Playing chicken

We recently rode the chicken bus from Antigua further into the Guatemalan highlands. Guatemala is full of these chicken buses - abandoned US school buses, painted in crazy bright colours, and so-named because you're basically allowed to bring anything you want onto them (eg bringing your chickens home from the market.)

In line with this liberal BYO live animal policy, chicken bus drivers make their daily bread by observing as few rules as possible, doing as many runs as possible, between as many towns as possible, with as many passengers as possible. Seats designed for two people regularly seat families of five, the aisles are crammed full of people, luggage, animals for all I know, and various other collateral. At one point there must have been nearly 60 people on a bus designed to seat 40. You climb in any way you can - front door, back door, through a window if it was possible, even on the roof. And combined with the constant, loud Marimba / generic Latin American pop / Reggaeton blasting through the bus, it really is quite an experience.

And then there's the speed. The faster the buses get from town to town, the more runs they can do, so the more money to be made - so we are talking high speed. The first rule of chicken bus driving appears to be that there are no rules to chicken bus driving. Passing another chicken bus on a blind hairpin bend? Cool. Hurtling at high speed through tiny cobble-stoned villages before screaming to a halt to cram in even more passengers? Even better. Rattling at speed across the centre line directly into oncoming traffic? He who diverts course first loses.  And all this on perilous, winding, mountainous roads that make the Crown Range look like child's play.

As one friend ovserved, it's no wonder Guatemala is rubbish at Formula 1: all their best drivers are driving chicken buses.

It's loud and fast and cramped and totally insane and exhilarating and one of the funnest things I've done in this exciting, slightly mad country.

The great Belizean underwear heist

It has been a long week, in lots of ways. As if to remind me that Belize is, in fact, not quite perfect, I suffered the indignity of, in a rather pervy petty crime, having my underwear stolen. And my beloved, loyal, long-suffering pack, which has seen the world with me from Kosovo to Kho Phan Ngan, Istanbul to Invercargill, was also victim in this thievery most foul - it suffered the indignity of having its zip bust. We made a sorry pair for approximately 5 minutes, until we realised it was actually hilarious: some crafty thief will have found themselves mightily short-changed, with a bunch of stuff that will simply fit no-one in this region. Take that, underwear thieves!

I became reacquainted with a long-forgotten phenomenon: the Travelling BFF. Y'know the folks you meet on the road and bond with because ohmygodi'mreadingthatbooktoo and ohitotallyrecommendxriverinyrandompartofzcountry and ohialsothinkawellusedcommaissexy and who therefore become your new best friend for approximately 24 hours (let's be honest, usually involving beer) before you each move off in different directions never to be heard from again. I made a TBFF the other night, and it was awesome. (And whatever, well-used commas are sexy.)

I've been listening to a lot of country music. This is agriculture country, and there are more cows/cowboys/cowboy boots/cowboy hats than you can swing a lasso at. We have headed progressively West. West through the lush jungle on a chicken bus with the ever-present reggae blasting and tiny Caribbean children, still growing into their teeth, dancing in the aisles. West to San Ignacio, Belize, a tiny farming community where we galloped Western-style on horseback through Belizean jungle to swim in a secluded waterfall. Further West into Guatemala, to stay on the beautiful island of Flores where the sunset was one of the most spectacular I have seen in all my years, and to visit the ancient Mayan temples at Tikal, a place that I can't do justice to with words.

And now I find myself on the beautiful Rio Dulce, Guatemala. We are, as our hosts never fail to remind us, in the jungle. Our bungalow sits over the river, and has open walls - we sleep with a breeze off the river that carries the low hum of the jungle and nearby Garifuna drums. Last night before bed we had to kill 3 progressively larger spiders (the ultimate, I'm told, about palm-sized.) I elected to stay in bed rather than witness the great spider-slaying of 2011, and was glad with my decision when my room-mate discovered a casual scorpion hangin out in the corner of our room. It's fair to say jungle life is interesting. Never a dull moment.

And now, onwards. Onwards to the highlands and more adventures.  

Don't stop Belize'n

I (very) briefly got (very) frustrated with backpacking recently. (Yes, on about Day Five.)(Of Six weeks.) With the no electricity and the darkness and the damp and the sand and the thatched huts leaking in thunderstorms and beds that aren't just damp but sodden and the lack of organised luggage compartments and the never being able to find things in my pack. And then to top it all off a mosquito got under my net. I just...... well suddenly a couple of lazy weeks on the French Riveria somehow seemed like a nicer holiday option. Somehow, without full consent or even knowledge, I had become a bit of a princess. For the record: I am not okay with this.

I got over the princess-ness.  I am grimy and perpetually covered in at least 2 layers of insect repellent, but I am never bored. I have swum in the Caribbean more times than I care to count, debated tax reform over mojitos with new-found Nordic friends, survived an entire breakfast service without using English, re-read most of To Kill a Mockingbird, done a lot of lying in the sun and played a lot of volleyball, and used 'estupendamente' once in its correct adverb form. I have sat on the beach and listened to Fleet Foxes while watching a thunderstorm gently march across the Caribbean towards us for about an hour before it hit shore. I thought the skies just opened here, but it's a long and beautiful process watching a storm move. I may have been rained on in bed during the night, but I've also seen a newly-hatched baby turtle, smaller than the size of my palm, scamper across the beach and into the surf to begin her life with her first ever swim. Pretty. Damn. Awesome.

I have been tempted, in the last 24 hours, to suspect I've landed in paradise. Turns out I am in Belize, which may well be the next best thing. I am on a small strip of sand in the middle of the Caribbean where life is perpetually laid back. The rum actually tastes as though it was made from sugarcane, the lobster is fresh from the sea, and Bob Marley really is constantly playing. Even better, there is functioning roofs and electricity. It is just so awesome.

I spent most of today in the sea, on the world's second largest coral reef. It is manatee mating season, and we dived to hang out out within 10 feet of a lazy, giant manatee, who occasionally surfaced for air, showed a little curiosity in us, then kept on going about her business. I swam with massive fully-grown turtles. And to top it all off I managed to swim amongst a large shiver of sharks. (Secretly, I have been waiting my whole life to accurately use that collective noun. This is just one more treat that Belize has given me.) In short, nautical activities ahoy. And..... I am about to literally sail into the sunset. Life is not bad.

It all seems a little cliche for me to blast Marley here, besides, everyone else is doing it for me. Instead I have been listening to Bedouin Soundclash. It has enough of that perfect calypso vibe that is so appropriate for this place. It's laid back and it sounds like happytimes. Which this most definitely is.

Okkervil River, The Stage Names (2007)

I don't know how I lasted nearly 28 years without ever having heard Okkervil River, who've been around for ages, and certainly for most of my music-consuming career. But I was completely oblivious to their existence until a couple of weeks ago when an acquaintance was kind enough to bring them to my attention. I must send said acquaintance a thank you card. Because this album is one of my favourite unexpected finds of the year.

This album has become a bit of a travel staple - I'm writing this from the South of Mexico, about to take the boat to Belize. One of the things I love about this kind of travel is the clash of the modern and the traditional - this is the only place in the world I have ever seen horses hitched to the main power station. The pace of life is gentle.

Okkervil River are perfect for the road: light-hearted but interesting; a little bit folk, a little bit Americana, sometimes bluesy, but overwhelmingly that classic indie-rock sound that we heard so much of in the late 2000s.

This album in particular is just really good. I haven't had a chance to fully digest their other material but on first listen their earlier stuff sounds a bit dreary and their most recent album takes the synth thing too far... so this particular album looks increasingly like the sweet spot in the development of their sound. I still can't quite put my finger on who they sound like - the vocals are, I have to admit, reminiscent of the Killers. The music is not. Jangly guitars, with the occasional rockabilly drumbeat thrown in for good measure, sparing use of keys and horns, and trickles of beautifully-positioned lap steel. I get flashes of a Modest Mouse-type sound, and sometimes of Franz Ferdinand, but what I love about this album is that I just can't quite nail it. It's interesting.

A great album for the road. Or the dirt track. Or, like, the open sea.