Anthropomorphizing Volcanoes -- Antigua, Guatemala

I'm starting this post from the concrete rooftop of my "homestay". It's 6:30 am, and I have about forty-five minutes to scribble out my thoughts before Carmen calls us to the table for breakfast. 

I'm so tired. How am I so tired? I blearily rub my sleep swollen eyes, squinting at the red shingled rooftops in front of me. I went to bed at ten thirty last night and woke up at six. That's plenty of sleep. So why do I feel like an old-ass car trying to get started on a winter morning? 

No sé. 

The air outside is fresh, with just a hint of breeze. I'm sitting on a typical, uncomfortable patio chair, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket and with my knees drawn into my chest for warmth. Birds chirp, buses rumble, motorcycles buzz, and tuk-tuks bounce along down the cobbled roads. The random dog barks and I could swear I just heard a turkey gobble. 

Volcán de Agua towers in front of me, placidly, serenely. Like the wise old abuelo of this colorful, colonial city, with fluffy clouds bearding his stately blue profile

To my right, Fuego erupts. Like the trouble-making, showoff of a hotheaded teenager he is.

Bourget. This is probably a sign that you're lonely and missing being a part of a community. You are creating a family of volcanoes. Anthropomorphism at its finest. 

I like these kinds of rooftops. Rooftops wherein you can look around and try to imagine the lives of neighbors through their laundry. 
 

Yup. Lonely. Anthropomorphizing volcanoes and analyzing the laundry of complete strangers. 

... 

There are places for people like you. 

I've settled into somewhat of a routine during the last few days. Light filters in through my blurred window at about five thirty, so I rouse myself from bed and pull my macbook onto my lap. I study Duolingo and review flashcards and journal until breakfast is served at seven fifteen. My four housemates skip off to class (skipping may or may not be the correct term) at about seven forty-five, and I return to my room to continue my studies.

I hate reflexives. How I hate them. Holy bananas. And I will probably never know when to use the simple past versus the imperfect past. 

Blurgh. 

But hey, at least I know enough Spanish to know the things at which I suck. That's encouraging.  

I hop into the shower at about nine, hankering for my old volcano view, but loving the water pressure and the less finicky knobs. 

At about ten o'clock, I shoulder my strawberry daybag and stroll towards city center. And as Antigua is a city that wakes up very late indeed, I still have most of the cobbled streets to myself.

I order a coffee at one of my two favorite cafes and give myself a couple of hours wherein I do not study. I write my blog (oh hey) and I imagine some rainbows (Aimee code for "planning"). I give myself these hours to process my nuts life and dream about the things to come.

So, if I start off in Paris, I can probably spend a couple weeks in France. See some new cities and eat an inhuman amount of cheese. Then I can spend the month of November in Spain, then two weeks in Portugal, then I can hop on a plane to Germany to visit all my German buddies. From Germany to Bulgaria, Bulgaria to Greece, Greece to Israel... 

I close my laptop at around noon, gently folding up my dreams and stowing them away until the next day. I pay for my coffee, then walk back to my "homestay," buzzing with caffeine and still floating a bit in all my dreams.

Lunch is served at twelve thirty, so I scarf down my meal quickly and then scamper off to Spanish at one.

It's been good for me to be back in school and it's been wonderful to have school be my main focus.

How did I do it at the Forest? Study three hours a day and then head back up the hill to work space holding shifts and to teach yoga to hordes of unruly Israelis? 

The first two and a half hours of class are always interesting and funny. We share stories about our lives, I make jokes, and my teacher laughs at my jokes (my teacher is a remarkably nice lady). Yesterday, I told her that my skin was so smooth because I put coconut oil mixed with frankincense on it every day. She asked what frankincense was, so I explained (in Spanish, mind you), the story of "Los Tres Hombres Muy Inteligentes." 

I told her that since I wear frankincense, "tengo la aroma de Jesus."

At one point, we were discussing our feet. And I took off my shoes to show my teacher that all my toes are the same size.

"Mis pies son muy anchos. Como pequeñas barcas. Es posible para mi caminar encima del agua como Jesus."

(my feet are very wide. Like little boats. It's possible for me to walk on the water like Jesus)

By about three thirty, my forehead begins to pound.

This is what it feels like to REALLY listen. Listening is fucking WORK. 

By about three forty-five, my poor, befuddled brain feels like it will commence leaking out of my ears at any moment.

YOU WANTED THIS, BOURGET. YOU PAID MONEY FOR THIS. AND YOU WILL HAVE A GOOD ATTITUDE AND KEEP TRYING AND STUFF. BLUUURRRRGGGGHHHH. 

My teacher works me through some grammar (not my strong suit. I'm better at the heretical Jesus jokes). When four thirty finally rolls around, I feel like I need a) someone to carry me home, b) a nap, c) probably an entire bottle of wine.

You... wanted... this...

Once home, I chat with my housemates and struggle through some homework until dinner is served at seven thirty. I wish I could make myself a cup of coffee or some hot chocolate in the meanwhile, but the kitchen looks like this when Carmen is out:

 Yup. This is why I won't be coming back to this apartment. One of the many reasons, anyway. I wanted a homestay. The kitchen is the heart of the home. And they put up fucking bars so we can't get in when Carmen isn't here. WTF? 

So I grab a cup of water and trot up the stairs to my room, the house quiet and empty.

It's just one week. And things could definitely be worse. And it's probably good for you to have this brief pause, this week of introspection, before you go on your whirlwind adventure with Cathy and John and then live in an actual homestay for seven weeks. With kids and chaos and stuff.

A New Chapter -- Antigua, Guatemala

I'm starting this post from Cafe Boheme, a classy little French cafe in Antigua, Guatemala. Colorful cloth umbrellas and lanterns dangle from the ceiling. The chairs are covered in burlap coffee sacks and Guatemalan textiles. The walls are painted brick red and faded just the right amount to toe the line between tasteful and derelict. French music plays in the background, and an old-fashioned lamp that emanates that old-school yellow glow hangs from a chain above the counter. 

Yeah. This is my kind of cafe. I can't wait to bring Cathy and John here. 

Cathy and John are coming to visit me in two weeks. 

And Girl is excited. Muy, muy emocionado. 

I'm definitely going to take them here. And to Samsara. And to Cafe No Se. And to that place with really sublime gelato near the arch. And to that one corner of the Local Mercado where that one lady sells fucking phenomenal coconuts for five Q each. 

  

Can you sense the excitement? 

I've been away from the Forest for four days now. And I will admit to already being nostalgic for bits of pieces of my old hippie home. For the breakfast, for the adorable kitty who would occasionally come out for a cuddle/to surreptitiously sneak food off my plate -- 

Isis is having none of this photography business.

Most of all, I'm nostalgic for the community. Being surrounded by people who knew me and with whom I could always sneak up from behind and give a hug. People with whom I had inside jokes. With whom I felt completely comfortable discussing the most intimate details of my bathroom adventures (going to the bathroom is always an adventure at the Yoga Forest). 

I also miss having a routine. Because even when routines are unhealthy, just being able to have a routine is comforting to this vagabond. 

But no matter how nostalgic I feel now or how nostalgic I will become during the next few months of hobnobbing around Central America, I know, without an inkling of doubt, that leaving The Forest was the right decision for me. 

And that's a good feeling. 

I started my homestay yesterday. And if I'm being entirely honest (as I usually have the annoying habit of being), I'm a little disappointed. The homestay was advertised as a way to practice Spanish with a Guatemalan family in between going to classes. In reality, it's staying in a clean, basic home on the outskirts of the city with two very nice people from New Zealand, two very nice people from Texas, and one lovely Guatemalan housekeeper/cook. And regardless of how nice everyone is, we aren't exactly great at teaching each other Spanish -- which was the entire reason I chose a homestay instead of couchsurfing. When we eat dinner, we all fumble around with Spanish for a few moments, but then we inevitably burst into English. And Carmen (the housekeeper/cook) doesn't even join us for our meals. She just prepares the food, serves it, and then cleans up when we're finished. 

This. Feels like a bit of a ripoff, I thought as I stared in dismay at my breakfast of runny oatmeal with a single sliced banana and some instant coffee. 

Oh well. I'll make the most of this week and I'll figure something else out for next week. 

I spent my first night in my homestay not sleeping. At all. I spent the night reading Homo Deus, watching Chef's Table, and painting a very serious unicorn for my uncle. 

Not quite finished, but almost there

 It's strange to be in a city again. To cross busy streets, to walk ten minutes and, you know, still be in the city. Not off somewhere in the jungle watching fireflies twinkling below the stars. To have so many options of cafes, of supermarkets, of street food.

 

It's strange to not have to leave my house with a flashlight/headlamp. I still feel like I'm missing something when I check my backpack and realize I don't have it with me. I experience a brief moment of panic, then relax because I remember that hey, I'm in a city.

And in cities, there are streetlamps. Imagine that. 

 The increased pollution has been tough on my sinuses, but my belly has ceased its perpetual, portentous rumblings. This could have something to do with the epic amount of eggs and bacon and sausage and cheese I've consumed since leaving the Forest (and the lack of chickpeas and lentils and fucking quinoa), or maybe everything here is just much cleaner.

This is a new chapter. You've finally closed your six month season at the Forest, and it's time to dive into this new adventure. Where you will learn (hopefully) much more Spanish, you'll make more friends through couchsurfing, develop some new routines, and you WILL keep yourself safe as you continue to travel alone through Central America. You won't spend money frivolously, but you will spend as much as you need to be safe and to learn what you need to learn.  

And, you know, to cover the cost of your coffee, wine, and cheese habit. 

You're allowed to experience as much melancholy and loneliness as you need in order to process moving on from community living. But try not to let that get in the way of enjoying all the things you can accomplish alone. Take full advantage of having more time for introspection, for painting, for studying, for music, for writing. 

"The only way to make sense of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance."

~Alan Watts

Plunge into this change, Bourget. Join this dance. 

FUEGO, FUEGO, FUEGO! -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

I'm starting this post from an Airbnb on the outskirts of Antigua. The wifi here is amazing (as in, it actually works. And not just intermittently), the kitchen is probably the most beautiful thing I've seen in ages, and being able to slide into bed at night without having to check for scorpions first is a luxury I haven't experienced in months.

You're not in the jungle anymore, Bourget. 
 
"How do you feel about leaving The Forest?" I was asked by my co-volunteers.

"I feel ready," I responded. With alacrity and certainty. "It's time. I'm ready to live in a home again, not a tent. I'm ready for a kitchen and just a bit more food autonomy. And honestly, I'm ready to live in a place that offers a more diverse community. In San Marcos, it's just hippies and locals whose economy revolves around catering to hippies. And neither really fits me."

Girl wants a city. Just more choices.

My final week at The Forest was tough. In order to not burden the other volunteers with my shifts/yoga classes, I found myself in a situation wherein I needed to take on four morning shifts in a row, followed by teaching four afternoon yoga classes.

Which basically meant working from 7:00 am to 5:30 pm with a two hour break. Which, when put in writing, seems a bit silly to complain about. I mean, it's pretty much what the rest of the western world does, yes? Work 7-9 hours a day?

Well... Bourget, you might not be a San Marcos level hippie, but neither are you the finest exemplar of the western world. 

Right. Because the western world gets paid cash money for their 7-9 hours, and you get a circus tent and three vegetarian, belly-combusting meals a day. 

Shut up, Bourget. You're jaded again. With volunteering and work exchanges and such. Give yourself a few months to process this, distance yourself from it, and then maybe you'll find more softness for this experience.

...

There have been beautiful moments. And lots of them. That day you got to make everyone omelettes for breakfast. New Year's Eve up at Lakshmi with the view of the lake and the fireworks. When we all went to Cafe El Artesano for an afternoon of drunkenness and cheese. The San Pedro ceremony with Jaya and Saraswati. Every single pizza night when you hid a beer in your water bottle and sliced pizza after pizza that Tammo popped in and out of the clay oven. 

Most nights in the circus tent. Looking up at the solar powered Christmas lights, lighting a candle, listening to either wind, rain, or a cacophony of critters. And the church + bombs. Always the church + bombs. 

Saturday, Sunday, and Monday went smoothly. I finished my space holding shifts, taught my yoga classes, and even threw a massage or two into the mix.

It feels good to end so strongly. To be healthy enough to finish my time here giving massages and teaching yoga. I... I think I've succeeded in not checking out before I actually check out. Which... which means a lot for me. I think I can leave the Forest much more gracefully than I've left other work exchanges that turned from healthy to unhealthy for me. 

Tuesday was a bit nuts. Tuesday was one of those days wherein I wasn't really sure if Tuesday was real life or some manner of realistic, interminable dream.

Tuesday started off normal enough. As Tuesdays generally do. I sliced two pineapples, two papayas, prepared a batch of hibiscus, ginger, mint, pineapple tea, and prepped cacao for that afternoon's sound ceremony.

Tuesday was hot. Sweltering, really. And as morning listlessly lagged into afternoon, the heat reached an oppressive, stifling level that drove me to the shower after my shift ended at two pm.

You are not a creature of the jungle, Bourget. 

Somewhat refreshed, I skipped down the stairs to the Submarine, hoping my tent wouldn't be a total sauna and that I could rest/ practice pack Fat Ellie for a few minutes before teaching my afternoon yoga class.

What's that sound? I paused from rummaging through my things. It's almost like firecrackers. But tons of them. And close. Is it... no, it can't be. We've had way too much rain lately. But still... that sound... 

I rushed from the Submarine to the gate of the Yoga Forest and stared at the gigantic plumes of smoke billowing up from the neighboring hillside.

FUCK. 

"FUEGO, FUEGO, FUEGO!" I heard the guard yelling into his radio. Moments later, the kitchen ladies came careening down the stairs, balancing giant jugs of water and chatting nervously to each other. Then Tammo raced down with a shovel. Several other workers followed him to the fire, all carrying water or machetes or shovels.

I... don't know what to do...

So I walked up the stairs and found my manager.

"Noelle, what do you want me to do? Should I still teach the afternoon yoga class?"

"No, the only people who came up asked for their money back and ran away," she responded, balancing a jug of water on her hip.

"Can I help with the fire?"

"You can find the rest of the workers and get them to come help," she continued her precarious journey down the stairs.

Gotcha. Good thing I've been studying Spanish. 

I found the rest of the workers and told them to abandon their projects and fight the fire.

"Cinco minutos," some of them responded to my urgent request.

"No, ahora," I insisted.

Are you kidding? Five minutes? Like, let me finish my tea first, then I'll be with you? Ahorita? I guess when forest fires are just a part of your dry season reality, it's too exhausting to get your panties in a twist every time one breaks out. Even if it's close enough to hear it crackle.  The fire. Not the panties. 

Two of Tammo's climbing buddies had shown up for an afternoon of climbing, but they gamely switched activities to an afternoon of fire fighting. I helped them find the Forest's supply of shovels and picks, and they carried them down to the fire and joined the fray.

I need to do SOMETHING, I thought as I gazed at the greedy red flames, licking the dry hillside and leaving a charred, smoking wake.

Blurgh. Something. If I'm close to that smoke, my sinus infection will come back and will torment me for weeks. But. I can't just stand here. Agh.

I filled a giant red bucket with water and ran down the stairs towards the flames, spilling an embarrassing amount of the precious water on my person in the process.

This is impossible. 

I gave what was left of the water to some locals, who used it to extinguish glowing embers that the wind could reignite into full-blown blazes.

"We've got it under control down here, but it's still out of control higher up," Noelle told me.

Higher up. Into the smoke. Gotcha. 

I followed Eric and Tammo towards the out-of-control-fire. But my lungs didn't let me go very far. I hit the first bit of smoke and keeled over in a coughing fit.

"Aimee, go down," Tammo told me, face covered in soot and sweating like, well, like a northern German fighting a bush fire in Guatemala.

So I regretfully, reluctantly (gratefully), made my way back to The Forest. Where I sat on the porch underneath Shakti Shalla with some of the other guests, as Saraswati and Jaya continued their Sound Ceremony above us. I saw Tammo, Eric, Klervi, Noelle, and other workers throwing dirt onto the flames, and noticed that the wind was pushing the fire up the hill and away from the Forest.

Well... I mean, that's good for us. But there's probably someone on the other side of that hill. 

The fire crew would get the flames under control, nearly put the fire out, and then a new burst of ambitious red would appear on the harassed hillside. 
 

Some guests left the Forest that night. 

"My grandmother died in a fire," one said as she grabbed her backpack and headed into town. "I can't be here." 

"The workers said, "mañana,"" Tammo told me when he finally trudged back up the Forest stairs. "So I guess they think that it'll be fine for tonight." 

It is VERY unsettling to be going to bed with a fire that close. 

But we did. We all went to bed. And woke up to the crackling of fire. 

"I'm taking Fat Ellie into the office," I told Tammo as I prepared some coffee for sunrise trip to the lakefront. "I know everything will be fine, but I'd just feel better knowing she wasn't in the tent. Especially since we're going to be out  most of the day." 

Fat Ellie stored safely in the office, Tammo and I grabbed our coffee and trotted into town. Just in time for a cloudy sunrise over Lake Atitlan.  

What will I miss about leaving the Lake? 
 

 Moments like this. Of course. Just having such spectacular nature so accessible. 

These peaceful mornings by the water. With someone who has become a dear, dear friend.

Because sure, I'm going to live in a home in Antigua, but it'll be amongst strangers. Again. 
 

I would like a home with friends. 
 

Then you'll have to make some serious changes in your life, Bourget. Because the one you're living right now doesn't leave heaps of space for a home with friends. 
 

So make the most of the final couple weeks of friend-time, and then make the most out of the home you'll have in Antigua. And then (eventually) change things so that you have more space in your life for friends AND home. Together. 
 

 You know what's best for you. You know what you need. Now don't just do what's easy. Don't just let life carry you from one experience to another, from one country to the next, from one couchsurfing host to someone else. Actively work on pursuing what's best. Actively work on pursuing what you need. 

Sometimes it's nice to float. Sometimes it's better to pay attention to life and stroll through doors already opened.
 

And sometimes you have to work to build doors. And create opportunities. And it's hard work. And it's struggle. And that's okay too. 

And you're nearing that time, Bourget.  You're nearing the time you will probably have to build doors. Or kick them down, you know. Either or. You're nearing the time when you will have to stop avoiding the hard things in favor of "what flows naturally."
 

You know you want to go back to university. You know it's what you need. You know it's what's best. 

Frankly, the reason you've been avoiding it for the past couple of years? 

You hate paperwork. It gives you anxiety. You're afraid of taking entrance exams and failing. You're not in school studying psychology right now because the application process scares the bananas out of you. 
 

You know Colorado isn't best for you. You know it's unhealthy. But you keep going back there because it's easy. Because you have connections. Because you have friends and family to support you. Because you can easily find work doing what you love, if only for a few months. 

The reason you haven't made a home in Montreal or another city that would be WAY better for you in the long run, is because you're afraid of starting over. And, I mean, you start over every week or so on the road, but that's different. That's easy, low-pressure, low-stakes. You're afraid of starting over in a place you want to develop new connections, a place you want to call home. A place that will really matter.

You're scared because you know that even though Montreal would make a much better home, you might have to start off working a job that drains you. That doesn't fulfill you. A job in which you struggle to find meaning and contentment. 

But that doesn't mean it wouldn't be BEST. And you should stop avoiding it just because it will probably be hard. 

I think that's one of the lessons I'm going to take from here. One of the many. 
 

After our cloudy sunrise, Tammo and I scampered back to the Forest in time for breakfast. Then I led a three hour Thai Massage workshop (which felt fabulous), after which we ran back into town and hopped on a boat bound for San Juan. Where we shared a lunch of gourmet pizza and gelato at Pequeños Pecados (little sins).

After eating way too much pizza far too quickly, we stumbled back to the dock and continued to San Pedro. Where I received another haircut from Ross, we bought snacks for a volunteer campfire, ordered final smoothies from Da Juice Girls, and then returned to San Marcos.

We closed the day with a share circle around a campfire (which felt just a wee bit odd, given how much trouble we'd gone through to extinguish a fire the day before).   

I am going to miss nights like these. I am going to miss the security of routine. I am going to miss the view from the composting toilet and the shower. I am going to miss living with friends. 

But it's time to go. It's time to focus on my health, my Spanish, my art.

I'm grateful for what I've learned here. About myself, about others, about life and things and such and such. But I'm also grateful to be moving on. I want different hard things in my life. I don't want going to the toilet to be a hard thing. Or dealing with difficult guests. Or worrying about giardia. Or charging my laptop. Or confusion over who reserved which space for a massage. Or teaching yoga to twenty rambunctious Israelis who've never done yoga before and just came up to the Forest because they wanted a picture of themselves doing Tree Pose in a pretty yoga studio with a view of a volcano. 

I'm ready for new adventures. New challenges. I want the act of actually learning Spanish to be hard, not having a charged computer/wifi to be hard. 

The Final Dance -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

The season is about at an end for San Marcos. The event board in front of Circles Cafe is nearly empty, and I watch loads of hippies walk down Gringo Alley, bearing stuffed backpacks and sharing promises of "see you next season." 

There was a time I thought I'd be back next season. 

...

What a different time that was. Before the rampant giardia and sinus infections, etc. Part of me, a big part of me, is disappointed that I won't be here next season. That this place didn't end up becoming some sort of home for me. 

But that doesn't mean I don't have a place I'll be happy to call home. It just means I still have to search for it. Which means I have more adventures in store. 

Which isn't all that bad.

Fred arrived at the Forest a couple weeks ago, speaking of things that aren't all that bad.

I wish Fred had arrived at the Forest a couple months ago. That would have been great. Months in the Forest with Fred. Happy days.

Fred is Jonas' best friend's little sister. And when he talked about Fred coming to join us Forest Folk, he always referred to her as "little." 

"My best friend's little sister." 

Hence, my logical brain pictured Fred as a petite German girl. Just because Jonas had used the word "little" so often and not "younger."

And then Fred arrived. And Fred is German and a girl, but definitively NOT petite. Which threw my deceived brain for a bit of a loop.

If this is a "little" sister, what does the other guy look like? 

To get to know this lady a bit better (and because I needed some time away from the Forest) I led Fred to San Marcos' legendary Japanese restaurant. The nearly impossible to locate, hole in the bamboo fence restaurant which serves mediocre food and has the most absurd, eclectic collection of  -- 

"How do you even wear this?" 

-- clothes? 

Fred and I laughed our way through mountains of -- 

"I think this is the sleeve?" 

-- garments, drank mojitos and had some good, old-fashioned girl time. Wherein we didn't talk about spiritual growth, our personal meditation practices, or how to always stay positive. 

I need more time like this. Just... easy time. Where normal life feels like enough.

So I joined Fred for an adventure to San Pedro a couple days later. The lakeside village Tammo and I have dubbed "Sodom and Gomorrah," for its, uh, plethora of hedonistic activities. And, I, uhh... may or may not have showed Fred the best place to get her nose pierced. Like the fabulous influence I am. 

Maybe it's a good thing Fred didn't join the Forest months ago. If this is what I've done to her in the first week, I don't know how she would survive months with me...

At the beginning of our friendship, Fred was just nice. Just unbelievably sweet. As in, "Holy bananas, I didn't know people could be so genuinely kind." However, as our friendship progressed into week two, Fred's sweetness began to slip as she let her sassy side seep out.

"Oh god, I just left my dirty cup next to the fire. Why would I do that?" I shuffled back to retrieve my empty cacao cup from beside my abandoned seat.

"Typical," Fred muttered under her breath.

"FRED," was the best response I could muster. Her smart-assery had knocked the wind out of my sails.

For my final Saturday at the Forest, the volunteers all dressed up, bedecked themselves with glitter (I've always found the hippie obsession with glitter a little ironic, given the environmental impact of micro-plastics...) and headed to the Ecstatic Dance at Eagle's Nest.

I have lived in San Marcos for six months. Most volunteers hit the Eagle's Nest Ecstatic Dance at least twice a month. I, on the other hand, have successfully, deliberately avoided it for six months. Because, a) I dance like Mr Bean, and b) it seemed like it would be hippie overload for me. 

But you should go at least once, Bourget. It would be silly to spend THIS much time in San Marcos la Laguna and NOT go to a dance at Eagle's Nest. 

So after my space-holding shift on Saturday morning, I grabbed my camera, slipped into a dress, and hiked up the hill (pausing ever few minutes to dredge up a considerable amount of phlegm from my poor, persecuted throat) to Greg's epic platform overlooking the lake. The cloudy horizon dimmed the sunset, but the hippies were colorful enough to compensate.

And then there was Fred.

Fred will compensate for any disappointing sunset.

Because Fred is fucking fantastic.

And then there was the sunset silk performance.

Which was cool. But not as cool as Fred.

 I didn't dance much at the Ecstatic Dance (Kayla's words kept echoing in my head), but I had a magical time snapping photographs of my Forest buddies.

I wish I had paid the 50 Q to just come here and people watch every week. WHO is this giant overall-clad hippie clutching a MASSIVE crystal? Just walking around, cradling this piece of rock with a blissed out expression on his face? 
 

 
I dodged feathers, whirling rainbow scarves, other photographers with faces smeared in black and white paint, as I tried to photograph my friends.

Crystal guy again. Still blissed out. This is how I look when I hold giant hunks of Parmesan 

Fred, Tammo, and I headed down the hill early that evening, relinquishing the platform to the rest of San Marcos' hippie community while we snagged an early dinner of fried pollo y papas.

"Fred," I told Fred, "we're going to travel together someday. And I will blog about it. A lot. And all the blog posts will be called, "The Adventures of Aimee and Fred." And it will be amazing."

Fred agreed. And gave me a hug. And then said something sassy. As Fred does. 

This is My Normal -- Xela, Guatemala

I'm starting this post from Il Giardino in San Marcos la Laguna, Guatemala. I've abandoned Shambala because the poor cafe has succumbed to a bazillion flies and the pandemic of shit internet. So I'm exploring my other options. Which are scant, but not totally nonexistent. 

What I would give for Main Street Bagels right now. A sumptuous Cuban cremosa, a muffin, a view of Main Street, a questionable but comfortable couch, and internet that works. Not intermittently. Just. Works. 

Blurgh. 

I have nine days left at The Forest. 

Nine days. 

Girl be down to single digits. 

And Girl be stoked about this. S-T-O-K-E-D, fucking stoked. 

"ONLY NINE MORE DAYS OF PEEING IN THE DIRT!" I hollered at Tammo inside the tent. As I peed outside the tent. 

It's going to be an odd adjustment. Having dinner and not talking about parasites and scorpions and all that jazz. Talking about normal people things. Like books, movies, the bar that has the best live music in town. 

"Tammo," I garbled through toothpaste foam. "If you want this scorpion to survive, you have to get it now," I gestured to the inch and a half long black bugger perched on the wall of the circus tent. "And you have to take it far away. So it won't just crawl back inside. Otherwise I will slay it." 

I have a sinus infection again, but that's hardly news. I've spent about half of the last two years in the throes of sinus infections. 

Immune system, where have you gone? Why have you forsaken me? You used to be so great. Did I accidentally leave you in France somewhere? Abandon you near that glacier lake in Iceland? Did you find Italy to be so grand that you decided to jump ship and settle down in Tuscany? 

...

Please come back? 

What is more newsworthy is that Tammo and I went to Xela last weekend. We took the lancha to San Juan, met up with some of Tammo's climbing buddies, and then flagged down a chicken bus bound for Xela.  Once in Xela, we met with still more of Tammo's climbing buddies (my tentmate is very popular) who were all crashing with Chofo. 

What a great name. 

Chofo is a Guatemalan climber whose little home on the outskirts of Xela had somehow been transformed into a crashpad for the gringo climbing community. 

We dropped off our things, then ventured out into the wet weather to purchase groceries for dinner. After which I spent hours in the kitchen, creating some manner of ragu and (of course) bananas foster. 

It feels so good to be in a home again. In a place with photographs on the walls. With the story of a family written into the chairs, cupboards, floorboards. 

I obnoxiously turned down all help offered to me, so thankful to be chopping vegetables and cooking again. 

I've missed this. So much. So. Damn. Much. 

When I went to bed that night, I felt my throat and a bit of pressure in my nasal cavities. 

Here we go again...

Sure enough, the next day I roused myself from my pad on the floor feeling like absolute shit. And not only because I hadn't managed to sleep a wink. Because my face was slowly filling with fluid. 

My head feels like it's turning into a water balloon. Blurgh. 

"Tammo, I don't think I can go climbing with you today. It wouldn't be good for me to go out in the cold right now, and it wouldn't be fun if I'm feeling this crappy." 

So Tammo headed out with his friends, and I spent the morning in Chofo's home, using the internet (AMAZING), dreaming about Europe this fall, and chatting with a French girl (whose fiesta-ing family of parasites had also kept her from climbing). 

By 11:30, it was warm enough for my beleaguered sinuses, so I headed out into Xela. 

If I can't climb, at least I can enjoy the city a little and take a few photographs. Since I'm here anyway.

Google maps predicted a 45 minute walk from Chofo's to city center, but I'm pretty sure I took a slow, sweet hour and a half.

The city was dirty, but colorful. Cluttered, but characterful. I found myself smiling and noticed a spring in the step of my sick body.

Sometimes it's nice to remember where I am and what I'm doing. I'm currently walking by myself through the second largest city in Guatemala, in the VERY non-touristic areas, and feeling totally confident and calm. Like, this is my normal.

I like that this is my normal. 
 

I stopped to buy underwear (my supplies are running dangerously low) from a little old lady who, if I had to pick a Guatemalan abuela, I would want it to be her. 

 I lingered in a park for a moment, watching lovers cuddling on benches, men smoking cigarettes, boys shining shoes, girls selling bags of sliced fruit.

 As neither Tammo nor I had slept well at Chofo's the night before (Tammo on a couch, me on the pad on the floor), we decided to book space at a cheap hostel for our final night in Xela. So after dropping my things at the hostel in city center, I meandered back into the city, heading towards the cemetery.

Because cemeteries are amazing.

The chicken bus back to Lake Atitlan the next day was horrendous. We caught a taxi to the bus stop, then were guided onto a bus we were assured would take us to San Juan.

That was easy, I thought. Prematurely. As I climbed into one of the uncomfortable row seats of the former American school bus.

The bus driver was batshit crazy. We took turns at an UNGODLY amount of kilometers per hour -- 

HOW AM I STILL ALIVE? 

-- and everyone in the bus seemed to think it was a great idea to keep their windows wide open. Hence, exhaust, other kinds of pollution (there's a vast variety in this part of the world), and cold air hurtled into the bus (you didn't know that pollution could hurtle, but it CAN). My sinuses screamed in pain, and I probably looked like an abused puppy as I desperately clung to the metal bar in front of me. For dear life. Not an exaggeration.

Tammo reached into his backpack to pull out my puffy jacket. Which I couldn't put on, because I couldn't remove my hands from the seat in front of me in order to stick my arms through the sleeves.

It's like trying to put a jacket on while riding a roller coaster. Without a seat belt. 

An hour into the journey, the driver motioned to Tammo and me, telling us to get out of the bus.

"Pero necesitamos ir a San Juan la Laguna. Esta San Juan?" I blurted my comical Spanish at the driver.

"Si, si, aqui," the driver continued to motion for us to leave.

This. Is not San Juan. 

So Tammo and I sat on the side of a random, dirty street in a random, dirty city in Guatemala, waiting for another bus to (hopefully) arrive to carry us to San Juan.

Eat peanuts, Bourget. Just eat peanuts.


Because we had not, in fact, been left in San Juan. Even though Tammo had paid the full price for us to be taken to San Juan.

I snacked on peanuts, reminiscing back to the time Tessa and I were hitching through Eastern Europe. And we told each other we could EITHER get stressed OR we could eat peanuts. Not both.

We were finally able to board another crowded chicken bus, which dropped us in San Pablo. Where we took a tuk-tuk back to San Marcos.

Central America. I will not miss your abysmal transportation system.