Korean Tourists in the USA

I was walking into the lobby of the Best Western in no-where-ville Maryland and saw a group of 5 young Korean boys. We were having a small party in my hotel room to commemorate the ending of our archaeology project, so I was already a little tipsy. I ran back to my hotel room to my friends. “KOREANS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

We were a group of 4 girls. All of the boys on our project were sleeping and missing the party…leaving us to a total chick fest. The prospect of 5 Korean boys had brightened the night. We clasped arms, giggling like a gaggle of, well, little girls, and went to introduce ourselves to the Koreans.

They were nice, and within the hour, they were partying with us in our room. As a proud American, I wanted them to get a feel for an authentic American party. I threw on my overalls, a red bandana around my neck, and donned my cowboy hat. When they arrived I offered them beer, and the jungle juice. (The juice had turned into a sort of living creature, being moved around from room to room and it needed to be disposed of.)

The Koreans were traveling on a 10 day trip in the USA, sightseeing, and doing who knows what else. They were amiable, and Asians seem to always have a smile, especially while drinking. We drank and exchanged Korean and American cigarettes. They taught me how to say cheers in Korean and we told them to go to Atlantic City. Haha. It was a good night.

When traveling in some countries I find that it is hard to really connect with people of that culture and get a feel for the real flavor. When you’re staying in hostels you meet other people who are traveling, and usually they are not from that country. If you don’t know the native language, it is hard to communicate and be outgoing. Some cultures you can only meet people in a bar, but who wants to spend all of their time in a bar? And, bottom line, people usually are not very nice to tourists. When was the last time you went up to a tourist on the street in your city and said hello?

So, as a fellow traveler, I wanted to welcome these Koreans into my country. I figure if they have one fun night with nice Americans, they will go home and say “Americans are nice and friendly.” I want people to say that about Americans. I want people to invite me over when I am traveling. I like sharing. Come to my house.

Remembering Mexico from my Childhood

I remember the smell of MExico as a young teenager when my family came here on vacation about 10 years ago. I wanted to be a woman then and I bought a new skirt and high, black platform shoes which I teetered around on trying to be pretty.

I remember seeing people in the streets, chubby women in short skirts and men who hissed at me as I eased passed. That was my first look at night people and I thought they were sleazy in their polyester clothes and I don't think I really understood it all and that was the first time I thought about that. But now I think that is just the way things are down here south of the border.

The streets were crowded at night with dull naked light bulbs glowing from a million shop windows selling trinkets and fake silver jewelry that caught the sparkle. I wondered where everyone was during the day. Maybe on the moon.

Ethno-Tourism and Indigenous Communities in Costa Rica

So often tourism and an intrusion of outside influences have worked against indigenous peoples. They have been exploited as exotic savages, with explorers searching them out on expeditions to tell of their strange encounters. Stemming from this, indigenous peoples have altered their own cultures, playing into these stereotypes for the monetary benefits that tourism brings. From colorful turbaned gypsies in India, the Sichuanese putting on the attire of Tibetan nomads, and the Cuna parading their naked children dancing in the streets, people have found dollar signs where tourists seek culture.

A shell of tradition, a costume, a craft, a dance becomes bastardized, losing the intricate internal meaning and bowing down only for almighty money. A beaded necklace that once took weeks to fashion and years of skill to learn, is sloppily thrown together and sold for half the price at sub-par quality. A song that once described the universe is now forgotten, and only unintelligible humming is uttered for money on the street corner. All too much, the beautiful diversities of humanity have succumbed to this plague of tourism.

(Photo of indigenous mask artisan)

In Costa Rica, however, a very interesting movement in the indigenous communities is being developed and tested. They are using tourism as a way to revitalize and preserve their cultures.

I walked into the Namu gallery in San Jose, and my senses were blasted from all sides with vibrant colors and eccentric shapes. Every corner of the store displays baskets, masks, paintings, jewelry, textiles and all crafts imaginable made by the indigenous peoples of Costa Rica. The store is almost alive as these creatures crawl over the walls. It is so overflowed with such beautiful cultural works that I can hardly believe that less than 2% of the Costa Rican population is recognized as indigenous. Yet it is because of this colorful artesania that the indigenous people are finding a guiding light.

The Namu gallery was founded in San Jose almost a decade ago by an idealistic youth anxious to display the rich indigenous cultures of Costa Rica. At that time indigenous communities were hardly acknowledged and mostly unknown to the outside world. Conall French, after spending time volunteering with various tribes in the country, realized the need for these cultures to be rescued from extinction. The brightly painted masks, intricately woven baskets, and exquisitely designed handicrafts appeared to be just the eye-catching ticket to aid in the struggle.

As a family run effort, the Frenches now showcase work from all 8 tribes of Costa Rica in their fair-trade gallery. For the craftsmen this gives them an opportunity to sell their creations to a broader market for a better price than what they might earn selling locally on the side of the highway. The earnings are split 50/50 between the artisan and the shop, and the work is shown to international buyers. Some of the artists have even been able to solely rely on their crafts for income.

The Boruca masks are a very prime example of how tourism and Namu has affected the traditional culture. Originally these people carved wooden masks with demonic faces to be worn in the dance of the “diablitos.” They have now branched out in their craftsmanship. They have developed an “ecological” mask, which mixes the traditional style of iconology but now also portrays a medley of flora and fauna from the local region. The new mask forms express an indigenous cosmovision depicting an interconnectedness with nature. Because the diablitos masks were so popular the artists have been able to creatively expand and refine their skills.

A decade ago the mask-makers were mostly elders, and the tradition appeared to be in danger of survival. As the masks became more marketable to the tourists, the younger generations found importance, and a majority of the craftsmen are now young men. The involvement of these younger generations and pride in one’s traditional customs is integral for the continuation of cultural heritage.

In the Bribri reserve of the Talamanca region in southern Costa Rica, community efforts are striving to develop a system of sustainable tourism. The Finca Educativa is a network of 17 organizations of community, grass-roots tourism. It is used as a coordination base due to its close proximity to the outside and its access to phone, internet, and fax services. The Finca Educativa was formed to promote a kind of eco-ethnotourism. This is tourism that focuses on learning about ethnic groups and culture and also includes learning about environmental issues while communing with nature.

The Finca Educativa is very particular about the type of tourism that they allow into the community. The amount of tourists admitted must be ecologically sustainable for their area. They do not permit the tour companies from outside to bring in groups that may be culturally insensitive, such as the tourists coming in from the cruise ships in Limon. All guides must be local, and they prefer to take tourists in small eager-to-learn groups, rather than individuals. The Bribri do not want their towns to become a product of tourism, like so many other have, devoted to consumerism, partying, wiping out local traditions, foreign owned businesses, and an artificial “gringo” atmosphere.

In the indigenous pueblo of Watsi community members lead tours through the village to exhibit the way they live, how they farm, and how they make traditional crafts. Often other cultural events such as dances and storytelling are featured. The organization aims to include all members in the community from the youngest to the oldest. They believe that the more the wealth is spread the more of an aiding factor it will be. A theater group of children and teens has been created using the theory of indigenous theater developed by Pablo Presbere. Through theater arts they are portraying their indigenous culture with use of folktales, plays, and dances. The oldest person of the community of the ripe age of 107 is the grandfather and great-grandfather of a majority of the town’s population. He is often the leader of the traditional “Dance of the Vulture” as well as a storyteller during tours.

A major part of the Finca Educativa initiative is the women’s group ACOMUITA. This is a cooperative of 71 indigenous females started 19 years ago by Maria Lopez. Passed from her grandmother and founder of the community, Adela, she was instilled with the importance of continuing their cultural heritage. In the Bribri belief the indigenous bloodline is handed down by the mother and inherited by the girl-children. The females have supreme power over the family and household. In lieu of this, ACOMUITA was formed for helping community development by the traditional leaders, women. The women are usually enthusiastic about being a member of ACOMUITA because they can earn extra money to help their families and send their children to school while feeling empowered.

They have many projects already established and in the making for sustainable tourism development while preserving cultural values. One of the most elaborate projects is the making of organic chocolate. Cacao is a sacred plant chosen by the almighty deity Sibu to make human, and therefore, it is believed to be a representation of the mother of people. Traditionally the indigenous have grown cacao and made chocolate candy and drinks. Yet, the custom was failing due to lack of interest and a devastation of cacao plants caused by the Monilia fungus beginning in 1978.

In 2003 Maria Lopez and the other women initiated the chocolate project through ACOMUITA to revitalize it. They are establishing themselves as organic chocolate producers, farming the fruit and cooking the chocolate. So far, 25 locally involved farms have been certified as organic by the APTA. Tourists come to watch the chocolate making process and sample the delectable treats. It is also sold in nearby towns such as Cahuita and Puerto Viejo, and at other markets throughout the country. Their efforts are keeping tradition alive throughout the community as well as producing ways to gain a much needed income.

Quitirrisi is home to another indigenous community, the Huetar, whom are using tourism as a tool for revitalization to bring back their lost culture. Don Sanchez has started an agenda of tourism based on education and sharing of cultural experiences. Most of the tourists visiting his organization are school children or educational programs.

He showcases many traditions, such as the native style of building houses, an ancestor alter and a sacred corner placed in the farm. There is even a museum of Huetar archaeology of artifacts that he has collected from the region. Don Sanchez gives lectures on the indigenous cosmovision and the history of his people. Finally, he hosts a traditional sweatlodge in which his guests may participate in the sacred ceremony.

Although the Huetar people were once thought to be the largest indigenous group in Costa Rica, their population has dwindled and their culture has followed in the decline. Don Sanchez was raised in the indigenous community of Quitirrisi, but much about his own culture he has learned secondhand through books. Over the passing of time the Huetares has lost their language, customs and belief system. Don Sanchez is desperately struggling to rejuvenate his heritage before it is lost forever.

Tourism is a very weighty force in determining the fate of indigenous peoples. It has the power to destroy or the power to build. If it is regulated properly, it may be used as a significant tool to preserve culture. It must be, however, undertaken by the indigenous communities themselves in a sustainable manner. When this occurs it can be cultivated as a positive cultural exchange in which tourists are happy yet educated, and the indigenous societies may preserve tradition while breaking chains of poverty instilled by the first world.

Tourism Turning Children into Beggars

So often when tourists come to developing countries, they want to help. They come to volunteer or donate or whatnot with good wishes. Yet , more often, these good intentions turn bad. For example, when people start giving money and presents to children. When this starts, it created a dependency. Children learn by behavior. They learn that if they look sad and poor, white people will give them money. They start begging. They don’t want to work if they can get their money from tourists. A good beggar can make more in a day then many people can make in a week. The circle begins. More beggars pop up because the kid tells his friends. Now there is a whole population of children that have dropped out of school, and won’t work because they are begging. Giving them money will not help them, this is the worse thing you can do.



The other day I went to a volcano that is flooded with tourists. When you get off the bus a swarm of at least 20 children gather around you to try to sell you a walking stick. Some sell you a stick for 1 Q some for 5Q or 10 Q if they can get it out of you. At any rate, these sticks aren’t going home with you anyway, so at the end of the day the kid gets his stick back. This is begging. These kids should be in school, not trying to sell sticks. If you buy their sticks you are reaffirming their reliance on tourism. You are not helping them to gain career skills or get educated. If everyone stopped buying sticks because they feel sorry for the poor kids they could go back to school or go back to their families.

I saw one white girl giving all of the kids money. They weren’t even asking for it. She was going up behind them, tapping them on the shoulder and giving them money. Now these children have learned white faces give money. I know the girl was just trying to be nice, but it turns the children into beggars. This is a sad fate. There are other ways to help; donate to schools, play soccer with a group of kids, read the kids a book, visit someone’s home. Don’t give “gifts” that will only hurt a child’s future.

Most people just give beggars money because they look scary and they want them to leave them alone, or stop following them. In India you have to pay to be in silence and alone. The beggars follow you, poking you, wretchedly crooning baksheesh, baksheesh, baksheesh. It is a lot easier to just give them a handful of change then to be confronted with poverty. Poverty is hard to look at, and giving money seems like instant relief. People think, “Oh, I did a good thing. God bless me.” People really need to look deeper into the ramifications of their actions. Tourists make children into beggars, not poverty.

The Pacaya Volcano, Guatemala

I was scheduled to go on a tour to the Pacaya Volcano in the afternoon. This is the first time I have ever, myself, decided to go on a tour and purchased it. It was only $5 though, with private transportation, a guide, and going to a really cool active volcano. I figured it was worth it. The person who booked the tour for me told me to wait at the hotel, and the van would pick me up at 2 pm. I waited, and waited, but no van came. After over a half hour, a person from the tour company came over to tell me that the driver was about to leave. He forgot to tell me that actually I had to go to the central park to pick up the van. I ran over there, and the driver was really peeved. I tried telling him it wasn’t my fault. He thought I was stupid. The worse part is, he had previously been one of my drivers, and of course there had been problems during the ride. Oh well, the guy can be mad all he wants, I am going to a volcano!

This was my first time getting so close to an active volcano. It was hot, and there was lava. It was very surreal. I felt like I was in the Land Before Time, and kept wondering where all the dinosaurs were. Shouldn’t they be crawling out of the hole with the lava?

I think my pictures describe the experience better. I am still a little awestruck and unable to put it into words.

Tourist Police in Guatemala

Dangers in Guatemala
Everything seems to be dangerous for tourists in Guatemala. Everyone has some sort of travel warning; don’t ride local buses, don’t climb the mountains without a machete, don’t walk down that street after dark, don’t eat any of that food. How could it possibly be that dangerous? Why aren’t the police doing anything? I would think the government would be pushing hard to thwart crime and promote the tourism industry, making it safe.

In San Pedro it is recommended not to climb the volcanoes or any of the surrounding mountains without a large group of people, a guide, and a machete, lest you will be robbed. Yet, half-way up the volcano hikers must pay 100 quetzales, about $13 USD to the park police. Why? People are still getting robbed even though they are paying the park police a ridiculous fee to protect the tourists. A few weeks ago a group of 27 tourists were robbed going up the volcano. There has to be a conspiracy. Maybe the cops are getting paid off. These cops need to stop being so corrupt and actually do something more than sit on their fat bottoms collecting tourist money.

(Photo of cops on the street in Antigua, Guatemala)

In Antigua the police infrastructure seems a little better, if not good, respectively. There are cops stationed all around every tourist attraction throughout the city. At night there are a couple of cops standing on each corner of the most tourist trafficked street in the downtown area. After dark there are more cops on the street than civilians.

Tonight I was actually a little comforted by this. Wade and I were coming home a little before 10:00 PM. As we were walking I saw a shady looking guy shadowing us and warned Wade. Sure enough he came over to us and kept trying to put his arm around Wade calling him amigo. If a stranger ever tries to put their arm around you on the street they are probably trying to rob you. Wade is smart. Wade wouldn’t let the guy get within 3 feet of him.

I told the guy in Spanish to go away. I did not want to get robbed tonight. He then started mumbling about how we have no respect. Excuse me mister, but just because I do not let you rob me you say I do not have any respect? Look who is talking! Nice try buddy!

Wade and I never stopped walking and we were nearing a group of cops. The guy took off. Cops are scary. The guy knows he is shady and he knows the cops know it too.

Sometimes cops work, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they are good, often they are bad.

Tourist Shuttle from Antigua to Panajachel

Our shuttle arrives 15 minutes late. The driver tells us to hurry up. He should have been the one hurrying. I have been waiting for him for 45 minutes. The shuttle is already packed like sardines with white English speaking people. For some reason they all get out of the van. The driver is telling them to hurry up and get back into the shuttle. They do no understand and were standing in the street blocking traffic. Horns were honking. The man in the front opened the door precariously short of being hit by a huge semi-truck. What is wrong with these people?

Finally I get in, still not understanding what the fuss was all about even though we all speak the same language. Wade is already pissed. He has to sit in a jump seat. He is surrounded by moron whities. Is this really the luxury that we paid for? We are both smooshed, and feeling like it may have been the same situation even if we had taken the chicken bus instead. Between paying 30 Quetzales for the shuttle bus and 25 quetzales for the chicken bus, I don´t know if I got such a good deal.

(Photo of a Chicken Bus in Guatemala painted with flames)

We started off and the honkies started talking. There was a Canadian couple. The woman was pregnant. There was a family from Hawaii and some foreign lady who spoke excellent English, probably a Russian. These were all people who traveled but they were not travelers. They had adventured all over the world but somehow not gained any common sense from their trips.

The Canadian man was so nerdy and such a pushover milktoast that I have no idea how he ever left Canada in the first place. His girlfriend was a little better, but had very strange thoughts about her end-all and be-all “back-packers” trip through Asia. I give her points though for being so adventurous while pregnant, but I think it is stupid to go on an “oh so strenuous” vacation while pregnant.

The family were upper-middle class pseudo-intellectual liberals. Their daughter was going through a stage and decided to spend a year off in between highschool and college traveling through Central America. This was a smart move. She needed to escape from her parents.
They were trying to be open and worldly. They were the kind of people that go “Oh wow” to the dumbest possible things. They are the kind of people who spend too much money and raise prices so it is hard for a tramp to travel. This ride was hardly bearable. The babblers were loud. The babble was bad.

The scenery on the other hand was beautiful. Winding through steep mountains, scary roads and slash and burn farms. Coming upon Panajachel there is a spectacular view of the sparkling blue lake and the gigantic volcanoes.

A Long Stay in Antigua

I have been in Antigua, Guatemala for about 10 days now. This is a long stay. I do not even know how I have spent these last days. Antigua is a beautiful little colonial town, but it feels stale. There are so many tourists that I see more white people daily than Guatemaltecos. The tourists have over saturated the town with money as well, so everything is way overpriced. There are swanky craft shops, expensive European style bars, and every comfort one would find in the modern world. I cannot afford to eat in this town as a result, and I definitely cannot afford to party either. One beer costs more than lunch and drinking would leave me in the poor house.

(Venders in Antigua and a woman carrying baskets on their heads)

I found a hotel that includes breakfast and wi-fi internet for around $7 a night/person. Hotel Shalom. If you can bear Israelis it ain’t a bad place. Breakfast is filling and the internet is fast. The employees are friendly and the place is clean.
It was a nice place to sit for a while. I think I had my head stuck in my computer the whole time researching and writing for my portfolio though.

(Photo of indigenous women selling fruit in the streets on Antigua)

This town is rather boring to do anything else. It is too expensive to buy fun and it is too gentrified to experience anything. It is a tourist bubble. I am ready to leave, heading for Lake Atitlan.

Girls Underwear and Shady Hotels in Panama City

Embarrassing Unmentionables

Latin Americans, because of certain Catholic cultural values, are forced to make love in coveted, mysterious ways. They cannot bring their lovers home to show off to their families, so the common custom is to rent a room in a “love” motel. These unsavory places are also the frequent haunts of prostitutes looking for customers. These hotels are present all over the Latin world. They offer rates by the hour, and usually have the cheapest price in town. Sad to say, I have often stayed in these hotels out of sheer economics. Often there is no other affordable option for the traveler in more expensive cities.

Such a place is Panama City. Because of the vast historical heritage, the quaint restored colonial avenues of Casco Viejo, the lore of the largest canal in the world, and the rich culture of the land, Panama City has a large tourism infrastructure. There are hundreds of beautiful sky high resort type hotels in swanky, clean parts of the city. These huge white monstrosities, however, are far out of y price range. The youth hostels ran an average price of $10 per night. I thought this was also expensive for a bed without a lock open to robbery, sleeping in a room full of dirty, smelly hippie kids and sticky, fungus-floored communal bathrooms. Like the other tourist hotels, the hostels were on the outskirts of the center city, in nice quiet residential and business districts that utterly stank of America money. These places provided the comfort of ambiguity as to any indication of the region of the world, void of all cultural or uncomfortable aspects of the country. These blank places seem to comfort the rich tourist while on vacation. Yet then again what person with money to spend would want to stay in the loud, exhaust-filled, wild center of Panama City when they could sleep in silence?

I and my purse, however, were in for the center city. A few stops in seedy hotels, and I finally found a private room with a bathroom in a quaint hotel for a fraction of the price of a hostel dorm bed.

From my window I looked down upon the main drag where I had a clear view of all the action of the city; the wildly painted pimped buses, the street vendors selling cigarettes and gum from huge baskets and the Cuna women walking passed in their beaded and stitched garbs. The surging multitude was like watching a parade, complete with the honking of cars and blaring reggaeton, Latin and Caribbean rhythms. It was located amongst a wide range of local restaurants and bars, within a minute’s walk of the busy street markets on one side and a tranquil, lazy park on the other. This was far more exciting than being stuck up in the dead banking district.

It was, although, of the unsavory category of a love motel. The sidewalk in front was heavily shaded by thick bushes to obscure the view of entry through the front door. The paper thin walls in the interior did nothing to hide the nature of the hotel either.

Entering the afternoon of my check-in, I heard panting through the hallways. Stopping to wait for the elevator, I determined that the sounds were coming from the adjacent room from a couple obviously in the act of after lunch coitus. After hearing all too much of the shrill pleasure moaning and the bed-posts thumping against the walls, I scampered away up the stairs, too discomfited to wait longer for the elevator while forced to eavesdrop on the mating pair.

That night, unlike the activities of the other guests, I washed my clothes. I hung them over the windowsill in hope that they would dry in the cool night breeze before morning.

During the night I was roused by a strong wind blowing in my 4^th story window, banging the shutters against the brick exterior. Half asleep, and forgetting about my wet clothes, I shut the windows, bolting them against the harsh wind. The next morning I awoke to a wind-blown room with every item that could catch the wind strewn about the floor. My two clean shirts were tightly locked in the window, but shockingly my underwear was gone. The torrential gusts the night before must have blown them away.

They were not in the room, nor in my pile of luggage. I flung open the shutters and searched the street. I saw nothing. I dressed and went out to search the street. I ran, a little ashamed, around the surrounding blocks, but found not even the slightest sign of my panties. Gone. Disappeared. They were nowhere to be found. I let go of the notion of ever discovering them again and bid farewell.

The worst part is this underwear was not just any normal, ordinary pair. They were the well-hidden, unappealing period panties. Even uglier than the average granny panty, these are the ones only used when there is absolutely no likelihood whatsoever of being seen. They are a most clandestine secret of women, never to be revealed to the eyes of men. (For the reader’s sake I dare not go into further gruesome description as to the appearance of the well-worn garment.) My unmentionable secret had flown like a kite out of the window and was now on the loose in Panama City, exposed to the world.

My dirty secret was out there, but it did not match the dirty secrets of the other hotel guests. Because of the risqué location they had probably been identified and wrongly accused as those of a woman of the night. My mind ran through possible scenarios of what may have happened to my underwear. Had they been taken by someone? Were they now covering someone else’s nether regions? Was there a panty-sniffer on the loose? Would this panty-snatcher search me out? What kind of sick person would touch someone else’s period panties anyway? Would I ever find out the answers to this strange mystery?

I somehow forgot about the uncomforting experience, and moved on for the period panty is an utmost forgettable piece of one’s wardrobe. It is not an article of clothing that women often fret over in daily life. It is only donned once a month and with more contempt than delight. While traveling, a female does not often contemplate such matters with too much worry for the majority of weeks.

Thirty days later I was reminded of the incident, to my dissatisfaction and discomfort. In my absent-mindedness I have not gotten around to purchasing another adequate undergarment for the occasion. There are now four countries between me and my lost panties. I am left with frilly, stringy, lacy pieces that hardly cover anything worth mentioning. In my forgetfulness I have reduced myself to wearing my bathing suit, the only adequate piece of cloth to cover myself. This will have to do until a lingerie store in rural Honduras can be found.

Drinking Green Coconuts in Panama

Drinking a huge green coconut walking down the street. Once I had sucked down all the sweet liquid I hurdled it onto the beach. A Panamanian man from a car yelled at me, “Don’t throw your garbage. You need to help us clean.”

I screamed back, “It was a coconut.”

The man’s huge SUV was obviously polluting more than I was as I could barely breathe due to the rush hour traffic. I looked next to the side of the road. It was so covered with trash thrown from cars that I could not see any green except for the coconut I had just thrown.

I and the other foreigners are not the ones to blame for the rubbish there. Why don’t the Panamanians help themselves and put up a few garbage cans along the sidewalk?

Coconuts are not trash. Coconuts are natural. They decompose when they are thrown outside. I think it is utterly stupid to throw a coconut in a garbage can.

Panama Viejo, Panama City

Pirates Sack Old Panama

Long ago when Central America was still called the New World, and pirates still sailed the Caribbean waters, Panama City was built over the sparkling blue waters on the tiny isthmus. Henry Morgan and his crew sacked the city in 1671, razing it to ruins. These fearsome fiends searching for riches and control over sea-power cannonballed and ransacked the tiny colony of the Spanish.

Today evidence of this blunder still stands, with broken foundations poking out of the poor section of the new Panama City. UNESCO has made the ruins of Panama Viejo a national heritage site, forever preserving the site and the history of marauding pirates.

Wade and I took a local bus, and the driver dropped us across the street from the site. Not seeing an entrance, Wade showed up the low fence. In pirate nature he abandoned his wench, bounding over the fence and trespassing into the ruins. I cried out after him, but he was hidden amongst the dilapidated houses.

Before I had a chance to follow, a guard was heading my way. He eyed me and returned to his post in front of a gate. I walked towards the opening intending to slip through. The guard barred my way.

“Where are you going?”
“To the ruins.”
“To do what?”
“To look of them, of course.”
“Why are you coming through this gate?”
“I don’t see another gate.”
“But you have to enter through the main entrance.”
“Why can’t I enter through this gate?”
“You aren’t allowed.”
“But why not? I want to.”
“But people enter through the other gate. Cars come in this gate.”
“But I am at this gate too. Can’t I enter here?”

This went on until I finally gave up, and he pointed me in the direction of the main entrance. In the scorching Panamanian sun it felt like miles. When I arrived, I quickly walked through a gate trying to scout passed the ticket booth.

“Señora! Miss! Señorita! Miss! Pardon! Excuse me!” annoyingly called the man in the booth. I pretended not to hear him until he began to rise from his seat to stalk me. Damn.

I sauntered over, head down, trying to put on a mean face. Sure enough I would have to pay to enter the site legally. I scanned the board of prices cringing at the US dollar signs. Luckily there was a student discount. I gruffly told the man my scholarly position and my fare was lowered to $2.

I finally gained entrance, extremely pissed about the whole fiasco. I searched for Wade simply to let out some anger and call him a butt for leaving me. We hiked around the unimpressive ruins, only stopping to read the signs about the pirates. There was not much to take pictures of except for a few fallen down, lichen-encrusted stone walls that once belonged to the wealthy of the city.

The main structure was a tower which was once a church steeple. At the base of the building a group of people with official looking badges surrounded us asking to see out tickets. I showed mine, as Wade searched for a non-existent ticket and stammered that he must have lost it. A lady called someone on a walkie-talkie, presumably the ticket vendor, asking if Wade had paid. The vendor had not seen a man with a beard and a red and black checkered shirt (as Wade was being described). I translated the conversation to Wade, anticipating trouble from the nearby armed guards.

Wade fled the scene without another word. I nonchalantly mounted the winding steps of the ancient temple, pretending not to know the man with the beard. I climbed the 5 flights of the bell tower alone. At the top, I looked out on the unappealing landscape and did not see Wade anywhere.

When I climbed down, I still did not see Wade. I circled the entire site and he was nowhere to be found. Damn kid had disappeared again.

For more Photos from my trip to Panama visit: Wanderjahr Jill´s Travel Photo Blog

European Cafe VS American Coffee

America likes big. Big Gulp, Big Mac, Super size, Extra Sauce, Texas Sized. The bigger the better. Maybe this is why ,y first European coffee in a Lisbon cafe hit me like a shock, not because of the caffiene, but because of the itsy-bitsy cup. I ordered "um cafe," not a cappucino, not a latte, not a mocha, not an espresso, not any of that sophisticated crap, but a simple cup of coffee.

(This is a "large" sized coffee in Lisbon, but it still comes half full)

In America the barista would probably return with a mug filled to the brim with hot, dark liquid, and I would be left to my own devices to add cream and sugar to my hearts content. My European Barista (he was actually from Germany, not Portugal) returned with a ceramic cup the size of a shot glass, half- way empty with incredibly strong coffee. I am also handed a small packet of sugar, but there is no cream to be had, or extra sugar to be dispensed. This tiny "mug" was so tiny I couldn't even fit one finger through the handle. It reminded me of my childhood toy cups that I had tea parties with my dolls. I had no choice but to pinch the miniscule cup with two fingers and raise my pinky like a snobby bastard. I felt ridiculous, but everyone else in the cafe were drinking their small cups of java like it was the coolest thing in the world.

My coffee was consumed in 3 seconds flat. What happened to my long, slow cup of coffee while I relaxed and read the paper in a cafe?

For my next cup of coffee I ordered the "cafe americano" hoping for a Texas sized 7/11 cup. No Luck! It came, and yes, it was put in a larger cup, but the quantity was still about the same, less than half full.

To an American, this is an outrage. When I buy a cup of something I want it to be a full cup. I am paying cash for this! I could buy 20 ounzes of coffee at any convinient store in the USA for the same price as this dribble of European coffee.

I am tired of these weiny European cups!

Travel Photos

Well, my travel photos really never turn out as planned. I always think I am taking more pictures than I actually am, until I load them onto a computer, and realize.....I have taken 4 pictures in a whole month. Maybe not that bad, but I don't have any digital pictures until when I was leaving Lisbon. I guess this is because I am still relying on my film camera, oh so stubbornly.




Wade and I have taken a lot of ferry boats so far in Portugal. This is our crossing from Lisbon to, well, the other side of Lisbon.


This is a beach in Setubal. This exposed me to my first dose of naked portuguese men on the beach. They walk around bearing all to the world. I still think it is a little funny and hide my giggles behind my hand.



This is a little cafe where I practically lived in Setubal. They sell coffee AND beer. So you get there in the morningand drink coffee until it is time to drink beer and you never have to leave. Amazing! The woman was very nice as well, so if you pass through you should stop in and have a drink. They also have free internet which is handy! Internet cafes in Portugal are so expensive! They usually charge around $5 or 6 USD per hour, and that just is not condusive to writing blogs.


This is another ferry boat that we took from Setubal to the other side of the river. Motorcycles cost the same amount as bicycles! I don't think that is fair! I don't have a motor on my bicycle!

For more pictures of my Portugal travels visit My Travel Photos
I am currently updating the site so there are lots of older pictures from previous travels mixed in. excuse the mess!

Bad Luck Sally and the Crazy Roommate

Hostels worldwide can be hit or miss. They are cheap. Despite all the bull one has to put up with, they, again, are cheap.

This bout of Bad Luck was had in the Lisbon International Youth Hostel. This hostel is actually a short train ride away in the suburb of Oeiras. It is tucked away through a maze of beach resorts, and virtually impossible to find.

Wade and I spent half a day walking all over the circuitous streets and confusing traffic circles searching for this place, as it was the cheapest place we knew of. (A true traveler will walk all day to save a dollar).

When we were checking in, I noticed an old lady dressed in raggish, mismatched clothes yelling at one of the staff. From the way they reacted to her I could tell she had been around for a while and she was considered a bother.

I went to my room and noticed I had a room mate. I looked over her bed, but did not see anything really to distinguish anything as to her character. (Okay, this may be creepy, but I am curious about people I have to sleep in the same room with.) I didn’t see a room mate all day, and when I went to sleep that night there was still no sign.

After a few hours of rest I was awakened by a loud group of Portuguese college students running about in the hallway. Then, there was a knock at the door. I ignored it, thinking it was the kids playing around, and if it were my roommate they would just open the door and come in. It persisted. I finally opened it to find the crazy lady. I let her in and went back to bed, but she just stood there looking at me in the dark. She began talking to me and saying something about the key and the door and who knows. I gave her the key and went to sleep after putting up my sarong along the bunk as a barrier. That night I was roused many times as this lady walked around the room, mumbled to herself, and rustled around in her baggage.

The next morning I awoke and she and the key to the room were gone. I went about my regular business, ate breakfast, etc. I needed to go back to my room by midday, so I asked the receptionist for the key (there is only one). She didn’t have it. I found the old lady and asked her for the key. She said she did not have it. I said she did. She looked through her pockets and dumped out a paper bag of odds and ends like corks, empty cigarette packets, and bits of string. She rifled through it to no avail.

My roommate began explaining some strange scenario about the key to the receptionist. The receptionist looked at me sympathetically and gave me the maid’s key.

“You can change rooms in 2 days when we have empty space,” she whispered.

The lady followed me and the key to the room. I opened the door to find the key sitting on my roommate’s bed. She looked surprised and exclaimed, “I did not put the key there!” She looked at me accusingly. I ran away.

Her antics continued and she was particularly active in the middle of the night. One night she even unpacked her entire locker, piled it in the hallway, and then repacked it around 2 AM.

As luck would have it, of course I get the crazy roommate…

My Travel Photos

Bad Luck Sally and the Rock Throwers

Bad Luck Strikes again in Gibraltar!

The day that Wade and I went to Gibraltar was beautiful, clear-skied, and cheery. The sun
however beats down incessantly in this part of the world, and is especially harsh as it is radiating off of a huge black rock named Gibraltar. This tiny “county” of rock and sea is the most expensive I have been to yet. I was already disgusted by my USD against the Euro, and the English Pound is far worse. As a result, the most economic route to ascend the rock was on foot. Tramping up the incredibly steep incline with my weighty backpack, I seriously feared rolling backwards off of a cliff.

Halfway up the rock I was drenched with sweat, my shoulders ached, and my water supply was dissipated. Yet I kept on trekking, despite my utter annoyance. I watched enviously as other tourists rolled up the hill in their air-conditioned cars when “Boom!” It hit me! A stone, that is, which was thrown from the window of a car load of boys. They zoomed away laughing as I stood there stunned before I emitted a storm of tears and wild threats. They had pegged me right in the temple of my head. The anger was not at the pain of the rock, as this was rather minimal, but at the inconsiderateness of the rock throwers. Who could be that mean-spirited and unsympathetic? And why did these people choose me to throw rocks at? Did they notice my unlucky halo?

Up The Rock of Gibraltar, A Gloomy Sight

From Algeciras Wade and I took a local bus to Gibraltar, the great British colony. This rock is one of the last remaining territories of the once great Royal British Empire. The Rock of Gibraltar has been disputed for generations and fought over in the battle of Trafalgar.

Huge and awkward, this rock is strategically placed along the only route by water to the East Indies without the tedious journey all the way around massive Africa. It can be seen for miles around and what struck me as the most curious was the fog above Gibraltar’s outstanding head.

For some freakish reason unbeknownst to me, the eternally sunny blue skies are broken by a solitary cloud covering Gibraltar, shrouding it in mist and fog. It is almost cartoonish, like when a character is having a bad luck day and a storm cloud follows them around, hovering only above his head. It is an authentic taste of the English climate miraculously transplanted into the sun-baked landscape of southern Spain. The mist, fog, and sogginess of London descends upon the rock. Maybe this is why the British forces fought so hard for the rock. The dreariness must remind them of home.

My Travel Photos

The Spainish Language and Comprehension

Wade and I arrived in Spain I the middle of the night. I was groggy and travel worn, but somehow my Spanish came back to me like a clap of thunder that starts a flash flood. Even after not speaking a word of Spanish for over 1 ½ years, and studying three other languages in the elapsed time, the language was still lodged deep in the basement of my brain. It was readily accessible in a time of need.

I could understand people again! And furthermore, people could understand me! I could ask questions, get directions, and even have conversations with local people. Wow! This is a shock after not understanding anyone around me for long periods of time. Such as every time I return to the U.S. and suddenly everyone is speaking English.

It felt so strange. In India and Morocco Wade had always done all the talking as women are treated differently to in these countries. They are not expected to talk, nor are they spoken to. In China, Wade knew more Chinese, so obviously his comprehension and language skills could take us farther than mine. But in Spain, my Spanish is better than his, so I am the leader.

Easter 2007

The Devil and I went to church this fine morning. Listening to the preacher woman and contemplating on Jesus.

Chinese Goodies

West Lake Beauty and Battling the Crowds on a Sunday Stroll

Finding Religion in India

India is a land of religions. There is hardly a sect of any religion that cannot be found here, not to mention the religions that actually have their origin in the country. It is a place of mystics and magic and saints and temples. Religion constitutes a way of life in India, lived out in manners varying to the greatest degrees. Eighty percent of the population identifies themselves as Hindus, yet from one village to the next, one community to the next, one individual to the next, it is approached in entirely different modes. Even the basic deities are unique. In Indian society, people of the highest religious devotion are at the top of the societal pyramid.
From all of this, India seems to be a beacon of religion, almost like Jerusalem or Mecca. Westerners flock to the country in pilgrimage to find religion, to experience religion, or to view religion. There are countless ashrams, yoga centers, and other spiritual retreats almost entirely devoted to Western “religious tourists.” India’s supposed to be a place to just blow your mind and blow you away spiritually. This is an idea that the beat generation and the hippies of the 60’s and 70’s all followed to the country.
As a child India stood for the Holy land in my mind. My parents had both been followers of Meher Baba. I was weaned on stories of the richness to be found in this land of palaces and holy cows. It was always that far off place I would one day get to, to make my pilgrimage. Each and every time I encounter a Baba Lover, the first question is always, “Have you been to India?” It is as if going to India and making a pilgrimage to Meher Baba’s tomb somehow makes you holier, or more devout.
Yet I’ve grown to think of it a little differently. The search for spiritualism feels a little fake to me, like some kind of new age religious trend of the health food eaters. In spite of that there must be some truth to this romantic ideal because still the travelers pour in.
My first night in Bombay, after strolling the market, finding only the opium dealers were open, I wandered into a restaurant almost entirely filled with foreigners. The room chattered with a plethora of languages as tie-dyed fabrics flapped around scraggly white bodies adorned with tattoos, piercings, and dreadlocks. Immediately a young woman sitting at a table beside the door invited me to have a seat.
Her head was shaved, and her watery blue eyes wandered about lost in something unseen. It was as if she was trying to make up her mind on a very important decision that kept distracting her every last thought. I ordered a drink, and she offered me her peanuts and her conversation.
Before names were even exchanged, she pointed out to an invisible figure in the crowd introducing him as “the man who took her spiritual virginity when she was seven.” She said he was ignoring her, so she would talk to me instead. After a few attempts to make small talk, I realized she was completely gone from this world. Her mind could not focus on a solid thread of thought or consciousness. She braided sentence fragments of strands of our conversation, past, present, and future, until it all wrapped up with her intensely staring into my eyes. The woman had been in India for 6 months and it didn’t look like she was ever scheduled to fully leave with all of her original baggage.
I finished my drink and fled the scene. I was utterly afraid of her state of being. If India did this to her, what will it entail for me? Too many times these traveling pilgrims find what they’re looking for, but it is something that cannot survive in any context outside of India.

Cultural Rajasthan

I feel that throughout my stay in India I have not been able to scratch through the cultural surface. My experiences have been benign and shallow, like I am completely missing something. I have not yet made any connections with the people or the culture. I am in India, but I do not feel as if I am in India. I am still living in my own little bubble without being poked with anything Indian.
How does one get through this barrier? Is it even possible to get passed it and if so, is there even a point? What are my intentions and what am I expecting? I suppose I want just to be treated as another human being rather than a foreigner or a tourist; to become a peer rather than an audience, so I am not just watching a show, removed from the realities. That seems to be a problem in anthropology. There is always the “us” and the “them.”
I was hoping that the trek into the Thar Desert of Rajasthan would offer something culturally interesting and less superficial than what I had already encountered. So far, Jaipur and Jaisalmer had been rather difficult because of the intense tourist industry. It was almost impossible to converse with anyone who did not want me to buy something or give them a handout.
Despite encountering this same thing in the desert, the experience was much richer. I came across three groups of people that all construct very interesting dynamics of desert life.
First, there were the camel drivers and the people who cater to tourists. My camel driver had a stately nose resting upon a twirled, well-groomed moustache. He wore a simple cotton long sleeved shirt with a white dhoti and disintegrating camel leather shoes in which he had probably walked a thousand miles. His only pomp was the typical Rajasthani gold and ruby earrings with a chain that wraps around the ear. When we dismounted, he knelt in the sand and started mashing paan masala in his hand. I plopped down next to him, flashed a smile and attempted to start a conversation. The language barrier made this a little challenging so we just laughed at each other.
I later found out that he was a Bhil, one of the major scheduled tribes in Rajasthan. They are relegated to the Shudra caste due to their tribal status, yet as a people they are very proud. They were once renowned throughout Rajasthan as great nomadic warriors who contributed military aid to the rulers of Mewar.
A group of gypsies waited on the dunes where we were making camp. I approached the minstrels, greeting them with “Namaste,” but not really knowing anything else to say in Hindi. Anitha soon arrived to ease my communication difficulties. Two elder men wore huge colorful turbans and carried mouth harps. A girl of about five decked to the nines in a pink dress and silver jewelry and a boy in jeans were the dancers. I sat next to the young man, who was not wearing any sort of costume.
While the students and the other gypsies conversed with Anitha as our translator, the young man and I motioned to each other and checked out our differences. I poked at the three little tattoos on his arm, and he poked at my bangles. A camel driver came over with a bag of soda for sale. The gypsy asked me to buy one, and we shared it.
The gypsies are nomadic half the year, as they follow their traditional heritage as