My two "visits" to Cambodia over the past 25 years were limited to a 2001 trip to the Aranyaprathet-Poipet border towns and to the disputed temple ruins in Phra Viharn, a World Heritage site which is technically in Cambodian territory but accessible only from the Thai side of the border.
I did both these excursions with my artist friend K who at the time was documenting a large photo project of Khmer ruins sites in Thailand as part of a much bigger multi-continental conception of religious-cultural exploration in Europe, Asia, and Latin America.
So my personal experience of the Indochinese "dominoes" of the '60s-'70s is limited to 7 or 8 trips, mostly of the "visa run" variety, into Laos between 1991 and 2001, and to my current visits to the capital of (formerly North) Vietnam.
In Indochina the French colonists left behind a number of things, most notably their churches and colonial-era architecture, but they also left their taste for fresh crispy baguettes, strong sweetened coffee, crafted beer and wine, and world-class cuisine.
Even the French language lingers here as many older people can speak and understand at least a little French. This morning at breakfast in my hotel I overheard a young woman, almost certainly a French-Vietnamese, in conversation with her farang French boyfriend. On TV here I have seen young Vietnamese translating for French journalists in travelogue pieces for French television.
Like Thai people, the Lao and the Vietnamese are quick with the broadest of smiles for foreign visitors. But I've noticed that many people I meet on the street in Hanoi are also aggressively on "the make", looking to hustle the tourist out of her hard-earned dollars, euros and yen.
In my few days here I've been overcharged for a moto taxi (motorcycle taxi) service and for cold bottles of water or Coke. In the larger scope of things, these are minor irritations, but travelers know that this kind of hustle isn't sustainable over the long term. Tourists quickly grow weary of getting charged $2-3 for a $1 Coke or a 50 cent bottle of water. Then they often become wary of many impromptu interactions with locals on the street.
In Hanoi I've been approached by a few young people claiming to be students who want to "help" me by becoming my temporary guide around town on their motorbike, for a fee of course, or so I've assumed.
Now I don't mind paying a reasonable fee for a reasonable service, and I've been quoted a price of $20 for a half day, or $40 for a full day, of guided moto service to museums and other city landmarks. This price seems reasonable, but it depends partly upon the guide's facility with English. And another big question is: will (s)he stick to the agreed upon itinerary, or will (s)he be looking to upsell additonal services into the bargain? ("My wife will go shopping at the market and cook lunch for you; pay what you like!" or "My niece owns a store selling Vietnamese handicrafts; shall I call her and say we will visit this afternoon?")
What really gives me pause, however, is the person who says "Pay what you like." That seems to me to be an open invitation to serious conflict later in the day.
All the guidebooks I've checked out warn about the friendly hustle going down in Hanoi, which--compared to Thailand or Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon)--is relatively new to the Southeast Asian tourism game. And they warn about the airport taxi scams, aggressive moto drivers, fly-by-night tour operators, fake guesthouse scams (where crooks steal the name of a reputable hotel or tour company and cash in quickly before closing down the enterprise), and other tourist pitfalls in Vietnam generally, and in Hanoi in particular.
I understand all this: I know that farang tourists are going to pay a premium--whether in Thailand, Laos, or Vietnam--and I also know that my comprehension of the Thai language and Thai social customs is often rewarded with a 30%-50% discount on a wide array of goods and services in Thailand. I also know that I'm not entitled to the same sort of discounts in Vietnam.
And I'm not saying that the farang premium is always bad--indeed, I will gladly pay more for a service that I want, when I need it, and as long as it's within my often-limited budget.
But I object to touts who insist "we must go now, today" before one can get his proper bearings, or others who persist in advancing their paid agendas despite several obvious, emphatic "No's!" on my part.
Whenever I've said "No, not today, but what are you doing tomorrow morning?" (after I've had a chance to do a little more research), almost invariably my interlocutors lose interest in me and are off to corner their next tourist prospects.
Showing posts with label tourists. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tourists. Show all posts
Friday, July 4, 2014
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Cashing in on Pai
Stefan warned me that there has been a lot of new development in Pai, but I wasn't prepared to hear stories of prices doubling or even tripling during the high season.
Pai is the first major town on the road from Chiangmai once you've passed the border of Chiangmai and Mae Hong Son provinces.
Pai has long been a popular destination, especially with young backpackers and independent travelers, but for me it's usually been just a rest stop on the way to and from Soppong or Mae Hong Son town, the provincial capital.
I didn't have a clue where I was going to stay in a town that must have a couple hundred guesthouses, hotels, and resorts, but I knew I only wanted to spend 200-300 baht per night ($6-10). This seemed to be an easy enough mission since I'd already seen many signs offering "Rooms Starting At $300."
I was almost set to check out a place across the street from the Be Bop Bar when an older gentleman rolled up to me and my parked motorbike on his three-wheeled motorcycle and side car. We chatted for a bit, he wondering where I planned to stay, me lying at first that I'd already booked a room, so that I could get a better feel for him and his angle.
He revealed that he worked as a three-wheeled taxi driver and that he could direct me to good accommodations ("Just name your price and preferred type of room") for which he'd be able to claim a 5% commission from the owner. "I have this arrangement with many owners here in Pai," he explained. "If you like the room, I collect from them. It will cost you nothing directly."
I liked his manner, so I agreed to follow him to TaYai Guesthouse where the woman owner set me up with 200 baht room.
She and her husband are originally from Chiangmai, and they entered the guesthouse business in Pai only three years ago to escape the Bangkokization of their native city.
"The air is better here, it's nice and quiet, and there are no thieves. There are so many thieves in Chiangmai! Do you see all this stuff here?" she asked, referring to the kitschy ceramic animals and other tchotchkes decorating her very well-kept garden. "In Chiangmai, this stuff would be gone in one night."
I shared some of my story with her (used to live here for eight years, had a Thai girlfriend, how I learned Thai, played in a Thai country band) and remarked upon how affordable Thailand still is even after some of the most rapid economic development in Asia.
"Ha! Not anymore, at least not in Pai," she said. "If you visit during the high season (November through February), I would have to charge you much more than 200 baht. In fact most places here will charge at least 600 for the room you have, and that means no air conditioning.
"It's so busy here, with farang and Japanese and Chinese tourists, that most places are full. You have to reserve rooms in advance. Just the other day, someone reserved a room here six months in advance!"
This was all easy enough for me to understand: Pai is popular with a certain set (youthful, "alternative", neo-hippie, etc), there are only a certain number of rooms available, market forces dictate these prices, and so forth. And I'd (barely) come to accept that restaurant prices were about double from those of Chiangmai. But then my landlady dropped a real stunner.
"In the high season it gets so full that now they've opened up camping down by the river," she said. "One tent spot is 600 baht! Now they have hundreds of these camping spots, and still the tourists keep coming, Thai tourists, too. Everybody wants to come here, it seems like."
Even now, with the low season, the rainy season now in full swing, she seems to be doing okay. On the couple nights I've stayed here, she 's had at least 8-10 of her 15 or so rooms filled with farang, Thai, and other Asian customers.
Pai is the first major town on the road from Chiangmai once you've passed the border of Chiangmai and Mae Hong Son provinces.
Pai has long been a popular destination, especially with young backpackers and independent travelers, but for me it's usually been just a rest stop on the way to and from Soppong or Mae Hong Son town, the provincial capital.
I didn't have a clue where I was going to stay in a town that must have a couple hundred guesthouses, hotels, and resorts, but I knew I only wanted to spend 200-300 baht per night ($6-10). This seemed to be an easy enough mission since I'd already seen many signs offering "Rooms Starting At $300."
I was almost set to check out a place across the street from the Be Bop Bar when an older gentleman rolled up to me and my parked motorbike on his three-wheeled motorcycle and side car. We chatted for a bit, he wondering where I planned to stay, me lying at first that I'd already booked a room, so that I could get a better feel for him and his angle.
He revealed that he worked as a three-wheeled taxi driver and that he could direct me to good accommodations ("Just name your price and preferred type of room") for which he'd be able to claim a 5% commission from the owner. "I have this arrangement with many owners here in Pai," he explained. "If you like the room, I collect from them. It will cost you nothing directly."
I liked his manner, so I agreed to follow him to TaYai Guesthouse where the woman owner set me up with 200 baht room.
She and her husband are originally from Chiangmai, and they entered the guesthouse business in Pai only three years ago to escape the Bangkokization of their native city.
"The air is better here, it's nice and quiet, and there are no thieves. There are so many thieves in Chiangmai! Do you see all this stuff here?" she asked, referring to the kitschy ceramic animals and other tchotchkes decorating her very well-kept garden. "In Chiangmai, this stuff would be gone in one night."
I shared some of my story with her (used to live here for eight years, had a Thai girlfriend, how I learned Thai, played in a Thai country band) and remarked upon how affordable Thailand still is even after some of the most rapid economic development in Asia.
"Ha! Not anymore, at least not in Pai," she said. "If you visit during the high season (November through February), I would have to charge you much more than 200 baht. In fact most places here will charge at least 600 for the room you have, and that means no air conditioning.
"It's so busy here, with farang and Japanese and Chinese tourists, that most places are full. You have to reserve rooms in advance. Just the other day, someone reserved a room here six months in advance!"
This was all easy enough for me to understand: Pai is popular with a certain set (youthful, "alternative", neo-hippie, etc), there are only a certain number of rooms available, market forces dictate these prices, and so forth. And I'd (barely) come to accept that restaurant prices were about double from those of Chiangmai. But then my landlady dropped a real stunner.
"In the high season it gets so full that now they've opened up camping down by the river," she said. "One tent spot is 600 baht! Now they have hundreds of these camping spots, and still the tourists keep coming, Thai tourists, too. Everybody wants to come here, it seems like."
Even now, with the low season, the rainy season now in full swing, she seems to be doing okay. On the couple nights I've stayed here, she 's had at least 8-10 of her 15 or so rooms filled with farang, Thai, and other Asian customers.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
What Makes Antigua So Special?
1. The cobblestoned streets, reminiscent of old Europe
2. The beautifully maintained parque central
3. The old, ruined cathedrals--seemingly around every corner
3. The street bands
4. The fine restaurants
5. The tourist crowds, local and foreign
6. The polite, friendly locals
7. The swarms of American college kids who come here for the highly regarded Spanish schools
8. The highly regarded Spanish schools
9. The considerable norteamericano expatriate community
10. The almost perfect climate--no fans or AC needed!
11. The beautiful surrounding mountains and volcanos
12. The bookstores
13. The cafes and bars
14. The delicatessens and bakeries
15. The fast food joints for that burger or pizza fix
16. The highly developed tourist infrastructure
17. The tightly controlled vehicle traffic
18. The tightly controlled, unobtrusive commercial signage
19. The excellent supermarkets
20. The close proximity to the nation's capital and airport
2. The beautifully maintained parque central
3. The old, ruined cathedrals--seemingly around every corner
3. The street bands
4. The fine restaurants
5. The tourist crowds, local and foreign
6. The polite, friendly locals
7. The swarms of American college kids who come here for the highly regarded Spanish schools
8. The highly regarded Spanish schools
9. The considerable norteamericano expatriate community
10. The almost perfect climate--no fans or AC needed!
11. The beautiful surrounding mountains and volcanos
12. The bookstores
13. The cafes and bars
14. The delicatessens and bakeries
15. The fast food joints for that burger or pizza fix
16. The highly developed tourist infrastructure
17. The tightly controlled vehicle traffic
18. The tightly controlled, unobtrusive commercial signage
19. The excellent supermarkets
20. The close proximity to the nation's capital and airport
Saturday, July 10, 2010
La Antigua: Busker Central in Central America
I haven't written much about buskers or musicians in Central America mainly because there hasn't been anything to write about. Unlike in Mexico where there is a whole mariachi troubador culture on the streets of its colonial cities, in El Salvador or Honduras you can go many days without seeing someone with a guitar or violin. When you do encounter street musicians, as you do in Granada, Nicaragua, it's somewhat of a pleasant surprise. And when I do bump into the occasional street band, as I did in Gracias, Honduras, I always donate something to the cause.
But in Antigua we are in a whole different league. It helps if you can picture the massive crowds here--not only of weekend trippers from Guatemala City and other parts of the country, but also foreign tourists from Europe and North America, high school and college kids from America, and denizens of the large expatriate Western community who now make Antigua their home. With crowds like these on a typical Saturday, it can pay very well to play on the street.
This city just reeks of cosmopolitan prosperity with its restaurants, bars, coffee shops, hotels, travel agencies, boutique stores, and regular markets. In a region where bookstores are oases and second hand English language books sell for $10 or more, there are so many books in English available, and for almost nothing, that I'm close to hyperventilating as I type this dispatch. La Antigua definitely has anything you could possibly want, especially for someone like me who has come from a markedly much poorer place such as western Honduras. If you want McDonald's or Burger King or Subway or almost any kind of pizza you desire, it's all here.
With crowds the way they are and with the sort of conveniences you can find here, maybe that's partly why the local buskers can do so well in this town. And it seems even foreign travelers can hang their hats for awhile and make a living with a song and a guitar, or--as in the case of "Takeshi"--by painting Japanese calligraphy.
Check out the following website from a young Japanese guy I just saw on Antigua's streets who had a huge crowd around him:
http://takeshi.henjin.com/
Takeshi sings original songs, plays guitar, and sells his CDs, but his main attraction is he paints your name in katakana/hiragana (Chinese/Japanese script) on a strip of white paper for five quetzales (60 cents). He has a big sign written in Spanish telling of his voyage around the world which encourages donations, and he wears a baseball cap and t-shirt promoting his website. Flyers ("take one!") are available so you can look him up on the web. . .and link him to your blog!
I can report that the kids loved this guy, and their (mostly) affluent local parents were fascinated by him. Of course I was pretty fascinated too.
When I think back now to my experiences in France and Switzerland of the 1980s, I regret that the CD was barely invented then, that there was no such thing as a "world wide web", and that it didn't seem economically feasible to busk one's way around Central America, Eastern Europe, Africa, or any other so-called "third world" area.
Now it looks as if maybe "third world areas" are among the only interesting--and lucrative--places left to go as an itinerant troubador in this increasingly homogenized, globalized world.
But in Antigua we are in a whole different league. It helps if you can picture the massive crowds here--not only of weekend trippers from Guatemala City and other parts of the country, but also foreign tourists from Europe and North America, high school and college kids from America, and denizens of the large expatriate Western community who now make Antigua their home. With crowds like these on a typical Saturday, it can pay very well to play on the street.
This city just reeks of cosmopolitan prosperity with its restaurants, bars, coffee shops, hotels, travel agencies, boutique stores, and regular markets. In a region where bookstores are oases and second hand English language books sell for $10 or more, there are so many books in English available, and for almost nothing, that I'm close to hyperventilating as I type this dispatch. La Antigua definitely has anything you could possibly want, especially for someone like me who has come from a markedly much poorer place such as western Honduras. If you want McDonald's or Burger King or Subway or almost any kind of pizza you desire, it's all here.
With crowds the way they are and with the sort of conveniences you can find here, maybe that's partly why the local buskers can do so well in this town. And it seems even foreign travelers can hang their hats for awhile and make a living with a song and a guitar, or--as in the case of "Takeshi"--by painting Japanese calligraphy.
Check out the following website from a young Japanese guy I just saw on Antigua's streets who had a huge crowd around him:
http://takeshi.henjin.com/
Takeshi sings original songs, plays guitar, and sells his CDs, but his main attraction is he paints your name in katakana/hiragana (Chinese/Japanese script) on a strip of white paper for five quetzales (60 cents). He has a big sign written in Spanish telling of his voyage around the world which encourages donations, and he wears a baseball cap and t-shirt promoting his website. Flyers ("take one!") are available so you can look him up on the web. . .and link him to your blog!
I can report that the kids loved this guy, and their (mostly) affluent local parents were fascinated by him. Of course I was pretty fascinated too.
When I think back now to my experiences in France and Switzerland of the 1980s, I regret that the CD was barely invented then, that there was no such thing as a "world wide web", and that it didn't seem economically feasible to busk one's way around Central America, Eastern Europe, Africa, or any other so-called "third world" area.
Now it looks as if maybe "third world areas" are among the only interesting--and lucrative--places left to go as an itinerant troubador in this increasingly homogenized, globalized world.
The Thrill of Completing the Tourist Checklist
Being a norteamericano backpacking tourist in Central America is hard work! I'll bet you didn't know there are a lot of chores involved. On top of being around and getting around in security and safety, you have to research hotels and restuarants,consult guidebooks and maps, look for bus stations and buses to get to the stations, get laundry done every few days, and you have to do all this while trying to stay on budget. Plus you have to get all these things done in a language which is not your own.
It may seems strange, but quite often I wake up in a mild panic because I have such a lengthy to do list, and today was one of those days.
1. Find a cheaper hotel room, check.
2. Get cash at ATM, check.
3. Take laundry to service shop, check.
4. Log on to hopefully high speed internet, check.
5. Update blog, check.
6. Check email, check.
7. Buy memory card for camera, check.
8. Arrange transport to Chichicastenango and back, check.
9. Go to supermarket, check.
10. Pick up laundry before the woman closes shop, check.
You get the picture.
I love getting all that stuff done by noon, so I can go out and do my 'real mission' which is the reconaissance of photo ops, then later walkby picture taking.
Check back again soon for a more detailed post about my photo mission in Central America. Until then, I'm going to enjoy this ultra cool city enjoying its very fine weekend.
It may seems strange, but quite often I wake up in a mild panic because I have such a lengthy to do list, and today was one of those days.
1. Find a cheaper hotel room, check.
2. Get cash at ATM, check.
3. Take laundry to service shop, check.
4. Log on to hopefully high speed internet, check.
5. Update blog, check.
6. Check email, check.
7. Buy memory card for camera, check.
8. Arrange transport to Chichicastenango and back, check.
9. Go to supermarket, check.
10. Pick up laundry before the woman closes shop, check.
You get the picture.
I love getting all that stuff done by noon, so I can go out and do my 'real mission' which is the reconaissance of photo ops, then later walkby picture taking.
Check back again soon for a more detailed post about my photo mission in Central America. Until then, I'm going to enjoy this ultra cool city enjoying its very fine weekend.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Copan Ruinas and Beyond
Making up for yesterday's "lost" day, I grabbed a 7.30 bus this morning to La Entrada, the crossroads town in northwestern Honduras where I needed to catch a transfer to Copan Ruinas. I was checked into my hotel before noon and at the impressive Mayan archaeological site by 1.00 p.m.
This was my second trip to Copan following an August 2008 visit during which I had no camera. Today's visit was mainly for the purpose of getting photos--in that I can report I succeeded beyond expectations.
Click the following link for a very interesting website about Copan Ruinas:
http://www.honduras.net/copan/
Apart from the thrill of again seeing this amazingly well preserved site, I can report the oddity of traveling from one of the least touristed areas of Honduras--the Ruta de Lenca which I've just traversed from Perquin to Santa Rosa--to one of the top tourist destinations in Central America.
The village of Copan Ruinas, which I remember vaguely as a quiet, hot, dusty, and somewhat unkempt municipality now sparkles and shines vibrant with international restaurants, coffee shops and bars, a slew of hotels, and more tourists than I've seen anywhere apart from Granada, Nicaragua. These tourists are more affluent and of a wider age range than the college age backpackers I encountered in Nicaragua. The French seem particularly well represented here.
Readers of this blog have probably noticed that I'm not a huge fan of spending big bucks for the "touristy type" tours no matter where I go. Anything that costs more than $20 gets a long hard look before I decide to spend.
But the $15 admission charge to these 1600 year old ruins were definitely worth the splurge for me--even for a second time. From its Classic heyday circa 426-900 C.E. this important Mayan settlement was second only to the even more remarkable--and larger--ruins in Tikal, Guatemala.
Now that I'm only seven miles from the Guatemalan border, and a six hour microbus ride to Antigua, and since my return mission to Copan is basically complete, it's feasible for me to catch tomorrow's noon micro out of here and be in Antigua tomorrow night. From there the famous market town of Chichicastenago is only a couple hours away and Guatemala City's airport is only an hour or so. I will be very happy to have most of these arduous bus trips behind me.
A note about my photos: my readers understand, as I do, that a cutting edge 21st century blog needs photos along with other up-to-date bells and whistles. I appreciate my readers for their patience in bearing with me until I can return to the States, download the software, and upload some of my hundreds of photos. I hope to have an excellent slide show on this blog by August 1.
This was my second trip to Copan following an August 2008 visit during which I had no camera. Today's visit was mainly for the purpose of getting photos--in that I can report I succeeded beyond expectations.
Click the following link for a very interesting website about Copan Ruinas:
http://www.honduras.net/copan/
Apart from the thrill of again seeing this amazingly well preserved site, I can report the oddity of traveling from one of the least touristed areas of Honduras--the Ruta de Lenca which I've just traversed from Perquin to Santa Rosa--to one of the top tourist destinations in Central America.
The village of Copan Ruinas, which I remember vaguely as a quiet, hot, dusty, and somewhat unkempt municipality now sparkles and shines vibrant with international restaurants, coffee shops and bars, a slew of hotels, and more tourists than I've seen anywhere apart from Granada, Nicaragua. These tourists are more affluent and of a wider age range than the college age backpackers I encountered in Nicaragua. The French seem particularly well represented here.
Readers of this blog have probably noticed that I'm not a huge fan of spending big bucks for the "touristy type" tours no matter where I go. Anything that costs more than $20 gets a long hard look before I decide to spend.
But the $15 admission charge to these 1600 year old ruins were definitely worth the splurge for me--even for a second time. From its Classic heyday circa 426-900 C.E. this important Mayan settlement was second only to the even more remarkable--and larger--ruins in Tikal, Guatemala.
Now that I'm only seven miles from the Guatemalan border, and a six hour microbus ride to Antigua, and since my return mission to Copan is basically complete, it's feasible for me to catch tomorrow's noon micro out of here and be in Antigua tomorrow night. From there the famous market town of Chichicastenago is only a couple hours away and Guatemala City's airport is only an hour or so. I will be very happy to have most of these arduous bus trips behind me.
A note about my photos: my readers understand, as I do, that a cutting edge 21st century blog needs photos along with other up-to-date bells and whistles. I appreciate my readers for their patience in bearing with me until I can return to the States, download the software, and upload some of my hundreds of photos. I hope to have an excellent slide show on this blog by August 1.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Road to Marcala, Honduras and Beyond
If I had known that the 25 mile trip to Marcala from Perquin was mostly dirt road I might have thought twice about attempting it. I knew beforhand that I was facing a three hour ride but what I didn't know was that three hours was the minimum I could expect.
With too late a start on Tuesday--about 3 p.m.--it took about an hour to reach the remote Honduran frontier post where the immigration office wasn't even open but a friendly Honduran policeman waved me through with a bus full of locals headed to the high and muddy villages on the opposite side.
During the notorious "football war" of 1969, El Salvador's stronger army seized this territory from the Hondurans. With the end of the civil war in 1992, the Hondurans took El Salvador to the World Court which ruled in favor of Honduras. El Salvador accepted this verdict but under protest, and therefore it doesn't maintain an immigration checkpoint here.
The people who live in this tiny slice of territory--mostly of the indigenous Lenca tribe--are technically Salvadoran who happen to live in Honduras. This political grey area also happens to be one of the most remote and impoverished of both countries.
By 4.30 I was dropped off with some locals as far as the bus could go on these steep muddy roads near the village of Sabanetas. From there, I was told, I could try to hitchhike the last treacherous 12 miles to Marcala. Or I could walk. There were no more buses that day.
Fortunately there was one "hostal " in a tiny settlement called Los Cipreses where I was able to get a bunk in a cabin with no electric but with outhouse amenities. All the other cabins were occupied by Honduran NGO workers.
The helpful people of the hostal hooked me up with the one gringo living in the area, a young Peace Corps volunteer by the name of "Frank." He is about nine months through his two year stint here, and as his Spanish is excellent he is a wealth of knowledge about the area. We chatted for about two hours.
It soon became clear that it is the rare tourist who passes through this stunningly beautiful region. (Frank said I was only the third stranded backpacker in Los Cipreses during his tenure thus far.) I spent a chilly, rainy night in my candlelit cabin.
The next morning, Wednesday, found me hiking with my gear up and down the kilometer or so to the Honduran army post where I was able to squeeze onto a micro for the 90 minute journey to Marcala, a town of about 11,000--by far the largest settlement around.
There is a surprisingly large number of foreigners here, but not of the tourist variety--yet it's not so surprising once the brain truly registers the immense scope of the poverty of the locals. The westerners one meets are very busy as aid workers for government and NGO alike (when I checked into my hotel I was asked "Who do you work for?").
Marcala has almost no paved streets at all which tells us, at the very least, that there are more pressing priorities on the very limited resources that are available.
Yet the town boasts a couple cyber shops and even a tiny cafe with an espresso machine which is where I met Rachel, a Wellesly College senior who is on a ten week internship doing research for a Yale-sponsored entity called Innovations for Poverty Action. She enthusiastically described her project studying the underground micro-finance economy of Honduras--basically she's researching loansharks and their customers--and comparing that data with the economy of legitimate micro-finance. With the knowledge gained by her excellent Spanish she was able to fill me in on the latest political situation including details of the coup in 2009 and events since then.
Transport from here to my next destination La Esperanza is also difficult and sporadic. If I cannot catch the 11.00 micro today I'll probably have to hitch a ride on a pickup, a common practice here. Usually the driver will charge the going rate, a dollar or so, same as the buses.
But there's certainly no turning back for me now. Thankfully, Marcala has an ATM so I was able to get stocked with lempiras, the local currency, enough to get me Gracias or hopefully Santa Rosa de Copan. It's only after that that I can hope for better, paved roads
With too late a start on Tuesday--about 3 p.m.--it took about an hour to reach the remote Honduran frontier post where the immigration office wasn't even open but a friendly Honduran policeman waved me through with a bus full of locals headed to the high and muddy villages on the opposite side.
During the notorious "football war" of 1969, El Salvador's stronger army seized this territory from the Hondurans. With the end of the civil war in 1992, the Hondurans took El Salvador to the World Court which ruled in favor of Honduras. El Salvador accepted this verdict but under protest, and therefore it doesn't maintain an immigration checkpoint here.
The people who live in this tiny slice of territory--mostly of the indigenous Lenca tribe--are technically Salvadoran who happen to live in Honduras. This political grey area also happens to be one of the most remote and impoverished of both countries.
By 4.30 I was dropped off with some locals as far as the bus could go on these steep muddy roads near the village of Sabanetas. From there, I was told, I could try to hitchhike the last treacherous 12 miles to Marcala. Or I could walk. There were no more buses that day.
Fortunately there was one "hostal " in a tiny settlement called Los Cipreses where I was able to get a bunk in a cabin with no electric but with outhouse amenities. All the other cabins were occupied by Honduran NGO workers.
The helpful people of the hostal hooked me up with the one gringo living in the area, a young Peace Corps volunteer by the name of "Frank." He is about nine months through his two year stint here, and as his Spanish is excellent he is a wealth of knowledge about the area. We chatted for about two hours.
It soon became clear that it is the rare tourist who passes through this stunningly beautiful region. (Frank said I was only the third stranded backpacker in Los Cipreses during his tenure thus far.) I spent a chilly, rainy night in my candlelit cabin.
The next morning, Wednesday, found me hiking with my gear up and down the kilometer or so to the Honduran army post where I was able to squeeze onto a micro for the 90 minute journey to Marcala, a town of about 11,000--by far the largest settlement around.
There is a surprisingly large number of foreigners here, but not of the tourist variety--yet it's not so surprising once the brain truly registers the immense scope of the poverty of the locals. The westerners one meets are very busy as aid workers for government and NGO alike (when I checked into my hotel I was asked "Who do you work for?").
Marcala has almost no paved streets at all which tells us, at the very least, that there are more pressing priorities on the very limited resources that are available.
Yet the town boasts a couple cyber shops and even a tiny cafe with an espresso machine which is where I met Rachel, a Wellesly College senior who is on a ten week internship doing research for a Yale-sponsored entity called Innovations for Poverty Action. She enthusiastically described her project studying the underground micro-finance economy of Honduras--basically she's researching loansharks and their customers--and comparing that data with the economy of legitimate micro-finance. With the knowledge gained by her excellent Spanish she was able to fill me in on the latest political situation including details of the coup in 2009 and events since then.
Transport from here to my next destination La Esperanza is also difficult and sporadic. If I cannot catch the 11.00 micro today I'll probably have to hitch a ride on a pickup, a common practice here. Usually the driver will charge the going rate, a dollar or so, same as the buses.
But there's certainly no turning back for me now. Thankfully, Marcala has an ATM so I was able to get stocked with lempiras, the local currency, enough to get me Gracias or hopefully Santa Rosa de Copan. It's only after that that I can hope for better, paved roads
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Helping Moses Stay In School
I was walking across the Granada's parque central late last Saturday afternoon when the kid caught my eye. Later what struck me was the pure desperation I glimpsed in his eyes.
"Hey, man, hello, how are you?" he said as he approached me. Thus began a short conversation of small talk with Moses, a 19 year old native Granadan. He was yet another of several young local men that I met over the weekend who have an excellent grasp of English from their interactions with tourists.
Granada is the main town that kicked off Nicaragua's recently successful experience with tourism, and it shows. There are so many hotel rooms that it's easy to find a decent one for less than $20. And there are plenty of "touristy" type amenities such as horse and carriage rides, and restaurants--some with "international" cuisine--that have inflated "tourist prices" to match.
Unfortunately, there are also some of the more unpleasant kinds of things you find in a tourist town, such as an unusually high number of beggars, hustlers and even drug dealers.
So I was already on my guard when Moses approached me. But he was catching me at a bad time, toward the end of a hot day, when I was on my way back to my room for a cold shower and a nap. And since I sensed he was about to pitch me for some dough, I quickly brought things to a close.
"Listen, it was nice to meet you, but I have to get going now, " I said as we shook hands. "Maybe I'll see you again here in the center." And I turned to leave.
Just as I turned onto the street of my hotel, I heard him calling me, half a block behind. This I really didn't appreciate--he had followed me for a block and a half--but I turned around to face him.
He began to tell me the story of how he is a student who goes to school everyday. "The school is free, and this is my last year, but I can't afford the cost of the notebooks. . ." I let him speak in this vein for another 30 seconds.
"Listen," I said, "I'm sorry but I cannot help you at the moment. Look for me again sometime later in the center, but right now I can't do anything for you."
This was true since I had only a little cash, not even enough for a coffee, on my person. But I was annoyed that he'd followed me almost to my hotel, and that just wouldn't do in my book. So he turned away in defeat, still with that look of hopelessness in his eyes, and we went our separate ways.
I didn't see him again on Sunday or Monday but this morning as I was having my coffee and watching the first half of the Uruguay-Mexico match, he spotted me and approached, "Hey man, how you doing?"
"I'm good, how are you?" I said as he joined me at my table. And he began to tell me his story, that he's a student in his last year of a five year "college" (but I think he meant high school), that most of his family lives in Costa Rica. "There is more work there, so my mother, my brother and my sisters live there to work. It's very hard to find a job here in Nicaragua."
He said his father died eight years ago in a car accident and his mother remarried "but my stepfather doesn't like me." In Granada he stays in the house of a friend's family "but they are very poor. Basically I'm alone here."
He wants to visit his mother in Alajuela, near Costa Rica's capital San Jose, but he doesn't have a passport. "I have no visa, either." His mission now is to graduate from school where he takes "all the subjects: history, geography, Spanish, mathematics, physics." He will graduate in November this year, then "when I have my diploma I can start to look for a job as a waiter or bartender or..."
"Tell me about the notebooks." So he explains that although school is free, he needs five notebooks, one for each class. "They are too expensive." He said he skipped school on Monday because he doesn't have anything in which to take his notes.
So I question him a bit. "When does your school year begin?" In January, he said. "So since January you go without notebooks?" No, but the ones he had are now full. "What about your teacher? Can he help?" The school is already free, he said. It's not his teacher's responsibility to come up with the notebooks. "What does your teacher say if you go to school but without the notebooks?" He says, Moses: where are your notebooks? How can you finish your schoolwork with no notebooks?
"How much do the notebooks cost?" About 110 cordobas for five notebooks at the market, a little more than five bucks. "That's a lot of money!" I say, and it's true, there's no doubt about it. It's about what we in America would pay for the same thing--maybe even more expensive than what we would pay.
"At the library," Moses said, "they are even more expensive, maybe 30 cordobas each."
Five bucks is a lot of money, I thought to myself, but if his story is true I should help him out. Five bucks is a lot, but not if it helps a kid to stay in school.
I finished my coffee and made a decision. "Okay, let's go to the market and buy you some notebooks."
So off we went. It's clear Moses isn't a street kid. He's clean but ragged around the edges. His jeans and t-shirt are a little bit old, maybe, but they are freshly laundered. Like me, he wears open leather sandals, but his are a few years old and worn, probably in need of repair. I'm sure it's not just notebooks that he needs.
We approached a woman's stall where thick notebooks were stacked up. Moses has been here before, and he knows exactly what he wants, but I'm not sure what he's asking the woman.
I ask her how much for a notebook. "Vente cinco." Twenty five. So that would be 125 for five, even more than what Moses had said.
But now Moses is picking up only three notebooks, and he seems to be asking the woman for some kind of discount. Since my Spanish is "pre-Twinkle," I'm kind of lost, but I've already made a decision, and I'll follow it through.
"One hundred five cordobas," says the woman, for the three notebooks Moses has in hand. I pay her and we leave. "Will this help you? Do you have enough pens?" I ask.
"This helps me very much, " he says. "Thank you for helping me with this. Yes, I have enough pens."
Was this some kind of "notebook scam"? Did he have an "arrangement" with the owner of the stall? Why did she tell me they cost 25 cordobas, but then charge me 30 cordobas more than the 75 total that three should have cost? The woman had been hesitant to name her price, and I had been in the dark with my limited Spanish.
But I had already made a decision, and I wasn't interested in any more details. I didn't feel that it was useful to pursue any more info from Moses if the cost of that info required either one of us to lose face.
Besides, when he turned my way to thank me, the look of pure gratitude on his face was enough to set my mind at ease.
We walked back to the center, and we parted ways with another handshake. "Thank you very much again for helping me with this."
"Buenas suerte, " I said to him, "Good luck in school, and maybe I'll see you again next year if I come back to Granada, and then you will have your diploma and your job."
"Good luck!" he said. "I hope to see you here again."
"Hey, man, hello, how are you?" he said as he approached me. Thus began a short conversation of small talk with Moses, a 19 year old native Granadan. He was yet another of several young local men that I met over the weekend who have an excellent grasp of English from their interactions with tourists.
Granada is the main town that kicked off Nicaragua's recently successful experience with tourism, and it shows. There are so many hotel rooms that it's easy to find a decent one for less than $20. And there are plenty of "touristy" type amenities such as horse and carriage rides, and restaurants--some with "international" cuisine--that have inflated "tourist prices" to match.
Unfortunately, there are also some of the more unpleasant kinds of things you find in a tourist town, such as an unusually high number of beggars, hustlers and even drug dealers.
So I was already on my guard when Moses approached me. But he was catching me at a bad time, toward the end of a hot day, when I was on my way back to my room for a cold shower and a nap. And since I sensed he was about to pitch me for some dough, I quickly brought things to a close.
"Listen, it was nice to meet you, but I have to get going now, " I said as we shook hands. "Maybe I'll see you again here in the center." And I turned to leave.
Just as I turned onto the street of my hotel, I heard him calling me, half a block behind. This I really didn't appreciate--he had followed me for a block and a half--but I turned around to face him.
He began to tell me the story of how he is a student who goes to school everyday. "The school is free, and this is my last year, but I can't afford the cost of the notebooks. . ." I let him speak in this vein for another 30 seconds.
"Listen," I said, "I'm sorry but I cannot help you at the moment. Look for me again sometime later in the center, but right now I can't do anything for you."
This was true since I had only a little cash, not even enough for a coffee, on my person. But I was annoyed that he'd followed me almost to my hotel, and that just wouldn't do in my book. So he turned away in defeat, still with that look of hopelessness in his eyes, and we went our separate ways.
I didn't see him again on Sunday or Monday but this morning as I was having my coffee and watching the first half of the Uruguay-Mexico match, he spotted me and approached, "Hey man, how you doing?"
"I'm good, how are you?" I said as he joined me at my table. And he began to tell me his story, that he's a student in his last year of a five year "college" (but I think he meant high school), that most of his family lives in Costa Rica. "There is more work there, so my mother, my brother and my sisters live there to work. It's very hard to find a job here in Nicaragua."
He said his father died eight years ago in a car accident and his mother remarried "but my stepfather doesn't like me." In Granada he stays in the house of a friend's family "but they are very poor. Basically I'm alone here."
He wants to visit his mother in Alajuela, near Costa Rica's capital San Jose, but he doesn't have a passport. "I have no visa, either." His mission now is to graduate from school where he takes "all the subjects: history, geography, Spanish, mathematics, physics." He will graduate in November this year, then "when I have my diploma I can start to look for a job as a waiter or bartender or..."
"Tell me about the notebooks." So he explains that although school is free, he needs five notebooks, one for each class. "They are too expensive." He said he skipped school on Monday because he doesn't have anything in which to take his notes.
So I question him a bit. "When does your school year begin?" In January, he said. "So since January you go without notebooks?" No, but the ones he had are now full. "What about your teacher? Can he help?" The school is already free, he said. It's not his teacher's responsibility to come up with the notebooks. "What does your teacher say if you go to school but without the notebooks?" He says, Moses: where are your notebooks? How can you finish your schoolwork with no notebooks?
"How much do the notebooks cost?" About 110 cordobas for five notebooks at the market, a little more than five bucks. "That's a lot of money!" I say, and it's true, there's no doubt about it. It's about what we in America would pay for the same thing--maybe even more expensive than what we would pay.
"At the library," Moses said, "they are even more expensive, maybe 30 cordobas each."
Five bucks is a lot of money, I thought to myself, but if his story is true I should help him out. Five bucks is a lot, but not if it helps a kid to stay in school.
I finished my coffee and made a decision. "Okay, let's go to the market and buy you some notebooks."
So off we went. It's clear Moses isn't a street kid. He's clean but ragged around the edges. His jeans and t-shirt are a little bit old, maybe, but they are freshly laundered. Like me, he wears open leather sandals, but his are a few years old and worn, probably in need of repair. I'm sure it's not just notebooks that he needs.
We approached a woman's stall where thick notebooks were stacked up. Moses has been here before, and he knows exactly what he wants, but I'm not sure what he's asking the woman.
I ask her how much for a notebook. "Vente cinco." Twenty five. So that would be 125 for five, even more than what Moses had said.
But now Moses is picking up only three notebooks, and he seems to be asking the woman for some kind of discount. Since my Spanish is "pre-Twinkle," I'm kind of lost, but I've already made a decision, and I'll follow it through.
"One hundred five cordobas," says the woman, for the three notebooks Moses has in hand. I pay her and we leave. "Will this help you? Do you have enough pens?" I ask.
"This helps me very much, " he says. "Thank you for helping me with this. Yes, I have enough pens."
Was this some kind of "notebook scam"? Did he have an "arrangement" with the owner of the stall? Why did she tell me they cost 25 cordobas, but then charge me 30 cordobas more than the 75 total that three should have cost? The woman had been hesitant to name her price, and I had been in the dark with my limited Spanish.
But I had already made a decision, and I wasn't interested in any more details. I didn't feel that it was useful to pursue any more info from Moses if the cost of that info required either one of us to lose face.
Besides, when he turned my way to thank me, the look of pure gratitude on his face was enough to set my mind at ease.
We walked back to the center, and we parted ways with another handshake. "Thank you very much again for helping me with this."
"Buenas suerte, " I said to him, "Good luck in school, and maybe I'll see you again next year if I come back to Granada, and then you will have your diploma and your job."
"Good luck!" he said. "I hope to see you here again."
Saturday, June 5, 2010
The Savior Saint is a Gritty Capital City
I've been to a few traffic-choked, chaotic and suffocatingly hot, polluted big cities in my time (Bangkok immediately comes to mind), but San Salvador comes close to taking the cake for its ability to exhaust the visitor after only an hour or so out & about the grimy central district. Like Mexico City the altitude here is already high while the city itself is surrounded by higher mountains. This tends to keep stagnant the noxious smoke & fumes from hundreds of belching buses that ply these city streets on a constant basis.
If the pollution wasn't so bad, the heat & humidity would knock anyone out by itself, but taken all together it makes for a health hazardous triple whammy. Every time I make an errand run I catch myself heading back to my aircon cool, cozy room after 60-90 minutes tops. But I've seen the usual sights: the one or two big cathedrals, the plazas, the parks, the markets, and the big colonial government buildings. This city makes you feel that if you've seen one Central American capital then you've seen them all.
So it's onward and outward again tomorrow, probably to the eastern El Salvador hub of San Miguel where I can catch a Tica bus to Managua. I went looking for the Tica terminal today but lost hope & gave up after an hour. I know I was close and maybe getting closer, but the locals I asked for directions from kept sending me in circles!
What more can I write about El Salvador and its capital? This country is the smallest in Central America--about the size of Massachusetts--and it has one of the smallest populations at around 7 million. It's the only country in the world named after Jesus Christ (The Savior), with its capital also named for "Saint" Savior. Salvadoreans suffered a brutal civil war in the 1980s, but now the country has been more or less at peace, at least politically, for almost two decades. Despite the fact that El Salvador has a somewhat dodgy reputation for crime & violence, I've noticed that the friendly people really seem to work hard to counteract that, welcoming the foreign visitor with goodwill & helpful advice.
It's definitely it a bit off the tourist's beaten path. You don't see very many Westerners here, American or European. But I feel it's worth a visit (it's my second in two years) to see how a remarkably tough, resiliant, vibrant people can climb their way back from such past horror & adversity--and with a generally cheerful & optimistic outlook for the future.
If the pollution wasn't so bad, the heat & humidity would knock anyone out by itself, but taken all together it makes for a health hazardous triple whammy. Every time I make an errand run I catch myself heading back to my aircon cool, cozy room after 60-90 minutes tops. But I've seen the usual sights: the one or two big cathedrals, the plazas, the parks, the markets, and the big colonial government buildings. This city makes you feel that if you've seen one Central American capital then you've seen them all.
So it's onward and outward again tomorrow, probably to the eastern El Salvador hub of San Miguel where I can catch a Tica bus to Managua. I went looking for the Tica terminal today but lost hope & gave up after an hour. I know I was close and maybe getting closer, but the locals I asked for directions from kept sending me in circles!
What more can I write about El Salvador and its capital? This country is the smallest in Central America--about the size of Massachusetts--and it has one of the smallest populations at around 7 million. It's the only country in the world named after Jesus Christ (The Savior), with its capital also named for "Saint" Savior. Salvadoreans suffered a brutal civil war in the 1980s, but now the country has been more or less at peace, at least politically, for almost two decades. Despite the fact that El Salvador has a somewhat dodgy reputation for crime & violence, I've noticed that the friendly people really seem to work hard to counteract that, welcoming the foreign visitor with goodwill & helpful advice.
It's definitely it a bit off the tourist's beaten path. You don't see very many Westerners here, American or European. But I feel it's worth a visit (it's my second in two years) to see how a remarkably tough, resiliant, vibrant people can climb their way back from such past horror & adversity--and with a generally cheerful & optimistic outlook for the future.
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