Category Archives: I didn’t plan this

I’m Afraid of Heights, but I Jumped from a 35 Foot Platform into Lake Atitlan

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Every time I step close to the edge of an elevated area, my hands start to sweat. It’s a natural reaction because I’m afraid of heights, and have been ever since I can remember. I don’t like ladders, hotel balconies, or views from the summit. I think I’m getting better though, and rarely do I back down from a challenge to see someone’s roof, spit off a balcony, or pose for a picture with my back to cliff’s edge. So when some of the students from San Pedro School wanted to go to San Marcos to jump off the rocks, I agreed without any deliberation.

If you go to Lake Atitlan, I encourage you to visit San Pedro, the sleepy tourist town where I’m learning to speak Spanish, and take the boat for $1 to San Marcos. Upon your arrival to San Marcos you’ll see a newly built wooden platform that stands about 12 meters, or 36 feet, above the water. You may even see a reluctant voyager nervously waiting at the platform’s edge. He or she will be trying to build up enough courage to take the leap, politely ignoring all the voices from their friends, and listening only to the voice inside that says “I’m pretty sure it’s about 500 feet, and there’s no way you’re going to make it . . .”

Once you arrive at the dock, It’s a 5 minute walk to the rocks, and there’s a nice little cafe next to the rocks where you can debate with your friends on who’s going to take the plunge.

We make it to the platform and I accidentally look over the side. “Whoah. This is way bigger than I thought . . .” I’m concerned about rocks and my general safety, but the locals say that you’ve got over 25 feet of water before you touch the bottom of the lake, and some local workers have removed all the nearby rocks and built a nice platform for a safe depature.

My group is ready, which means that the guys are going first. I’ve got my trunks on so there’s no need to have second thoughts. I toss my shirt and flip flops to the side. I step back to the end of the platform. For me, the thought process is simple. If I think about it I’m not going to do it. So I don’t think, and start running off the edge . . .

It’s at this point where I realize that I’ve got a long way to go.

and . . .

SPLASH!!!

Immediately, relief and joy wash over me from another challenge met. I swim to the side to watch the rest of the guys jump off. The view from the water isn’t as scary as it is from the top. Sometimes it’s the “not knowing” that’s the scariest.

(Here’s my friend Dave jumping into the water, he’s got a better view of the volcano in the background.)

I swim over to the small rocks to relax. With my big accomplishment completed it’s time to have fun. My friend Amy has a nice Canon DSLR and I tell her that I’m going to dive. She’s perfectly situated for a perfect shot.

This is me mid-air as I’m diving off the 3 meter rocks.

I got a 9.5 score for this dive. If I had pointed my toes, I would have received a perfect 10. You might be thinking it’s strange that I dove off the one that was almost 10 feet.

I suppose after you make the big leap, everything seems more manageable.

The Economics of Letting Your Coffee Get Cold

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I had every intention to learn a little bit more about the effects of mal-appropriated economic distribution in the world of international development, but another coffee patron interrupted my studies when she introduced herself just inches away from my face.

During my last full day in San Pedro for awhile, I went to get some coffee and to read one of my nerdy books. I’ve been re-reading “Economics in One Lesson” in preparation for my fellowship in the Dominican Republic and I had just opened it to my bookmarked chapter when Angelica crawled up on the chair next to me.

“Como te llamas?”

“Me nombre es Aaron, y tu?”

“Angelica”

“Angelica? Una nombre bonita.”

“Si, queires jugar un juego?”

“Ummm . . . (I guess I’m not going to read anything this afternoon) . . . si!”

She put her finger up to her mouth to pause and to ponder what game we would play. She announced one, and then uttered “No, that’s too difficult.” Then another, “Mmm, no that’s too difficult . . . oh, I know, we’ll play this . . .”

She motions for me to put my hands out and proceeds to sing the instructions to a game as she moves her hands in the appropriate positions. She stops and looks at me and says “Follow me!”

I stick out my hands and mirror what she is doing. It’s one of those games that kids play in school where they put their hands out in the air and the other person is supposed to mirror the movements and slap the other person’s hands at the correct times.

“Peekachu, arriba” (up)

“Peekachu, bajo” (down)

“Peekachu. Este lado.” (this side)

“Peekachu. Otro lado. (other side)

At this point I’m just laughing out loud. This darling of a 5 year old has completely captivated my attention and is depriving me of economic theory and warm coffee. She’s quite demanding and says “Hey!” as I look away.

So after we put both our hands on our shoulders, we put our hands behind our back. I still don’t know what game we are playing, but when she brings out her right hand with two fingers holding up, I’m thinking we are playing a counting game. I quickly make two fingers and she laughs and motions to put our hands behind our backs again. She brings out 5 fingers this time, and I bring out 4 fingers. She’s mad now. I screwed up the game. We have to start over.

“Peekachu, arriba . . . bajo . . . este . . . otro . . .”

I bring out 3 fingers. She’s yelling at me: “Start over!”

“Peekachu, arriba . . . bajo . . . este . . . otro . . .”

Ok, ok. I’m getting it now. We are playing rock, paper, scissors. I’m good at this. I’m pretty sure I can beat a 5 year old.

I bring out scissors and she brings out a rock. I lose. She pinches my cheek and insists that the game begins again while she is still pinching my cheek. I am not familiar with the Guatemalan rules regarding rock, paper, scissors, but this is just kind of silly.

This time, I win. She makes me pinch her cheek.

Now imagine the situation that has transpired here. There’s a lukewarm cup of coffee sitting next to a book about economic theory and a 27 year old bearded man wearing shorts is playing rock, paper, scissors with a 5 year old Guatemalan girl and they are pinching each others cheeks and preparing for the championship.

(Yes, living in Central America for almost 2 months has taught me that sometimes you just need to set aside your agenda and let your coffee get cold.)

“Peekachu, arriba . . . bajo . . . este . . . otro . . .”

I show paper. She shows scissors.

She squeals with joy as she runs away downstairs. I laugh to myself, sit back in my chair, and drink the rest of my cold coffee. By this time, I need to head back home for dinner so I gather my things and make my way downstairs and I see Angelica sitting on the coffee bar. She’s still celebrating her victory or maybe she’s just always full of joy. She turns to me and says:

“Adios Amigo!”

Oh, what an evening . . . instead of learning more about international development I played rock, paper, scissors and had to drink my coffee cold because I got beat by a five year old Guatemalan. I’m sure there’s an economic lesson in there somewhere, but I think I’ll reopen that chapter another day.

Hector Plans a Heist

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After class today I had the front door to my room shut. You can access my room via the balcony . . . and that’s just what Hector did.

Oh, you left your shoes in here? How did that happen?

Yep, there they are. Looks like “you need to get them” huh?

A massive amount of effort.

“I ain’t paying attention Hector. It ain’t like I’m seeing you nab my Spanish/English Bible so stealthily.”

“Oh, so your shoes are out on the balcony? By all means, go retrieve them . . .”

Such a cute thief.

Soccer Unifies Countries, Teachers, and Students

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San Pedro Spanish School extends invites to everyone. During my first real week there my teacher learned that I play soccer, or really, love everything about soccer. He set to work organizing a game between the students and the teachers. Apparently, from time to time, the teachers like to scrimmage the students. To our benefit we had a good selection of players from around the world. We had the four Kiwis from www.angelstothehorn.com, an American from Minnesota, a dude from London, England, and for good measure, a doctor who brought the total Kiwi count to five.

We played for about 2 hours in the small, synthetic field in San Pedro. The Kiwi’s didn’t have regular shoes because they only brought their rugged, steel-toed boots for the long motorcycle ride form Los Angeles to South America, so they played in their socks. Quickly we realized that the Guatemalans were beating us quite badly. Our strategy shifted as we recruited a Guatemalan to play with us. Slowly, the score began to even. I guess the only way to beat Guatemalans is with Guatemalans.

Here’s a picture of our Maestros v. Estudiantes championship game. (I think the final score was tied.)

I Got a Haircut for a Dollar and then I Played Guitar for the Barber

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Sometimes, the most random things happen to you when you travel. I never thought I’d be singing Oasis songs on a borrowed guitar while sitting in a barber shop in San Pedro Guatemala while my friend from Australia was getting his haircut for a dollar and the barber and the other gentleman were conversing in the local Mayan language: Tz’utijil.

I had wanted to get my haircut for quite some time, but I was hesitant to bring it up in class ’cause I thought it was a weird question to ask my teacher. He didn’t think it was weird at all, in fact, I could see he was happy that I was interested in experiencing another element of Guatemalan culture: the Barber Shop.

Most Guatemalans have good, clean haircuts. It always seems like their hair is well kept and trimmed. I always wondered how they managed to get so many haircuts because in the United States, haircuts can be really expensive. Not in Guatemala; haircuts are cheap. Well cheap to the gringo, like me, but probably cheap in general. It only costs 10Q to get your haircut, which is about $1.20.

I would get haircuts all the time if they were that cheap and if I didn’t usually cut my hair myself.

Well anyway, my teacher and I met up in the afternoon to go the barber shop. He had a friend that owned a little shop. When we entered the barber was sleeping and the lights were off. We woke him up by asking if his store was open. He responded with, “Por Supuesto!” which means “of course!” He turned on the lights and I jumped in the seat. It’s a good thing I know what size I normally use for clippers because it just made it incredibly easy. He did a good job.

My Australian friend, Shane, jumps in the chair next. Shane is a tall guy, and he has tall hair. He was worried that the barber might want to chop too much of it off. I jokingly told the barber that Shane wanted a Kangaroo etched in his hair. Shane didn’t think this was terribly funny, but in the end, Shane was able to get a haircut that was simply a “reducion.”

There was a guitar sitting next to me so I asked the barber if he played guitar. He responded that he was learning “poco a poco” and he asked if I did. I responded that I did and he wanted me to play it.

It was one of those moments where I just knew I had to go for it

I’ve had a few of those while traveling. (One of the other one’s was jumping off a 9 meter rock into Lake Atitlan.) But this time, I grabbed the guitar and thought to myself, “Oh wow, what am I going to play for 2 Guatemalans and my Australian friend?” It was a good thing that Shane made a song request. He wanted to hear some Oasis.

So here we go, this was after “Wonderwall” and “Don’t Look Back in Anger.”

I absolutely love randomness.

I Don’t Think You Should Feel Bad for the Goalie

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Guatemalan youth are quite good at soccer and they can kick the ball ridiculously hard at each other. I always feel bad for the goalie when I play. He’s got to withstand an aerial assault of shots from talented players at close distances, and I’ve never seen a goalie wear gloves here in Guatemala. They probably can’t afford it, but maybe it’s a sign of machismo, and being that most Guatemalan males try really hard to be manly, I can see why they’d scoff at the idea of goalie gloves. Still, I feel bad for the poor kid who has to stand in the net while the other kids launch deadly accurate soccer balls at his body.

San Pedro has two main soccer fields and I visited both today. One is a smaller field that’s under an open air roof and consists of synthetic turf (not pictured in this post). Concrete benches line the small pitch and there is a small tienda that sells snacks and controls the radio station. The other field, I commonly refer to as “arriba” (which means up), is almost entirely dirt (all the pictures in this post are from the arriba field). It’s a regulation size pitch with 25 foot high fences to block the ball from going into the lake. That’s actually a joke that the spectators told me today. We were about a half of a mile from the lake, but sitting in the stands you can only see the lake and the mountains in the distance, so when a ball flies out of the regulation area, you expect to see and hear a huge splash.

Indoor Soccer with 5 v 5

Today, I played at the synthetic pitch and I showed up at 11:05. I thought I was late. A guy told me that Guatemalan time is different than American time. He was right. Twenty minutes later the rest of the youth showed up at field and we were ready to play. I like the style that they play here: five versus five and the first team to score a goal wins the game and the next team comes onto play. This way you can maximize the amount of playing time for everyone and get the most amount of games in during your time slot.

Perceptions about Money and Possessions

Whenever you want to play, you have to rent the field. It’s about 80 quetzales to rent the field for an hour, or about $10, and split between 20 kids, that should be about 4Q per kid, but since I was a gringo, I paid 10Q. In reality, I should have paid 20Q or 40Q or maybe the whole price. I know it’s not a good idea to flaunt that you have money, it’s kind of an insult to the Guatemalans. I know I really don’t have money by American standards, but in Guatemala, I’m a rich man.

I found myself feeling guilty for having so much money in my wallet, and wearing my Adidas shorts, and one of my soccer shirts from a team back home. I felt bad for the other kids. They didn’t have tennis shoes, they didn’t always wear shorts, and they didn’t wear athletic shirts. They wore whatever they had. To play soccer for an hour doesn’t require as much preparation of a uniform, it just means that you need to show up. I kept thinking about all this while waiting for my turn to play again. I just felt bad, and guilty because I know I have so much.

I Always Feel Bad for the Goalie

Oh yeah, and then there was the goalie. He rolled up his jeans so he could get better contact with the ball. He wasn’t wearing socks, and the shoes he wore were more like dress shoes. Like I said earlier, I feel bad for any goalie here. True, to my observation, this young guy was getting hammered with hard shots, but he was stopping all of them, without gloves. I kept thinking about how much his hands had to hurt, or how difficult it was for him to play without proper attire.

Then I saw him smile. Actually, he hadn’t stopped smiling since I started watching him. Not just a smile to show relief of another blocked shot, but a smile to show that he was happy, really happy, continuously happy. I started looking at the other kids, and I realized that they were all smiling. They felt good about getting to play on the synthetic field, and they felt good that the were getting to play their favorite sport with their favorite people.

I realized that I shouldn’t feel bad for this goalie, or for any other player. To do so would be making a judgment against him. Since he didn’t possess any semblance of a soccer uniform, I felt it necessary to have pity on him. This kid didn’t want pity, he didn’t want me to waste time thinking about things like that. He doesn’t have time for cultural analysis or the gap between the rich and the poor. All he has time for is soccer, his friends, and the opportunity to block another shot so his team stays on to play another round.

Game on.

I Almost Joined A Worship Band

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On Friday, I went to church with Hector and set in motion some plans to perform live in front of the entire congregation. Hector goes to an evangelical church called Nuevo Vino on the edge of town. We went early because he’s a greeter, which makes sense for Hector, because more and more I see how he knows everyone in this town of 13,000. It’s simply a joy to ride around in his truck. At every turn he will yell out the window to someone he knows and they will smile and respond with some Spanish slang.

While Hector is greeting people, I sit down in the 2nd row. I figure that the front is equivalent to the back of the church because I’m not really going to avoid people coming up to me and introducing themselves no matter where I sit. There just aren’t 6’3″ white people who hang out in Guatemalan churches on Friday nights.

A young man came up and introduced himself. He knew a bit of English, but he mostly spoke in Spanish. He said that Saturday night was a service for “jovenes” or “young people. He asked me if I played any instrument. I said that I played guitar and sang a bit. He was impressed. He said that I should come at 5:00. Someone else told me that the service was at 7:00. I was trying to figure out why there were two different times for the service, but like most things here, I just give up and go with the flow.

Saturday rolls around and Hector and I head to the church. There aren’t really that many people there at all. Only the young men that I met last night. One guy in particular, Andres, is very friendly, and as it turns out, he’s the piano player at the church. We walked up to the stage and I picked up a guitar and tried to tune it. It was old and wasn’t very good quality, so I had a lot of trouble with it, so he gave me a bass instead. I don’t really play bass.

We started jamming to some songs that I kind of knew and then he comes over to me and starts talking about the order of songs. He proceeds to explain what chords I need for the verse and then for the chorus. I’m having trouble with the songs because when Guatemalans write and read music they use the Solfeggio
(Do-Re-Mi-Fa-So-La-Ti-Do) and not the notes (C-D-E-F-G-A-B-C).

A few girls pick up microphones and start singing the songs. They sound like they know what they are doing. Another young man sits down and starts playing the drums. It’s at this point where I get a bit leery about the situation:

  • We’re singing Spanish songs that I’m not familiar with.
  • I’m playing a bass and I really can’t hear what notes I’m playing because it’s so loud.
  • I can’t transcribe his solfeggio annotations or my own handwriting.
  • It’s getting closer and closer to 7:00.
  • People are coming into the church.

I started praying one of those prayers for the Lord to have mercy on me. I’m not sure which transgressions merit the recompense of having to play 12 Spanish songs on a bass where I can’t even hear the notes. Yes, I am starting to freak out.

Just then, one of the girls lays down the microphone and says goodbye. The drummer looks at his watch and sticks the drumsticks in his pocket. I’m beginning to think my prayer has paid off.

Andres turns off the keyboard and I ask him if he’s in the group tonight.

“Tonight? No, tonight we sing with the CD.”

Whew . . . I almost joined a worship band. Thank goodness. Turns out, you can come at 5:00 if you want to practice music, otherwise, show up at 7:00 with the rest of the jovenes.

Pancho, the Caballero – A True Gentleman

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In Nicaragua, getting out of bed on Thursday morning was difficult. Everyday, we awoke to sore muscles, but this day I knew we were going to visit La Chureca, the enormous dump in Nicaragua. Emotionally, I didn’t feel ready to visit the dump. I was not looking forward to what I was going to see. I don’t know if it was the impending guilt or shame for living such a comfortable lifestyle,  knowing that the people I was to meet had next to nothing, or that I was probably going to see something that would shake me up inside.

Riding in the back of a pickup into La Chureca my nostrils were assaulted by the foul smells. It was probably the worst smell I’ve ever experienced. Food scraps, soiled clothes, and used toilet paper (since no one is allowed to put used toilet paper down the toilet) get thrown away and everything gets hauled to the dump. Consequently, when the trash workers are burning the heap, you smell everything undesirable. It was extremely hot and humid that day, so I also smelled rotten food and other sun-baked refuse. Birds circled over the heads of the trash workers who wore long pants and shirts and rubber boots. They carried with them long poles that looked like forks and they looked for items of value: clothes, plastics, glass, metals, anything that could be sold or used for their dwellings. People can make a living at the dump, and have been doing so for quite some time.

La Chureca began almost 40 years ago after a hurricane destroyed the homesteads of Nicaraguans. Families began to move into the area because they were able to earn a living picking saleable things from the trash. The government gave some subsidies for housing with the perspective that it was all temporary community – these people would leave as soon as conditions improved. Today there are more than 500 families living at the dump. Families are large at the dump, so 500 families can mean anywhere from 2,000 to 3,000 people.

A beacon of hope in the area is the local church run by Pastors Ramon and Miriam Baca. Inititally they had it inside the walls of the dump so that it was close to the people living in the community. Recently, they changed the location of the church to outside the dump so that all churchgoers would feel the literal and figurative sense of life beyond the walls of the mountains of trash. We participated in the daily feeding station that the local church operated.

After a short tour of the area, I think most of our group was exhausted from the shock of viewing the living conditions. For me, I know I have never been in a place this bad. I almost feel shame for saying that because what happened next shocked me more than the unsanitary abodes we toured.

About 50 children sat in colored plastic chairs to wait patiently for lunch. They were all smiling and playing with each other. Brothers, sisters, cousins, and friends – these kids were part of a tight-knit community in La Chureca. Despite not having shoes, or clean hands or faces, these kids were still kids.

They took joy in poking each other, putting their arms around the shoulders of a friend, and greeting all the Americans with waves and hugs. I thought to myself, “How can such beauty and warmth exist in such a terrible place?”

As I was trying to process this in my mind, a little guy turned around and started talking to me. I learned that his name was Pancho. Pancho didn’t have a plate with him so I asked him if he wanted to eat. He said that he had already eaten and all he wanted was for me to put him on my shoulders. He walked out from the area of chairs and motioned for me to crouch down. He walked around to my back and began to climb up to my shoulders. I was thinking to myself that those little barefeet were incredibly dirty. I probably had little footprints on my back.

Pancho started to say “Caballo, Caballo!” which means “horse” in Spanish. So I galloped around the yard with Pancho the cowboy – the Caballero – on my shoulders. He was squealing with laughter. I was smiling too. I knew that there is not much I could do for him at that moment except to show him love and kindness.

As I was galloping around, Pancho was saying something to me that I had to stop and listen for him to repeat again. “Como?” I asked.

Pancho said (translated):

“Let’s go to my house.”

“Where is your house?”

“Over there, just up the street.”

“You live close to here?”

“Yes, lets go to my house and say hi to mama . . .”

Whew.

At that moment I got a big lump in my throat. I felt as though time stopped and everything about this dump, all my perceptions came crashing down. Pancho, the little caballero, did what anyone does when playing with new friends – he invited me to his house to say hi to his mama. I imagined what his house might look like . . . the dirt floors, the rusted metal sheets pieced together to form a wall, broken furniture, holes in the roof, and a makeshift table where he and his brothers and sisters would eat what little food his mother prepared.

I wanted to cry.

How could this little boy with dirty feet, dirty hands, and a dirty face, wearing a shirt that was so old the printed graphic had faded away, be so kind, so full of joy, so much like every other child in America?

See, the most shocking thing for me that day was not that La Chuleca was so dirty and desolate, it’s that there was a such a bright spirit of happiness in those kids, in that community, and in my friend Pancho.

I had to put Pancho down because we were leaving. He said to me that he wanted to ride on my shoulders again. I said, “I’m sorry Pancho. I have to leave.” He said, “Ok.” And then he said something that I couldn’t understand. I wished that I knew what he meant. As I jumped back on the pickup to leave, Pancho came to the edge of the feeding area and waved and said it again. I still didn’t know what it meant, but my guess is that it was an invitation to come back and play, because I still needed to meet his mama . . .

A “Man Voyage” – When You Are the Only One in Your Wolfpack

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Monday was a long day of traveling for me. The team from our church got up at 3:30 to get to the airport in time for our 6:40 flight. A day earlier we traveled two hours away to a rural village to visit the Verbo church and to help them run a soccer camp and carnival. I was exhausted and didn’t sleep much the night before.

My team chose the option to get bumped on their flight to El Salvador to get a flight voucher and a hot breakfast which meant that I’d have to navigate the Salvadorian airport and find my transport to the bus station. Upon arriving in El Salvador, I quickly scouted out the area and made my way to the airline counter. I tried to see if I could get bumped for the flight back to the USA which would give me a flight voucher. They told me to come back in 2 hours. I didn’t have to hours so I made my way down to the immigration and customs.

They stamped my passport and I exited the airport into a heat blanket of the El Salvadorian climate. Immediately, taxi drivers surrounded me like vultures. Every transportation hub has tons of people trying to sell you goods or take you somewhere. I was able to communicate that I needed to go to the Tica Bus station and I pointed on the map to where the information center pointed me to.

I jumped into the Toyota Hilux (the Tacoma version in CA) with Manuel and we headed into El Salvador. It was a 35 minute drive into the city. San Salvador is beautiful. The mountains stood against the bustling city of three million people. We passed the metro center where I saw signs for Tica Bus, but Manuel was taking me to the place I pointed out on the map. We arrived at a tiny station where I saw no signs for Tica Bus and got a bit worried. I knew that King Quality was a good bus service and they were running a route to Guatemala. Manuel helped me find the Guatemalan desk and pointed to the sign that said it would leave at 2:00pm. I originally planned to leave El Salvador at 1:00pm, so now I was going to be late to meet my shuttle.

The following is a follow-up email I sent to my friends from Nicaragua:

Hey dudes! It’s too bad y’all couldn’t join me on the man voyage I had in El Salvador. Carl emailed me to see how it went, and I decided to send an email to all of you. (The “Man Voyage” was what we named our planned excursion into San Salvador. They were unable to complete the “man voyage” because their flight was bumped, so it was just me traveling in my own wolf pack.)

First of all, I haven’t found the kind of discounts at the department stores that I used to frequent. I’m waiting for a good sale before I drop a load of cash.

Secondly, the man voyage would have been a bit trickier than we first had envisioned. Whilst the airport was pretty nice and well air conditioned. The El Salvadorian climate felt like wearing a hot soaked blanket in a dressing room – if you know what I mean. To even get outside you have to pay $10 to enter the country.

Thirdly, it’s a 30 min trip into the city, and directly outside the airport there is not mucho. I did get to ride in a Toyota Hilux with Manuel, my taxi driver. I think he may have been a Jehovah’s Witness. He had a copy of a worship service printout in his seat, but I don’t know enough spanish or enough about El Salvador to corroborate this.

Fourthly, if you tell an El Salvadorian that you want to go the Tica Bus station and you point to another bus station on the map, he will take you to the place you pointed to. King Quality Bus Lines leave at 2:00 which meant I’d get to Guate later. With the extra time, I ate lunch next door in a little cafeteria.

Fifthly, it was a 5 hour trip to Guate. Oh yeah, and we crossed a border. Somehow I forgot about that. No biggie though, you don’t have to pay anything to enter Guate, but you do have to deal with 8 money changers who board the bus and 9 women selling food.

Sixthly, when you get to Guate, it’s important to know where the bus station is, and don’t get off the bus just cause everyone else is. Haha. I got off at Hotel Del Istmo, and when I finally called the place I was staying in Guate, he said “Why did you get off there instead of the Bus Station?”

I have no explanation for getting on at the wrong bus station in El Salv and getting off in the wrong bus stop in Guate other than the fact that I’m in Spanish School right now for a few good reasons.

I stayed at a really nice and inexpensive place in Guate at the night and met some really cool Americans and Spaniards (still reveling in their World Cup Victory).

The next day a shuttle picked me up and drove me 7 hours to the language school. The trip is usually 4 hours . . . that is if you pick it up at the main terminal and not the bed & breakfast I stayed at.

In summary, I had an awesome and safe adventure to Guate and currently reside in a gorgeous area of Lake Atitlan.

I hope in the future that we can join in on a man voyage together. At least when i come back at the end of September I’d like to get together and look at some pictures and try one of those Nica cigars.

Hope you guys are doing well and I hope that your shopping excursions have brought your homes much joy and that you won’t have to use your gift receipts.

God Bless!
-Aaron