Thursday, November 16: Enchiladas!

Before the end of my two-week crash course in Spanish, Victoria, my maestra decided to hold a cooking class with one of her colleagues for their respective students. Danni and I raced home after our big morning out in Panajachel late enough to miss out on most of the chopping but in time to help cart all the ingredients over to Rich's kitchen (who bailed at the last minute in favour of a girl, I mean, an extra day off, but graciously tracked us down at the docks in Pana to give us the key to his place). And for the record, we were on time. And since when does anything in Guatemala start on the hour?

With all the chopping dispensed with, our work consisted mainly of forming the soft corn-flour dough into tortillas.


Or, in my case, into semi-round, not-quite-flat imperfect pancakes approximating tortillas.

Making tortillas is really hard.

But the rest is easy, especially when you've got to Mayan women in your kitchen.


Once all the frying was done—almost as time consuming as forming the tortillas—we got down to the real business: assembling the enchiladas.

The perfect enchilada is truly a work of art:


Tastes pretty good too.


If you can get your mouth around it.


But damn, all that work just for a snack?

November 4, 2006: Sex Queens in Neoprene

Two days after our triumphant return from Todos Santos saw our debut entry into the Iguana's lake-wide scavenger hunt. As an event that had been running since my arrival here, it was about time that I participated. Not to mention have a look at the other towns on the lake.

As the only diving instructors in the event, there was only one choice for our team name. Enter the Sex Queens in Neoprene. Oh yeah, too sexy for our wetsuits, too sexy for our wetsuits. You're nothing if not hot under 7mm of neoprene, not to mention matching weight belts, mask, snorkels and fins. Damn hot. Hotter than a snake's ass caught in a wagon rut. But damn did we score bonus points for it.


Which was fortunate, since they're about the only points we scored all day. First stop, Santiago, the biggest town on the lake (population 45 000, one of many facts I did not learn on the scavenger hunt). It's a long climb up the hill, so we had to stop for a refreshment halfway through.


We did, though, make it to Maximon, the local deity who's role it is to take on the townspeople's vices, becoming a chain smoker and heavy drinker, among other things. At 2Q admission per person and 10Q per photo, he's also a great money maker.


Later in San Pedro, after a couple more drinks at a couple more pubs...


...and after discovering all of Pan Lady Rosa's different flavours of cakes...


...it was time for our snorkel test. I mean, you can't walk around from bar to bar wearing a mask and snorkel all day without putting it to some use in the consumption of alcohol, right? And need I remind you of the bonus points?


Unfortunately, we failed, thanks to poor planning. Note to self: purge valves and snorkel tests don't mix. I coughed two thirds of my shot out the purge and nearly choked on the rest.


On the other hand, the quarter shot of tequila absorbed directly through my lung tissue was probably worth a full shot anyway.


Next stop: the Jaibalito cliff jump, an intimidating 12m. Doesn't look like much from the water, but once you swim up to shore and climb to the jumping platform you better not spend much time thinking about the rest. And after landing on my ass, those 7mm of neoprene were worth every ounce of sweat.

There were three more stops on the scavenger hunt that day, but we decided to retire the team for the afternoon and give the competition a chance. Besides, we had another Saturday night to rest up for.

Iguana Saturday nights!

Since I'm on a roll with the photo thing, here are a few glimpses of the famous Iguana Saturday night barbecue/live music/cross-dressing/charity shots parties, which make up the mainstay of the Iguana bar profits and are the fixture around which the remaining days of the week turn (mainly because we're all incapacitated Sundays and spend Thursdays and Fridays promoting the party, leaving only three days to do any real work).

Like all Iguana parties, they start out quite tame... and then the Shots for Dots come out: 1Q from every flavoured vodka shot (take your pick from Rich's Monkey Love, Danni's Decider, Nat's Cherry Popper, Rusty's Baby Gravy, Airek's Knickerdropper, etc.) supports a children's charity in the village up the hill. Oh, and you get a cork-sized spot of tempera paint applied to your face by one of our amiable bar wenches. Amidst cries of "Do it for the kids!", who can say no? It's a slippery, steep and often scary slope from there.

Your gracious hosts for the evening:


Adam lines 'em up:


And we're off! Shots for dots, people, shots for dots.


Ummm... alright, you're in.


Iguana staff are all about sharing the love:


A lot of love.




No more drinks for you!


Me and Danni and Golden Boy. He might have had another name, but he was Golden Boy to us.


Adam and Danni.



That's Rich, the hotel manager, by the way. I know what you're thinking. Yes, he always looks that good.


And here's his alter-ego, Disco Rich. Honestly, how could you say no?

The bar staff might have had a few drinks by now. I can't remember.


And here we have Guatemala's finest, the Iguana management team past and present. Scary thought, isn't it?


Rusty does a fine pole dance.


But sometimes he just needs to take his clothes off and relax.


It's sooo true what they say. I have so much more fun in this wig.


I'm still trying to understand the unspoken ritual aspects of the mandance. I'm so lucky to have so many more weeks of field study ahead of me.


Wrong. So wrong.


Hey look, it's Nat and Danni. Take another photo, I don't think we got any of us yet tonight!


Cross-dressing, did I mention cross-dressing?


I probably shouldn't have been enjoying this quite so much.


As an aside, here we have Massive Headwound Rich.


After the party, Rich decided to take off his clothes and go for a swim off the dock. An unspecified amount of time later—he's not really sure—and clad only in damp boxers, he came tramping up the stairs to my balcony and flopped himself onto the bench. A handful of blood later, we realized there was something wrong, but no fear, we're Rescue Divers! Not to mention First Aid Instructors! We snapped into action and were more than happy to bandage our patient to the hilt.

And to giggle and smile for the camera as we recorded our handiwork.


This was the second time I've had to administer first aid to a head injury as a result of excessive drinking since I've arrived (er, not counting my own, which doesn't count anyway since it took place off-site). At least this time I wasn't woken up in the middle of the night with desparate cries of "IT'S A LIFE OR DEATH SITUATION!!" (for the record, it wasn't). I know what you're thinking: two head injuries in less than two months seems like a lot. And you're right. But having lived here a while, I'm starting to think that's a pretty damn good statistic.

Pics courtesy of Danni, as usual. Saturday's will never be the same without you, petal!


For more Iguana pics and Danni's generally wittier commentary, check out her blog.

November 1, 2006: Dia de los meurtes!

Todos Santos was a success!

We left at 6:15 a.m. on the first boat to Pana and arrived just over seven hours, three buses, and a pick-up truck later. The last leg of our journey in the back of the pick-up was up a tortured twisted road up increasingly steeper, cactus-dotted slopes.



Thanks to the clouds most of the time we had only a foggy notion of where we were going.



Even when we could see the road, the view got increasingly hazy thanks to our secret weapon:



And what a weapon!









To our surprise, the horse racing was still in full swing when we arrived. We joined the fray and watched the men ride back and forth and back and forth and back… and… forth… until we couldn't take it anymore than they could.





















Just to clarify, the horseraces work like so: men get on a horse, ride a lap, have a drink, turn around and ride another lap back, have another drink, ride another lap, etc. As the race progresses the men get handed more and more chickens to carry as they hurry from starting line to starting line. Things deteriorate from there. Did I mention this all takes place *after* staying up all night drinking? Last man left riding is declared the winner, earning enough social prestige to last until he's dethroned the following year.

Being that the object is to be the last man left on a horse, we saw many men unceremoniously thrown from their steeds. It’s considered bad luck if someone *doesn’t* die at the annual horse races, which probably explains the lack of enthusiasm in tending to the fallen. A useless circle of concern would grow around these victims of circumstance until someone managed to revive them enough to help them limp away with what little remained of their pride, or at least turn them over so they wouldn't choke on their own vomit. That's my head in there attempting to attend to one of the fallen. When he groaned in response to his friend's shouts, we settled for the recovery position.



As one of the few gringos at the event, I felt duty-bound to incur a couple of my own injuries. Note to self: don't stand on top of an eight-foot fence at a horse race after consuming a third of a bottle of rum.



On the bright side, it didn't hurt a bit.



Adam's way of commisserating with the locals was a little more sensible.





It was at this point in the day when things started to get a little hazy. Apparently I took this photo, which I think shows a tremendous amount of manual dexterity considering that I don’t remember a thing:



So the obvious thing to do was we make our way into Todos Santos proper.



The town is where the locals really started showing their true colours.













Even the dogs were drunk.



Note the complete absence of women. This is definitely a holiday for boys and men. The ladies don’t come out until the whole thing’s finished, to pick up the broken glass, and the broken men.

We found a little watering hole and settled in for a beer or six with a few locals.







Then it was time to go for a walk.

Todos Santos doesn’t pull any punches when it comes to the biggest day of the year. Troubadors wound their way through the carnival, and there were not one but two ferris wheels, including the world-record holder for speed. As Adam said, it hauled ass.





A little more wandering and we’d had enough. Unlike the locals, we found our way back to our beds before passing out.



With all the horsing around dispensed with, the next morning was time to visit the dead at the local cemetery. The graves of the dearly departed had all been spiffed up with a fresh coat of paint for the big day, and the men had hauled out the family xylophones for a day of drinking and man-dancing while the women lit candles and wept and wailed. Cotton-candy, beer and fire-cracker venders pushed their way through thickening crowds, completing the bizarre carnival atmosphere.











And finally it was time to hit the road again. Having missed the only bus out of Dodge (5:00 a.m. was a little too early for us), we started walking out of town till we caught a ride with a cattle truck. Somehow, the ride was a little less colourful than the previous day.



We made it back to the lake and home to the Iguana a little worse for wear, but still in time to regale our hosts with tales of Adventure and Strife over dinner and drinks. The End.