Saturday, February 17, 2007: Full sails in the setting sun…

The conclusion of my sailing adventure: We made a couple of dives, Saturday on the Rhone, probably the most famous wreck in the BVIs, and Sunday at Shipwreck Alley, where three little wrecks lie close together in 20-25m of water. Preparing for the first dive was a bit stressful: one of their regs turned out to not have a pressure gauge, which they were seriously going to use anyway until I offered my spare set; a couple of the guys couldn’t remember how their equipment went together; then one of them had a problem with his BCD inflator so he had to disconnect it and basically dive without a BCD (he could orally inflate it on the surface); then one of them had improperly attached his BCD to his tank and I had to help him sort that out; he also had no alternate air source; then another guy’s BCD inflator was kaput and his BCD couldn’t hold any air at all. This was all before we even got in the water. Not knowing how any of these guys would be underwater in an environment that was new to me with a growing list of equipment issues, I was on the verge of not diving—the whole thing looked like an accident waiting to happen (an accident without oxygen or a proper first aid kit on board, at that). The last thing I need is to be involved in any kind of diving incident right now: whether I’m on duty of just diving for fun, it won’t be very good for my career. Anyway, the guy with the most-broken BCD sat out the dive and I went down with the rest of the gang, who were all fine divers in the end, just a little rusty topside—which is pretty normal for holiday divers anyway. We were lucky enough to be the only divers on the Rhone for the duration of our dive, and I thought it was a lovely little wreck, though I can see how it could be disappointing on a crowded day. There were plenty of fish and, it being a protected area, massive prehistoric-sized lobsters: they must have been nearly two feet long!

That afternoon we spent moored off the beach and I watched Eric try to catch a couple of massive barracuda (at least three and a half feet long) that were circling the boat. No luck but it was good sport anyway. He got one of them on the line for about ten seconds and it jumped nearly half-way out of the water! Phil and Paul and the rest of the boys went for a spin in the dinghy and came back with half a dozen conch which, after an epic struggle to get them out of their shells, Phil sliced up, marinated and pan fried as an appetizer the next day.

After our dive on Sunday, we finally had enough wind for a bit of sailing, and we headed for a deep offshore trench so Eric could do a bit more fishing. He hauled in a massive mahi-mahi (dolphin fish), at least a 30 pounder. Too bad I had to leave before dinner! But as the shadows lengthened we sailed in to Roadtown’s port (on Tortola) and, after tying off at the marina, it was time to say goodbye to the Caribe. Instead of wandering around Roadtown trying to find the launch station for the Legacy (which was anchored in the middle of the bay), the boys ran me out to the ship in the dinghy and I boarded the Legacy with style. And that was that: the end of one little adventure and the beginning of a much longer one.

Now I’ve finished my first week aboard the Legacy and it certainly hasn’t been dull. I’ve been trained by Ben, the current dive mate, who is apparently the best in the fleet. He’s also a bit of a drama queen, but I guess that’s part of what makes him so suited to the job. Anyway, the guests love him and he's grown on me as well, despite my first impressions. He’s got a sink-or-swim training philosophy that’s taken a bit of getting used to: my hyper-rational analytical self kind of likes to be talked through something before being asked to do it, whereas he’ll just tell you to do something and then provide instruction only once he sees that you really have no idea what to do. It’s not the diving that’s a challenge—I can lead a dive on a new dive site no problem; done it tonnes of times before. Client relations is no problem either, although I’ve got to brush up on my stupid small-talk jokes. It’s all the boat stuff, like raising and lowering the RIB and tying it off to the ship at the beginning and end of every day, driving it, maneuvering it close to the ship, etc. that worries me, at least until I’m a little more practiced.

Otherwise, though, it's been great. The crew treat me like a princess: I hadn't really realized the potential advantages of being one of only three females amidst a crew of 45. If I was really lazy, I could get out of an awful lot of work—though that's not my way. As it is I'm having a hard enough time getting the guys to let me tie the ropes off and climb in and out and up and down things; when they see I'm struggling they tend to do it for me, which I can appreciate, but that's not how I'm going to learn my job.

Ooh, as a mate (as opposed to crew), I don't have to wear the blue and white stripes: formal dress is navy-style "whites and stripes"—white epaulette shirt (eventually I'll get a couple of stripes) with white bottoms. Casual dress is simply Windjammer-wear: any Windjammer souvenir t-shirt with (depending on how strict the captain is) Windjammer shorts.

Now I'm leaving the Legacy. For better or for worse, the dive mate/activities mate manager has decided that I'll complete my second week of training aboard the Polynesia instead of staying on with Ben. Like us, the Poly is anchored in St. Maarten today, about 100m from us, so the move was pretty easy. But it doesn't make much sense to me, particularly since this week Ben actually had two dive mate trainees, me and one other who started the week before me. Which meant that, with three sets of hands, there was just that much less work to go round and that much less opportunity to learn stuff. Ori, the other trainee, is going to be the permanent dive mate on the Poly. He's gone over today too, to have one week of handover with the current Poly dive mate (who, incidentally, will be going over to the Legacy next week to replace Ben, who's leaving the company). I don't see the advantage to my training of having me not only switch ships in the middle of it, but of also completing both weeks of training with an excessively large dive team, since most of the time I'll be working on my own, but whatever. In any case, it's pretty cool to see how three different ships are working within the first three weeks of being with the fleet, and the Poly is much smaller than the Legacy, and the Mandalay is smaller yet, so at least I'll have a gradual transition to the smaller ship.

Anyway, it's mid-afternoon of my one 3/4-of-a-day-off this week (in St. Maarten). Time to chill until later; then it'll be time to par-tay.

Friday, February 9, 2007: I’m sailing! I’m SAAAIIILIIIIING!!!!!

St. Thomas Plan A: Arrive at the airport and inquire about “reasonably priced” hotels on the island and pay through the nose for a bed for three nights before boarding my ship (and let’s not even think about restaurant meals and cab rides around the place or the cost of three days worth of entertainment…).

St. Thomas Plan B: Meet a retiree on the plane and talk about your common interest in diving until he invites you to stow away on the sailboat that he, his brother (the owner) and a few friends are meeting on that afternoon for a 10-day sailing trip.

Guess which plan I went with?



So here I am, sitting on the deck of Paul’s 50-foot sloop (the Caribe), with Paul, his brother Phil, and their friends Eric, John and Arvid.


We just finished a steak dinner (I put myself to work in the galley while John did the steaks on the barbie outside). Now they’re drinking beer and rum, smoking cigars and talking about colleges with good hockey teams for Paul’s son. I feel like I’ve crashed one of my family’s famous boys weekend fishing trips. Which is pretty much exactly what I’ve done; these boys just have longer weekends and bigger boats. Dad, you would be so jealous...

We’re going to cruise around the islands until Sunday, when they’ll bring me in to the port in Roadtown in Tortola, where the Legacy will be waiting for me.



We spent last night in the marina. The boys took me out to Duffy’s Love Shack, the local marina bar in the parking lot across the road. We had a few drinks and all shook our variously aged booties in the salty air. We set sail around noon today (er, actually we motored all day: no wind) and headed out to Watson’s Rock between the islands of St. Thomas and Jost van Dyke for a bit of snorkeling. We were going to go for a dive—these guys are all divers, and before leaving the marina this morning we (meaning they) rented an extra tank and weights for me—but after our rather strenuous snorkelling adventure (I’ve never seen so much surge!) the boys decided to take it easy: we just hit the beach instead and had a drink at the Soggy Dollar bar.

Along with everything else, I even got a look at the Legacy. She was moored off the same beach as us. Looks like a fun boat—we cruised by as we were leaving and everyone on deck had a drink in their hand (it was 5:00 p.m., time for rum swizzles and deck games)—but she certainly isn’t pretty. I’m glad I’ll be going to the Mandalay after my two-week orientation; she’s a lot more graceful.

(For more pics of the Caribe and the guys, check out their website

Feb. 7, 2007: Things I love about air travel No.s 35–41.

#35: U.S. customs officials.
#36: $2.50 bottles of water (that you can’t even bring with you on the plane).
#38: $4.50 cups of coffee.
#37: air-con setting: Glacial.
#39: Saran-wrapped backpacks.
#40: Touchless bathroom sinks with electronic eyes that never work. I swear that’s a one-way mirror and there’s someone behind it just snickering.
#41: Public security announcements that repeat every three and a half minutes. It’s 2007: do you think there’s anyone that doesn’t know yet not to leave their bags unattended?

Yup, you got it, I'm in airport limbo! It's hour six of a 17-hour layover in Miami. Yessss! Though it's not so bad—I've got internet and heapsa emails tocatch up on and a blog to update. I used to think airports were hell; thanks to modern technology, they've moved up to mere purgatory.

Still hate coming into the U.S. though. Even though I'm just transiting through their dumb-ass country and NOT EVEN LEAVING THE AIRPORT they get all worked up when they see the stamps in my passport and ask all sorts of nosy questions about what I was doing in Egypt, Russia, and where’s this stamp from anyway? And where am I going next and how long will I be doing it for and where I'm going after that and backpacking, eh? What do you mean you don't have a set itinerary? (Surprise, I don't really like telling customs that I'm going anywhere to work. Even though this time it’s actually be above board, so to speak, I don’t have a joining letter from the ship to prove it yet.) The guy had to actually confer with another officer, who after asking me if I parlez-vous français apparently convinced the first guy I was harmless enough to let me through. Ugh, I hate U.S. customs!

Anyway, who cares, tomorrow I'll be in the Caribbean! …As long as the bastards let me back out of here now that they've grudgingly let me in.

Nearly have all my paperwork in order to board my ship on Sunday. In addition to a police check and a medical exam, I had to get a battery of blood tests done. I sort of questioned the invasion of privacy that requiring me to get these tests represents, but HR for the company is based out of Trinidad and Tobago so standard privacy laws don't apply, and anyway, I want the job too much to care. You’ll be happy to know I don't have AIDS, syphillis, TB, hepatitis B, parasites in my stool or any cannabis or cocaine residues in my blood. All I can say is, thank God I was in Guatemala. I can’t imagine what all that would have cost me anywhere else.

February 6, 2007: In a volcano, surrounded by liquid hot magma…

Last day in Guatemala; not leaving much room for error here, but I finally did it: I made it up Pacaya an active volcano sort of in between Antigua and Guatemala City.


Scrambled over snaky, ash-coloured lava trails to get within 10m of rivers of liquid hot magma oozing down the mountain, and toasted the obligatory marshmallow before heading back down at sunset.







Probably not very safe. In fact, if the occasional blasts of intense heat you feel (I mean, besides the just generally intense heat that comes from getting progressively closer to a roiling mass of liquified rock), holes in the path glowing campfire red, and that discouragingly hollow sound that accompanies your every step as you pick your way along the tops of mostly cooled lava flows—if all of that doesn’t betray the excruciating danger that awaits just your slightest misstep, that odd smell of burning coming from your shoes will. I found out later there have actually been tourist deaths on Pacaya—but, this being Guatemala, there were apparently few repercussions: the tours continue. Anyway, it was muy cool, and I made it back fully intact.

And this is where I spent the night beforePacaya: at the Earth Lodge. Started by more ex-Iguana staff, it’s perched high on the hills above Antigua and overlooks the city, a few distant volcanoes and the Earth Lodge’s young avocado farm. It’s odd—it’s almost the same view as at the lake, just minus the lake.

February 4, 2007: Gracias, adios

(Or, the dawning of a new era...)


Finally leaving the lake, for good this time. Had the last few days off to organize myself (though I’ll still end up forgetting a few things that I’ll have frantically delivered to me in Antigua hours before splitting for the aeropuerto), try to do some shopping...



...and finally do that walk to San Marcos that I’ve been hearing about for the last four months.

The walk was nice, although after four months of build up, a little over-rated. Or maybe that’s just me being blasé about the views again. The best part was that Nanook came with me, sort of my goodbye party with him. Poor thing—he’s such a fine looking dog, it’s easy to forget he’s going on 10. After an hour and a half he’d had enough, and we were only half way. He was so happy to not have to walk home he temporarily forgot his paranoid boat issues and hopped into our return lancha even before me and Gelina, the Canadian girl who also accompanied me.










Then, one last Saturday night...
















...and that was it. A bit of manic packing on Sunday morning, some last minute goodbyes, and gracias, adios. So long and thanks for all the fish.


(View from the public dock in Santa Cruz)

Sunday, January 21, 2007: Livingston, I presume?

Said goodbye to Alice in Flores and Airek and I caught a night bus to Rio Dulce (“sweet river”), which is a town on, you guessed it, the Rio Dulce. We stayed in what was quite possibly the worst hostel ever: for Q20 (USD$3) we got a cold reception and a colder mattress—no pillows, sheets or blankets—in a dorm with paper-thin (wafer-thin?) walls next to the salsa band. Whatever, by then it was after midnight and we we’d already had to backtrack on the bus after falling asleep and missing our stop; no salsa band was gonna stop us from getting some rest. Next morning we hurried off to Livingston and the Caribbean so we could finally get some R&R on our so-called holiday, with Rusty (ex-Iguana) at his new hostel.

We paid an exorbitant amount of money for a cruise down the Rio Dulce to get to Livingston, which sits where the river meets the sea. It was a nice trip…



…but not worth Q100, no matter how many water lilies or hot springs you throw in.

Finally we made it to Rusty, who was waiting to take us out to a beautiful white sand beach on the Caribbean. This is where Airek’s holiday officially began, I think—when he finally found himself on the sea, splashing around in the salt water, lazing in the hot sun with a cold beer in hand, and playing a bit of beach soccer. (Mine had started a couple days before when I found myself sitting in a café in Flores, sipping a cappuccino and writing some postcards—my penultimate holiday activity.)


Livingston itself is a neat little town. It straddles two worlds: like everywhere else in Guatemala, the Maya simply get on with the tiresome business of living, while the Garifuna, like nowhere else in Guatemala but what I imagine to be everywhere else in the Caribbean, skip the tiresomeness and simply live. Thus the Maya run a lot of the businesses like laundries, hotels and tiendas while the Garifuna, when they must work, work in tourism or run bars and restaurants, but mainly they play soccer (futbòl) in the streets and music in the bars and wink at pretty girls wherever they happen to be. I know that’s a simplistic view of things, and it’s equally simplistic to say that everyone seems to be happy with this particular division of labour, but in a place like Livingston, simplicity is rarely a bad thing.



After a day off to recover from our big day out at the beach, I made the trek out to Siete Altares (the seven altars), a beautiful series of cascades within a protected area an hour and a half walk from town.

The walk follows the coast line:


It’s no longer the wet season so the waterfalls were just trickling, but the grey stones that make the cascades what they are were magnificent, smooth as pewter and nearly glowing in the soft light that filtered down through the thick canopy of leaves. And there was still plenty of water for a swim in the biggest pool—the seventh altar—at the top of the cascades; the water was deep and fresh and cool under the shady trees. I’ve been looking out over a postcard-perfect, volcano-rimmed lake so long I hardly notice it anymore: by being so strikingly different, Siete Altares was for me one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen in Guatemala.


And that was it, time to go home. We left Rusty’s at 6 a.m. in the morning to begin a marathon day of boat-chicken bus-taxi-chicken bus-boat travel. Without even a 20-minute break between any of our various forms of transport, we got back to the Iguana 13 hours later, just in time for dinner. Our parting shot from Livingston was this, the bizarre Chickenman randomly painted on a garage near Rusty’s. Why?

Friday, January 19, 2007: El mundo perdido

Tikal, the lost city. Centre of the ancient Mayan world. The thing not to miss in Central America. But, like the pyramids in Egypt, Tikal is big and impressive and mysterious and strangely… underwhelming. Maybe I’m the unenlightened one for not being able to feel the cosmic rays converging, man. Or maybe I’ve just visited too many ruins to feel appropriately awed anymore (I hope it’s not that; I’d rather be unenlightened than blasé). But these places always leave me feeling emptier than I think they should. I just find that without the people who built these great structures and magical cities, who lived in them and brought life and energy and significance to them, without these people, everything seems so… dissipated. Lifeless, with the possible exception of the hollow buzz of modern-day commerce and rampant scamming of tourists, if you call that life (give me Asia’s Buddhist and Hindu temples anyday—they may not have had as many centuries to absorb energy and significance, but they still mean something to the people who live next to them, they still live) . We try to appreciate these places that we’re told are meaningful, but without the culture that went along with it, how can we really? We expect them to make us feel so much. When they don’t, we can’t help be disappointed, as much with ourselves as with the site we’ve visited.



However, I did enjoy the day I spent at Tikal, even if I didn’t feel the universal hum or experience some sudden perfect alignment of my shakras or whatever. We ended up with a four-hour tour of the area, in Spanish, and though I only managed to catch probably two-thirds of what our guide told us, I was pretty happy to have gotten that much out of it. It feels good to not have to be constantly catered to in a language other than the one that is actually spoken in the country I’m in.

We climbed up a couple of the temples to get a better view of the area. The view from the top of Temple IV is magnificent:

The climbs back down were gruelling.

We saw a bit of wildlife, too. The jungle around Tikal is second-growth forest—the area was completely deforested to make way for the ancient city and the farmland needed to sustain it all those years ago—but it's an old-ish second growth forest with well established flora and fauna, and the ruins themselves are separated by thick canopies of forest. (This is a ceiba tree, the national tree of Guatemala. Also known as the silk cotton tree, it's soft fibers are used to stuff pillows and mattresses.)


Minutes into our walk we saw a couple of toucans. Toucans! Later, after the tour, Airek and Alice continued to walk around a bit and saw a monkey up in a tree, while I chilled out under a tree and had a coati walk over and sniff at my feet for a couple of minutes before walking off (allowing me to get what I hope are some good shots with my high-tech point-and-shoot film camera; it will be months, I’m sure, before I find out). When everyone else who was in the area noticed him and tried to approach for photos, he wasn’t having any of it and ran off into the forest again. How lucky was I?!



(Since Airek's evil twin brother Steve broke Airek's digital camera the week before our trip one night while Airek was drunk, my camera was actually pretty high-end: Airek and Alice had disposables. Which means all these photos are courtesy of strangers I don't know who've published their photos online and who I hope won't mind me borrowing a few of their pics to illustrate my own adventures.)