footprints in the sand

Did you ever wonder “what if”? Like, what if the colonization of the Americas had failed?

As described in previous posts, I went all the way up to Mexico City, on the way crossing Guatemala. That brought me into the “Maya World”. The vast area formerly inhabited by the proud and prosperous Mayan empire still lives and breathes its vivid past. I went there partly to see some of the remains from up close. The best place to do that if you want the real “Indiana Jones”-Experience might possibly be Tikal. This neatly restaurated Mayan City lies in the middle of the jungle, partly still overgrown by it.

Tikal means City of Voices. This is due to the fact that the ingenious architects of this masterpiece have created the sacred district in a way that a large echo will carry and multiply any sound made on top of the pyramids. No doubt a great trick to put the masses in awe. And masses there were. The city used to house several hundred thousand people, it reached its peak around 700 a.D. where this number was quite something. (If you want to get a feel of what I am talking about, and have a strong stomach and tolerance for subtitles, watch Mel Gibson’s “Apocalypto”). What remains of the city is the center. Temples, governmental buildings, some palaces of the really rich and powerful. The vast majority of the people lived outside this part in small wooden huts as they are still seen all over latin america, but of those remain only the most subtle traces.

The architecture is without any doubt stunning. Even though I have seen pictures of mayan ruins before, this place leaves me awestruck by its shere size, architectural precision and intricate design.

Piling up massive amounts of stone seems something that is deeply ingrained in the human DNA; or else why would so many ancient civilizations mount that many pyramids, independently? As an cultural anthropologist that can’t stop thinking and analyzing I suspect that gigantic projects might be part of the glue that holds larger societies together; and the massive buildings that are proof of their good organization serve as part of the magic that makes them achieve more than their smaller neighbors in the future. Who knows.

Tikal started in Science and ended in Politics. The oldest temples were buildt to tame the forces of space and time, measuring the days and the cycles of the cosmos. That served as a basis for the infamous Maya Calendar. The biggest of the temples was buildt second to last. It seemed to have served only ceremonious purposes. It might well be if the theories are right that constructing those last temples drained so much out of the land and the people that the system collapsed.

All that is left are silent stones. The restauration doesn’t give the original enough credit. I walk through the ruins, daydreaming away of how it could have been. All colors, sounds, smells, every piece of organic matter that lived and decorated this place is gone. Tikal is a sceleton of a city, naked bones.

A professor of mine once compared Marrakesh to a seashell where the crab that originally called it a home has moved on, leaving it to be occupied by yet another species. In this case, tourists. The bones of the city are still intact, but the life going on there has moved to different places and changed with them. What’s going on in the bones is a theatre.

Tikal is very much like that.

Again I find villages solely driven by the purpose of selling beds, tours and souveniers. Hostels in nearby tourist towns go with the “Maya/Jungle”-theme. The highly recommendable “Los Amigos” gives it a particularly creative touch:

What was formerly sacred ground is now auditorium for group after group. I imagine what must have been going on here, and can’t help the feeling that it’s a little as if after the fall of western civilization a group of chinese tourists would visit the Vatican’s ruins, taking a seat on the altar near St.Peter’s grave with their lunchbox.

During a normal day one cannot walk anywhere without having at least three groups in sight.

Tikal never was a “forgotten city”; the nearby Maya descendants always knew it was there. They just did not bother to tell. Before the archeological restauration it was taken over by the forest almost completely.

This is a temple, too. By law about a third of the city still stays undergrund, untouched. Archeologist spent a lot of effort in uncovering and restoring what remained, thereby discovering some of the richest treasures of the Mayan world.

It remains a mystery to the world why the Mayan civilization, strong as it were, would just disperse. At one point the great cites were abandoned, and the people lived on as small tribes doing subsistence in the woods, their cities only memories. Theories about why this was so range from overpopulation, exhaustion of the earth, problems with water or decease or a combination of all of the above.They say sceletons of noble-class people had been found in the temple disctrict. It seems like the peasant classes left the city, and with nobody to work for them the nobles died of hunger in their temples, refusing to let go of them.

Modern-day Maya are organized in a bunch of small tribes with different languages, clothes and traditions, and spread out over a vast area in three states. Even the Kuna of Panama claim to be of Mayan blood, their facial features hinting towards common genepool with the murals of Tikal. The descendends of the Lords of this city these days go there to sell food, sell their ancestry posing in costumes that are about as authentic as it gets in european medieval markets (which is, pretty much but not really)

or engage in “revived” rituals celebrating a glorious past. To me that is the saddest form of reenactment.

Like this modern-day Maya woman. In a ritual imitating ancient traditions she is spitting booze all over people seeking spiritual or physical healing. Inbetween she bows before the pyramids to honor her ancestors. Those ancestors who tamed the jungle and bent stone to their will would probably be honored more by trying to erect new monuments or even just attening a university than by intoxicated rituals in front of ruins.

Reenactment is everywhere. Mexico City has actors putting up a show in the city center. The same spitting-on-people deal. That picture is actually taken near a main square where recently a temple from the former Aztec City on the ruins of which Mexico City has been buildt got discovered. It was destroyed and the stones torn apart to build a cathedral on the same spot. It remains as a silent witness of past violence.

After Tikal and some reading about how astounding Tenochtitlan (former Mexico City) used to be I really wonder - what if? The civilizations encountered in these parts were close to being equal. Victory was not a sure thing at all.

And I wonder about the future. Nothing helps to put things into perspective like scattered remains. Chinas economy might overtake the US in size and strength in as little as five years.

The future will bring interesting times.

I have been through eight countries in two weeks, seven of them explored by bus. That left me about one and a half days on average per country. This has been a lesson in that “backpacking” is only yet another type of tourism (yes people, I challenge you to comment and contradict me! Try it!). And in how much sitting one single person can endure. And finally, it has been a lesson about borders.

Central America, unlike our cozy little EU, takes it’s borders seriously. I made the mistake of travelling exactly during the easter week, Semana Santa, a major family holiday. That means, since the richer countries are down at the bottom, that all the expats are travelling up. With me. By Bus.

The border between Panama and Costa Rica is by far the most disorganized. You get there, and have to get all your stuff out of the bus to be searched. Then I stood in a loooooong line to stamp out of Panama, because there was just one clerk doing his job very, very thoroughly. t seemed like he was a real people person, asking them their lifestories or something, because he talked a lot. And took their pics with a webcam. To then enter Costa Rica one needs to walk on foot for like a mile to the other side of the border. Stamp in again. Grab the luggage again and have it “searched” again. Meaning, unzip with a dainty look inside and rezip if you are a backpacker. Man, I could have smuggled so many interesting things!

Costa Rica - Nicaragua sucked the most. There was no walking involved, but for Semana Santa it was so full that we stood five hours in the midday heat until they would, again, allow us to drag out our luggages to be searched. This time the cleark did not even bother to search anything, he saw my nationality and told me to grab my bags and go. This border incidentally had the nicest streetfood. One woman with entrepreneurial mindset even had a whole restaurant-out-of-the-bag going. She brought a menu with choices (more than some restaurants I’ve visited), drinks on ice, and even chairs for her costumers to sit on.

Up north it got nicer and more chilled. Nicaragua-El Salvador did not bother us much, they followed through with the logic of the Nicaraguan clerk and only dragged select luggages out of the bus. A nice change. El Salvador did see me only for one night. Out of the bus, out for dinner, into the hotel at the buststation, into the bus before dawn, that was about it. And some landscape flying by my window, but not much of it because I was too tired to look.

El Salvador-Guatemala was funny. We stood an hour in a line that did not move and with each bus kept growing until it filled the street like.. a hundred meters down the road from the office. Reason being, the computer system had some sort of problem and did not work. So they did not move. Eventually they found a workaround or parts of it started working again, so slowly the mess dispatched. This was the only country though I might add where a local on the bus would tell me that it was dangerous. Even Columbians tend to defend theirs and say that it is safe unless you venture into the wrong parts. So, that kind of scared me. Consequently Guatemala City, known to be one of the most dangerous places to be in those parts, saw me only for an hour between buses.

Finally, the funniest, most beautiful and most adventurous border crossing was from Guatemala to Mexico. I went up to see some ruins in Tikal (more about that in the next post), and from there up to Mexico. That meant, and I did not know that in advance, three hours in a chicken bus over pure dirt road. My back did not thank me that. Getting out of the bus, the quickest passport control ever because there was nobody else in this middle of nowhere, and then stopping at a river where the road ended. Yep, that meant out with the luggages and onto boats.

Small boats. They went for like twenty minutes up the river, passing a whole indigenous tribe doing their laundry at the side of the river. Unreal. Then, back into yet another chicken bus and with a certified Brutal Busdriver further into Mexico. From there the next bordercrossing was into the USA for a change of flights into Brasil. I don’t need to blog about that, You Know.

A note about the Brutal Busdriver Certificate: It has often been noted that driving a bus in Latin America can be somewhat… more adventurous than you might wish. These people drive like maniacs. The best example I found in Rio; a guy that would drive a big bus full of people up narrow and steep serpentines like there was no tomorrow, throwing everyone from one side to the other; honking at and insulting various other participants in traffic for basically being there, the people in the bus for not getting out fast enough, or the world in general. He is not alone, it happens again and again. Mexico does not even bother with speedlimits anymore, they put speedbumps everywhere because they KNOW their speedlimits will be ignored anyhow. Somehow the busdrivers come out of that alive, but it is so common that it makes you wonder if they have to have too much catholicism (god will save us); a pact with the devil, or if crazyness is just part of their jobdescription.

Now the travelling starts getting kind of … rushed. Changing country every two days takes it’s tolls, and might I add: Borders in Central America SUCK, especially since now in Semana Santa EVERYONE is on the road. We arrived five hours late one day. But Nicaragua makes up for the pains it took entering it, and it is… well, let me say, more funny. And more poor, which isn’t funny.

It jumped on me when getting off the bus, tired from the ride. The streets looked shabbier, the buildings less maintained, a lot more holes in the street and the gully covers often missing; stolen and sold for the metal. Getting on the first taxi, it is almost falling apart. Naked metal in the back where the bags go, the seats in a nontrustworthy condition and only the sad remnants of what had once been a seat belt. Don’t even think about taxameters.

classic shot: the outdoor-toilet with the special cow filter functionality. The garbage problem is bad.

For the Pratchett readers: I have found the Ankh’s little brother. But Nicaragua doesn’t just have this face. Granada is a cozy spanish-looking town with a lot of quite decent hostels and even some luxurious hotels, lots of restaurants and cafes; and it caters to a lot of tourists without being too touristy. While the little kid drawing the wheelcart picks up the garbage on the street, the cafe inside will offer wholesome organic chai, european flair and an english waitress. Contrasts. I have never in my life felt more like a tourist. But then again, I am.

Back to the funny.

being an ethnologist I probably should know, but I don`t, why the statues are covered. Probably Semana Santa. Funny is people coming into church just putting their bikes in the corner. And of course the bum sleeping on a bench in the back.

Advertisement in these parts is often done via murals. This guy is supposedly trying to animate me to buy something, but… I can’t help but wonder if he breaks something else but prices.

this barbershop is of the smashing kind too. Good for them.

Where others might use iron, ecology is an issue here so they use… trees.

absolutely great though is the “hightech”-Shop down the street. … they did actually sell all sorts of technology there, but their marketing needs serious work.

off to Guatemala tomorrow. Starting to feel like a chinese tourist

It’s been one of these days again. I went back to Panama to finish up the loose ends of my Engineers without Borders (e.V.) project.

I go back to the village where I lived for five months, the one place I have ever been homesick to. The way up there is incredibly beautiful, up through lush tropical forests, passing many people in traditional indian dresses, often on horses, and from one point you can see the ocean intervowen with the land.

Best part: saying hi to my “guestmom”, the lady that kind of adopted me during my time there, exchanging gossip about everyone.

I sleep in a bed of wood with an unmentionable hint of a matress with a duck nesting under the other bed in the room and a chicken consistently trying to nest on mine. At six in the morning, the sounds of roosters with the strong need to express themselves and the smell of fresh coffee made on an open fire stove wake me up. I get up, and eat something fried before embarking upon my duties. First I walk down to the house of two elderly people who needed water but could not receive a cistern. We basically gave them a hose saying “dig it in”, since they were lower than a nearby spring. Water was running, but it turned out in Summer the spring is so small that we would need to build a little ..whatever the name of the thingie is… to collect the water in the spring. We discussed the details, and upon leaving I receive a perfectly ripe mango fresh from the tree. Delicious.

Then I walk back up. It’s not even eight yet, but the day has progressed to a heat that hits you like a hammer when you step out of the shade. Up the steep incline the heartrate goes up to a nice, sweaty pace. Next stop, an indigenous family who needed some facilitation with … let’s say, village politics, to get their water problem fixed. Visiting them is always an experience. The indigenous Ngobe are culturally notably different from the latino population of our village. They are of a mysterious, silent mannerism that I could never really dicypher. This particular family likes me, so after a while they do start talking to me, and sometimes quite a lot, but especially with the woman of the house conversation is sometimes slow. I have spent intervals of 20 minutes with no word spoken, one gets used to it.  I am particularly happy that I could help solving their problem, I like them and they supported our project even when it was difficult for them to do so, trusting that we would help them, in turn. So, back up again to the next house.

One of the guys that helped the most in the construction of the first cistern and has since received his, wanted to buy some of the material that was left over. I have to collect the money, not a rewarding job. So, I go down there and only find his elderly mother. She is the ancestor of a tribe, having 10 kids, 58 grandkids and currently 62 great-grandkids, two more on the way. Her health is declining,  and since carrying water has become a great problem for her she really really loves us and thanks me again in such a sweet way that I feel elevated for the rest of the day. She does only pay me part of what her son owes me, but I write a receipt and move on. Not without receiving the inevitable lunch. Upon visiting people feel inclined to offer food, especially around mealtimes, so one can end up eating two lunches and three dinners on visiting days.

I walk back. By now, the quantity of walking starts to qualify as hiking. I meet people on the way who greet me from horseback, and good old friends with whom I stop for a chat.

The afternoon sees me leaving the village, more project work awaits down at the cloister of our catholic partner-nuns. That means, another half-hour walk down the path to the slightly better dirtpath that is considered “street”. There I wait to catch the passenger-pickup down to the Interamericana, an adventure in and of itself. I ride on the back of the car standing and hanging on to the metal cage. Those pickups were used to transport cattle before they met their current fate. Down at the street at the chinese supermarket / bus station I squeeze into a chicken bus down to Remedios, where the nuns wait.

More about that later…

Argentina ends with one of these perfect travelling stories you just couldn’t have planned.

After Salta, exploring the Andes was my goal, and since I did not have much time to do so I just booked two nights in a hostel in a random place up north that sounded interesting, namely, Humahuaca. The plan was to enjoy the busride in the famous scenery of Quebrada de Humahuaca, (worthwhile)

check into the hostel and go hiking to feel the Andes up close. It worked out, I booked a nice hostel

and enjoyed the views in solitary pilgrimage.

Amazing. Humahuaca itself seems to made to sell tourists stuff. Every street has at least ten shops selling the traditional wool garments in the nice etho-patterns, ethno-jewellry, bags, ponchos, you name it. Knitted hats I found particularly disconcerting. Inbetween the shops are restaurants (often containing a stuff-shopping corner) for the hungry tourist, and several hostels. There is a church, too.

Besides tourism, Humahuaca is particularly proud of its fight for independence.

it does have a certain “they can take our lives, but they can never take our Freedom !!1!” feel to it.

So, while going for food after hours of enjoying the view, two guys in a car pull up to me on a bridge, shouting in argentinian-flavoured spanish “let’s all go eat together!”. Looking at them, recalling everything mom (should have) told me about not getting into a car with strangers especially when food is involved, I decided to trust my gut and go ignoring that advice. They were as nice as they looked, working in Buenos Aires and in the north for a quick off-season holiday. We ate Llama meat (more tasty than tender), and in the ensuing conversation they asked me if I would not like to go with them to Iruya, never heared of it. They did not know either what was there, they booked a ticked along the same lines as mine to Humahuaca - it is north, prone to being scenic, and bound to be an adventure. They would not go by car though since the road is too bad. That sounded interesting.

So, despite the faint but present fear of being robbed, raped and killed I was curious for that adventure, and went for it. After all, buses and hostels were sufficiently public places to be safe. Said bus took a turn after fifteen minutes, down a dirtroad that just about good enough to allow for certain buses to drive on it, for fifty kilometers that took several hours. We crossed three rivers. Rivers, not bridges, those seem to be unpatriotic or something. When it raines I suspect there is no tourism to Iruya.

After a good rattling and some amazing landscape, we arrived.

Iruya does for some reason have a bridge, other than that it consists of like 50-100 houses nested amongst scenic mountains.

It is made for tourists, again, everyone rents out or sells food. But there is a substantial difference: Iruya seems to be frequented far more by the innerargentinian tourism than by foreigners. We booked a random homestay. That is, a family that just put bunk beds into all rooms and installed a meager kitchen lacking all but the most necessary utensils, showers existant but only allowed in the late afternoon for whatever reason. It was great. This is one of the moment where good spanish really paid off. So, that little detour brought me right in the middle of Argentinian youth culture off the beaten track, an absolutel worthwhile experience. Everyone was so friendly, openminded, sharing Mate, Food and good stories. We drank some whine and hung out until late at night, and the next morning continued the buena onda.

So, the adventure proved again that taking calculated risks is good for you.

The perfect travelling story ended with some more argentinian magic on the busride to Humahuaca. I was doing some jewellry, argentinian artisans are quite inspiring; when a girl sitting next to me asks me where I bought the material and at what price. Turns out, she is a hobby artisan too, and after talking for a bit she started showing me all kinds of new techniques that I had wondered about, for a smile and a few beads. Nice.

I left Humahuaca and later Salta with a laughing and a crying eye. Crying for the beauty of it that got me hooked, definitely coming back here. Laughing for embarking on new adventures. Back to beautiful Buenos Aires, and soon enough, off to Panama for some more Project work!

Genieße die Anden in Saltas erfrischend angenehmem Hostel “Terra Oculta”. Dazu gehört natürlich Mate, das argentinische Nationalgetränk! Frisch aufgebrüht verbrennt nichts die Lippen besser.

Salta selbst ist trotz seiner Größe ein kleines, gemütliches Städchen umgeben von Bergen mit deutlichem Fokus auf den Tourismus.

…das Stadtzentrum…

…und eine typische Straßenansicht. Kolonial-barocke Kirchen und gemütliche Häuser, Andenkenläden, Restaurants und Hostels dominieren das Bild.

ich freue mich auf die Berge. Mehr davon im nächsten Post.

Nach 24 Busfahrt bin ich in Salta im Norden Argentiniens angekommen. Die 24 Stunden wurden dadurch verlängert dass auf dem Tag-Teil der Strecke die Klimaanlage ausgefallen war.

…es war eine lange Busfahrt….

Argentinien ist im Norden vor allem flach, auf eine sehr leere Art und Weise. Für die mit Pratchett vertrauten Leser, es hat etwas vom Überqueren der Sto-Ebene. Die Sichtung einer Kuhherde ist noch auf Stunden das Gesprächsthema.

Aber wer in Argentinien reisen will muss lange Busfahrten mögen (lernen). Mehr über Salta und Umgebung im kommenden Post.

Endlich hab ich jedoch eine Illustration dafür gefunden was ich mit “lateinamerikanischer Weiblichkeit” meine, die so anders ist als die Europäische.

Salta hat eine große, zartrosa-gelbe (…) Kathedrale.

Darin finden sich folgende Mariendarstellungen:

Die strahlende Königin des Himmels mit entsprechendem Schmuck. Keine Spur der milchgesichtigen, devoten, verschleierten “netten” Frau wie man sie in deutschen Kirchen findet. Immer wird sie als Königin dargestellt….

… immer strahlend und voller Kraft, umgeben von Engeln. Überhaupt wird ihr viel mehr Platz eingeräumt als allen anderen Persönlichkeiten. Der Hauptaltar ist ihr gewidmet.

Man beachte die barocke Verwendung von Gold. Nicht dass es nicht auch Marienkirchen anderswo gäbe, es geht um die spezielle Art der Darstellung. Diese Statue zeigt es vielleicht am Besten:

Maria als strahlende Königin der Sterne, mit wallendem Haar, Schmuck wie er hierzulande gerne von geehrten Großmüttern (=Matriarchinnen) getragen wird und geradem, festem Blick. Zu so einer Göttin würd ich auch beten wollen..

Das Bild von innerhalb der Kirche spiegelt sich außen wieder. Alle Frauen haben ein gerades Kreuz, selbstbewusste Haltung, fröhliche Gesichter und eine selbstverständlich “runde” Art sich zu bewegen die glücklich macht allein vom Zuschauen. Dass da meist einige Kurven im Rock stecken macht das Ganze nur noch saftiger. Mehr davon!

Die weltgrößten Wasserfälle liegen in Iguazu, im Dreiländereck von Brasilien, Paraguay und Argentinien. Ich selbst habe die argentinische Seite besucht und bin immer noch weggespült von dem Erlebnis.

Nachdem es am Vortag kräftig geregnet hat waren die Fälle noch wilder als sonst. Man hatte für eine Weile fast den Eindruck der Regen wollte den Fällen partout Konkurrenz machen. Die Sonne schien auf ein Naturschauspiel das eigentlich in keinem Foto einfangbar ist. Ich hab es trotzdem versucht. Mehr gibt es dau eigentlich auch nicht zu sagen..

…außer dass ich als verantwortungsvoller Reisender natürlich immer weiß wo mein Handtuch ist!

Der letzte Rio-Post mit einigen Impressionen diverser Aktivitäten da. Nicht nur Sommer-Sonne-Strand wie oben, nein, ich bin auch Dem Herrn begegnet…

Ja, die Pose muss sein.

Mitten in Rio gibt es den schönen Tijuca-Wald, den größten urbanen Wald der Welt, da muss man natürlich hochklettern…

…was eine hervorragende Möglichkeit zum Trainieren ist.

yep, das ist mitten in der Stadt… na gut, nicht mitten, aber doch ziemlich drin.

Die Stadt ist einfach erstaunlich.

und hat so ihre interessanten Ecken. Pornokino auf brasilianisch:

Nein, ich war nicht drin.

Und für alle die ihr Linux mögen, jetzt auch in Lecker:

…und jetzt auf zu neuen Ufern!

Karneval ist angebrochen. Um dieser Zeit möglichst zu entfliehen bin ich aus Rio raus; nicht ohne jedoch dem Vorfeld des Wahnsinns beigewohnt zu haben. Ganz Rio vibriert in Vorfreude auf das größte Ereignis des Jahres dem so viele Menschen ihr Herzblut widmen.

Straßenfeste mit … wirklich viel zu vielen Menschen springen einen ohne Vorwarnung aus dem Hinterhalt an. Ich kann es allerdings nachvollziehen dass in einer Stadt mit so viel natürlicher Schönheit inmitten von Strand, Bergen, Wald und Seen direkt neben den Häusern und konstantem Sommerwetter wie es Hamburg vielleicht eine Woche im Jahr erlebt das Feiern leichtfällt.

Die Hauptpersonen des Karneval sind dabei ständig am Proben. Die Sambaschulen bereiten sich auf den Tanz vor, die Musikanten auf die Begleitung.

Im Sambodrom, dem Schauplatz von allem, finden Proben statt; noch ohne Kostüm aber mit vollem Eifer.

Die Karten werden am Ende unerschwinglich sein. Alle Zimmerpreise sind um das 3-5 fache gestiegen. Eine Stadt steht Kopf. Ich bin weg Der Strand ruft.

Was für unglaubliche MENGEN an Menschen!