus driver, the local workers, and the cute guy painting our hotel. But alas, I hadn’t a clue. I was, however, inspired. I was going to learn Spanish by golly! I was going to return to Latin America, and volunteer somewhere, and learn the language. Somehow, someway, I was going to become fluent.

If you have ever felt this need to learn Spanish-- and I have said this before (see here) -- I highly recommend enrolling in a total immersion language school in another country. There are a number of reasons why they are a great option for getting a grip on a widely spoken and valued language. Here are a few:

-       In Latin America at least, they are very inexpensive, even with the homestay option (which includes room and 2-3 meals a day).

-       You will have a ready-made social network of people you can hang out with and travel with in your free time. Other travelers will make your experience abroad even more memorable, and you will often be learning about more cultures in the process if they are from different countries.

-       You will usually get to participate in cultural activities and field trips that will further your understanding of the language, culture, and the people who are teaching you and hosting you in their home. There are often also cooking, dance, and handicraft classes, as well as presentations on the country’s history.

-       You are going to learn a lot of Spanish! The nature of these programs makes it virtually impossible to leave them-- even after just a week-- without having improved your Spanish skills.

Here I am at a cooking class at my Spanish school in Granada, Nicaragua.
We were learning to make empanadas de platanos maduros
(that is my friend Pascale in the orange shirt). 

I highly recommend the schools that offer one-on-one tutoring. I have been in a classroom setting (multiple students in one class) in two schools, and it was one extreme or the other. The first total immersion school I participated in was in Costa Rica, which had a classroom setting, and I was a beginner. But I was more of a beginner than most of my classmates, so I never fully comprehended what was being taught. I was lost a lot of the time and it was frustrating. I did learn, but it wasn’t as fun as the future one-on-one situations I would later experience. Then, a few years later when my language skills were greatly improved, I was in a classroom in Mexico with other students who were at a less advanced level than I. That class was as frustrating as the beginner class. It was more of a review session for me. But with a one-on-one situation, you go at your own pace. If you are stuck on the difference between the pretérito and imperfecto tenses, then you are going to work on it until you understand. If you cannot master the pronunciation of definitivamente, then you work on it until you do. It’s all about you.

I have had some great one-on-one Spanish instructors. Not one of them spoke English, or enough English, to translate anything for me. If I didn’t understand something, then they would explain it in another way ... but still in Spanish. I was forced to think and figure things out. And the teachers were also able to identify my strengths and weaknesses, and help create more strengths. A typical day in class would involve some lessons from the instructor, some written exercises, some conversation, mixing it up, keeping it interesting, breaking up the monotony. 

There was a point when I knew my basic, very beginner Spanish was improving while I lived in Panama. When I arrived there, I knew hardly a thing. High school Spanish didn’t have any personal application in my life at the time, and I didn’t retain much of that. So I was really clueless with the español when I decided to go to Panama for several months. I worked with Spanish speakers (most spoke only Spanish), I lived with a Spanish-only-speaker, I read children’s books in Spanish, I watched movies with Spanish subtitles, I talked to people, I took classes from local teachers. And one day, a real test came when I was coming back home from the Isla Taboga ferry launch in a taxi. I had taken that trip a dozen times before; I knew how much the taxi fare was (there were no meters in Panama City taxis and rates were based on the “zones” you crossed). But this guy decided he could pull one over on the fula (Panamanian word for a blonde), and charge more because what the heck does she know? I wasn’t having any of that. And before I knew it, I was in a full-fledged argument with a taxi driver. In Spanish! How exciting! I knew enough Spanish to raise some hell, and to let that guy know that I had been there for months and I had taken taxis before, so I knew the fares. I think I may have even sworn at the guy. It was a proud moment.

Totally immersing myself (maybe not totally, but pretty thoroughly at least) was the best way for me to learn Spanish as an adult. If you already know Spanish but want to brush up on some things, heading off to another country for a while is the way to go. If you just want to learn some basics because you’re planning on traveling through Central or South America for a few months, I highly recommend it be the first part of your travels. If you want to build upon what you know, and learn as much as you can, spending a few weeks or months in an immersion setting is going to do wonders for your abilities. You can find such schools all over Latin America. I have studied in Panama, Costa Rica, Ecuador, Mexico, Guatemala, and Nicaragua. Or pick another language and/or another region. I would love to take Portuguese classes in Brazil or French in Martinique (or France for that matter!). As I’ve said before, taking classes in a total immersion language school is a great way to travel and meet people. And it’s also a fun way to learn. 

A hole new world.

Something I’ve mentioned in this blog is that when you travel in a developing country, your mind adjusts and you accept things that you wouldn’t at home. I have mentioned weird creatures indoors, putting toilet paper in a basket, a lack of electricity. The other week, I wrote about taking the time to notice the differences and enjoy them, make them part of the experience. At first, when encountering such differences, you might think, “Holy Cow (or Holy Baby Cow as the case may be), that is something, isn’t it? Well, you just don’t see that in the U.S. now do ya? But this is a developing country, so things are just not the same.”

Sometimes you’re walking down the street and you come across something that pushes you into the aforementioned thought process. Sometimes, you see something like this:

This is street construction in Xela, Guatemala. It was
the weekend, hence the lack of workers. 

Now surely you would never see construction like that here in the good ol’ U.S. of A. Oh yes, you will see construction galore, but it doesn’t look like that ... like someone drank way too much cerveza and decided to party with a backhoe, leaving a random, gaping hole in the middle of a street.

To that I will simply say: guess again.

Sometimes when you are traveling in your own country, your perspective switches around, and you see things that remind you of the developing country you visited, only turned up a notch.

This is construction on a street in Manhattan. As in New York City. As in the greatest city in the world (as people who live there, and David Letterman, will tell you). At the time, I wasn’t actually reminded of the street in Xela. I was just shocked. I think more than a backhoe was used for that job. I mean what the heck was going on there? 

I am not writing this to say this hole is bigger than that hole, or this mess is more complex than that mess. I’m just pointing out that sometimes things aren’t quite as different as you thought. And sometimes you see some unexpected sites in your own country. And sometimes the universal message is as simple as: there are circumstances in this world that are inevitable, Grasshopper. Street construction is evidently one of them.

Every hour can be happy hour when it's hot.

It’s hot. Very hot. Oh so extremely hot. The United States is under a “heat dome” as I read in an article yesterday. Every corner, it seems, is being hit by high temperatures and humidity. In this blog, I have often referred to the heat one encounters in the tropical areas of Latin America, but now most of you in the U.S. can just step outside and sample it for yourself. If you are reading this from another country, maybe you are also in sweltering heat. Maybe it’s normal for where you live, or maybe you, too, are suffering from an unprecedented heat wave that is making everyone droopy, drippy, and grumpy. I just know that right now, as I am writing this, a lot of people are feeling the heat.

I am presently in Central Texas where temperatures over 100 in July and August are pretty normal (although even here, it is a hotter summer than usual). But I’m not necessarily used to it. All this talk about heat, heat index readings, power shortages, frying eggs on the sidewalk, etc. has me yearning for one wonderful way to beat the heat: a nice cold drink. Last week’s post mentioned a wonderful watermelon drink (liquado) in Guatemala, and a few weeks ago I wrote about a similar drink made from pitaya in Nicaragua (see here). But now I want to tell you about another type of drink that should also be tried and enjoyed during your travels. A drink with a kick: a local beer, mixed drink, cocktail, or as they say in Spanish, un trago.

Even though Xela, Guatemala didn’t have such hot temperatures, I did enjoy the local beer there. The best bottle I had was a liter of Gallo I shared with my homestay host and his 90-something father, during my last meal at their house before leaving. None of the other women in the house drank beer, so it was just the guys and me. They toasted me, I toasted them back, we had our beer, we ate our meal, and we said “adios.” It was awesome.

Here is Don Rafa, and his granddaughter Luci pouring
us some Gallo beer in Xela, Guatemala.

In Nicaragua, I had a delicious local drink that was perfect in the heat and humidity of Granada. Macua is a drink make from orange, guava and lime juices with rum, served over ice made from purified water (lest you worry about stomach issues such as these). Holy yumminess! I don’t know if I have ever enjoyed a fruit drink so much. It looked great, it felt great, it tasted great. Of course, I had tried the local beer too. But even Cerveza Toña could not compare to the deliciousness of the Macua.

My travel friend Abate Sebsibe and I are in Granada, Nicaragua, enjoying the delicious Macua.

I do find that when I am in a hot, tropical place, I enjoy those fruity drinks more than I might usually. At home, I typically only drink them at Chinese restaurants that have a good selection of drinks like Mai Tais, Singapore Slings, and whatever that flaming drink is they put in a volcano glass that is big enough for two people. When I was in St. John, U.S. Virgin Islands several years back, I stayed in a great place (mentioned in a post here) that was built on a hill, overlooking a gorgeous beach, and the amazing Caribbean Sea. It was a little like camping, only I did not cook for myself. The restaurant on the property served meals three times a day, so why cook? But the restaurant was only open at certain times, and those were the only times you could get wine or beer. You could bring in your own booze, but I was by myself and I honestly don’t drink more than one usually. Maybe two. So it wasn’t worth the effort.

One afternoon, I was down on the beach, lounging in the sand, and reading a book. There was a concession stand there, and a place to rent snorkel equipment, umbrellas, chairs, etc. The food stand sold frozen non-alcoholic drinks, with a variety of flavors, including piña colada. So I decided I would get myself one of those. It seemed like a beachy thing to do. After I ordered, I jokingly asked the kid working if he had any rum back there he could slip into my colada. He said, “Yeah, you want some?” Surprised and delighted, I said, “Sure!” So he poured some in there, and I had my cocktail after all. The virgin drink would have been fine, but somehow having rum on a Caribbean island makes it even better. It inspired me to drink the islands’ fabulous rum punch whenever the opportunity presented itself. I was so inspired, that I had to get “just one more” in St. Thomas as I was wheeling my suitcase around town before heading to the airport.

When at home, I often crave the drinks I’ve had in other countries (there have been too many good ones to mention all of them in this post), especially when roasting under a “heat dome.” I would love to be sipping any one of them right now. But drinking them here, in my own country, is not quite the same. There is something special about drinking a local drink that makes the refreshing aspect of it even more enjoyable. And it's great to share something local, something that was brewed or distilled in the place you are visiting. 

That is not to say there aren’t refreshing drinks here at home. Those Chinese restaurants with liquor licenses are a sure bet. There are dozens of different types of “martinis” out there, at pretty much any bar, that will rock your world. And here in Texas, the margarita’s got it going on (not to mention Shiner Bock)! I cannot complain about that. I can complain about how the heat makes me look like a longhaired chihuahua just coming out of the pool after a few laps. But I will never complain about a nice, cool, refreshing, local drink that makes me go “Ahhhh!”

You watch my back, I’ll watch yours.

One of the great things about traveling with someone is that she/he has your back. They’re there to help you along the way: assist you in lifting your backpack to the top of a bus, share snacks with you while you people watch in the park, take photos of you in front of cool things, make sure you don’t get run over by a bus as you cross a street.

On a day trip from Xela, Guatemala that I took with my new friend Anna, and my new student/volunteer and soon-to-be-friend Sarah, this sort of “team thinking” was very helpful. We took a van with a guide and a couple of other travelers to a coffee farm cooperative. The tour of the farm was on foot and included a very scenic hike to a lovely waterfall. This particular farm grew its coffee plants within the forest, on hillsides amongst the trees, and we were able to see and learn exactly how the coffee was grown. Because we were now at a lower elevation, the heat and humidity increased, and so did the perspiring and panting.

The first part of the hike was downhill, which may seem like the easy part, but not so much for me. I have some trouble looking down, as one does to walk down a steep hill, because of double vision I have from a car accident years ago. I only have it when looking down, and can get rid of it if I close one eye, but that, of course, leaves me with no depth perception. So it can be a little slow going, with or without heat and humidity. This particular hike was also a little tricky as the path was cut against a steep hill and had quite a number of switchbacks zigzagging up and down the incline. But luckily, my girls had my back. Sarah walked in front of me, and Anna stayed behind me. They stuck with me. The others in the group, especially at the end of the hike when we were walking up hill, were a lot faster than I. Had my friends kept up with them, I would have been left behind to eat raw coffee beans off the ground for sustenance, drink collected rain from leaves, and live with a family of spider monkeys. Did they leave me behind? No. Did they get annoyed when I had to stop and rest? No. Did they scold me when I ran out of water? No. Did they laugh at me? A little, sure. They were hot and sweaty, too, but they could handle it, whereas it pretty much kicked my ass. I’m sure I was quite a sight.

Here I am, after the hike down to the waterfall. I was too weak to smile
after the hike back up the hill. 

But glory to the gods of refreshments when we finally made it back to the eating quarters of the farm and were served the most amazing watermelon drink. Liquados are very popular in Guatemala, made of fresh fruit that is blended with ice or milk or both. (There has to be more to them than that, but I don’t know what it is because when I throw fruit and ice into a blender here in the U.S., it is nothing special, believe me). And we also had lunch to refuel after the hike. But that liquado de sandía was the best drink ever! I could have drunk a gallon of it. In fact, I quite possibly did.

Here are Sarah (left) and Anna (right, white), with the
fast walkers and the amazing watermelon liquados.

I’m not sure if Anna and Sarah knew how much I appreciated their patience and guidance. Anna had been trying to convince me to go on a moonlit hike up Santa Maria, a nearby volcano that is a very popular hiking destination. I had told her, “I lived in Wyoming and Colorado in the Rocky Mountains and never climbed a mountain. I was in Ecuador, in the freakin’ Andes, and never climbed a mountain. Now I’m in Guatemala, and guess what! I’m not climbing a mountain.” But she had persisted ... until that day at the coffee farm. Over the watermelon liquado I asked her, “Do you see why I don’t want to hike up Santa Maria?” And she said, “Um, yeah” and agreed that it wouldn’t be a good idea.

This is Santa Maria, the volcano I preferred to admire from afar.

When you are traveling with someone, whether it’s someone you know from home or a new friend you meet on your trip, you have a tendency to watch out for each other, even if you don’t know them all that well. Once you step out to explore new corners of the world with another person(s), you are a team, even if you just met them at your language school the day before. It is part of the energy when you travel and it’s really pretty awesome. It is also another reason why strangers on the road soon become friends ... especially when that road is long, steep, winding, hot and challenging.