After a month plus of New York City, wherein I came to find that manicuring, lunching, gyming and gossiping with people you run into who ALSO don’t work on the Upper East Side wasn’t doing it for me, I decided to head back out for a quick June trip. Itchy feet, right, Sar? I debated on the possible wheres over and over again in my head; it needed to be somewhere close because I needed to be home over July 4th, it needed to be stimulating both culturally and intellectually (Belize just left a bad taste in my mouth), and it needed to be Latin (b/c as you all know, I’m pretty Latin obsessed these days). So, after settling on Panama and Colombia, I found myself back in touch with Ecuadorian legend, Jose Luis, and after much prompting, decided to make a quick first stop in Ecuador for five days to see him and the Galapagos friends who helped me start this whole adventure eight months ago.
I was able to book my flights on miles, thrilled that they only space left open on the flights were in first class. So after a night without sleep, I headed onto my five hour flight to Panama where I was completely ready to doze for the duration. But, alas, the first class mantra on Copa Airlines (Panama based) isn’t at all what one might expect. That being, leave the passengers alone, keep the noise to a minimum, and do not encourage inter-passenger friendships. Yeah well, I guess I have to remember that the Latinos are a bit different. First of all, the stewardesses (stewardi?) had a practical convention in the galley of first class. They were rat-tat-chatting like a Telemundo soap opera about the misdeeds of their muchachos the entire trip. Dish your dirt in the coach galley, senoritas. Not here, chicas, not here. Add to that, a rapper (who I cannot place) who had his ‘wo-man’ (as he referred to her) sit in the row in front of him with his child who screamed and cried the whole time, giving the rapper-I-can’t-place the pass to lean over the seats every few minutes (did I mention he was as big as a house and when he moved, the whole plane moved?) to try to get the wo-man to quiet the kid. Why are children allowed in first class, mind you? All people traveling with kids, the rich and rap moguls included, should NOT be allowed to purchase a first class ticket. It should be coach all the way. You have a kid, you’re in coach. I mean, fancy boutique hotels in fabulous places don’t allow children under 12, why not first class on the airlines. I didn’t sleep a wink, I was irritated the whole time
Now, the upside to my first class Copa ticket was the VIP lounge in Panama where I got to spend my 10 HOUR layover to Quito, happily ensconced in their overstuffed chairs, using their internet to plan my next legs, watching the World Cup, eating their muffins (AM) and crackers and cheese (PM), and loading up on their excellent Panamanian coffee. Had I not had the first class ticket, I would’ve been stuck in either the crappy “Lo Siento Por La Construccion” war zone of a terminal or spent the day schlepping around Panama, possibly a Canal Zone tour, lugging my overstuffed backpack and sweating my ass off in an outfit suitable for the 60 degree Quito climate, rather than the 99 degree Panama climate. Yeah. All of this would NOT make for a pretty sight when greeting Jose Luis upon exit from the plane. Thank god for Copa first class. Funny how fast it all changes, right?
Arriving in Quito, I found myself smiling out the window. This was where my whole trip began last year. Here was where it all started. I remember feeling unsure, apprehensive, elated and anxious at the same time when the plane touched down last October. I remember my first hours in Quito, in my little hotel room in a strange South American city, sleeping off the anxiety of what I had embarked upon. My phone rang while I feigned slumber, it was Cohen calling, making sure I landed alright, wishing me luck and love one last time. The relief of seeing a familiar number, name at that moment had me immediately emotional. I remember staring at the stucco ceiling for hours afterward, paralyzed by the decision I had made, semi-scared to leave the cocoon of the room, Quito beckoned but I had absolutely no idea what to do with it. I remember wondering how I’d make each day count, how I would achieve a sense of place, culture and education in each new surrounding, how I would be received by people, both natives and other travelers, how I would survive feeling lonely. And yet, by the time I arrived in the Galapagos, I had realized I would succeed in my adventures, I would make new friends, I would accomplish all I set out to do.
Ecuador holds a special place in my heart for that reason. It was in Ecuador, in Galapagos specifically, that I started my trip. I made friends who I am so excited to see this week, who are excited to see me. Over the past eight months, we’ve been in touch, we’ve kept up. They helped me understand how strong I was, how anything is possible once you set your mind to it. They embraced me in a way that I hadn’t expected, especially that early in the game, and helped set the tone for the future travels. Sometimes it’s that initial tone that can make or break a situation. And, I truly feel that my first experience in Ecuador helped me to experience the rest of the world. All of the fears I had that first day in Quito never resurfaced, and it’s been smooth sailing since. So, now, landing in Quito, I’m ecstatic. It’s just fitting to be starting the second half of my travels back here. It feels right. Going through customs, getting my baggage, walking out of the doorway to a sea of Ecuadorian faces greeting their loved ones. And there, off to the right, pokes a familiar face from the beginning, eyes welcoming me back to Quito….
“Marie Elena... Como estas?”
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Sweating Through the Sights
I have learned a few things on my way from Lake Atitlan (which was nice, but very hazy…) to Flores, which is a teeny-tiny island that juts out into Lake Peten Itza in northern Guatemala.:
1) I'm really not a LAKE person (boring, no surf, contained, usually murky, always a mist over them, surrounding towns - kinda bland).
2) When a guide book uses the word "gritty" in ANY description of a town, skip it. EVEN when everyone else raves about the place. Once you've come to trust your guide book, don't doubt it. "Gritty"
translates to "crack-den-ish" like the Van Dam exit en route to the 59th Street Bridge.
Everyone seems to love Flores, the way station for trips to the Mayan ruins (Guatemala's largest) of Tikal. My flight from Guatemala City was purchased in the (aforementioned hazy) lake town of Panajachel at this shady travel agency with folding chairs, a cash box, and lone Guatemala poster taped to the wall as a sell-tool. So at 4 AM, when I got to the airport and nobody, and I mean NOBODY, showed recognition of the airline I was flying, snickering to each other in Spanish when I showed them the ticket (HELLO, I CAN UNDERSTAND YOU, PEOPLE!!!), I felt a little upset. Finally, a lady with a walkie-talkie walkie-talkied a voice who told her that I had to go to the small planes part of the airport. One taxi, 30 minutes, and 50 Quetzales (Guat currency, ripped off again by a taxi driver!) later, we find ourselves near a deserted airfield with one bulb of a light way off yonder. Check-in, yeah...well, there's no room on the 6-seater for me. I'll have to transfer to yet another flight, at yet another terminal that is yet harder to find. When I landed in Flores, I had wanted to be refreshed, I wanted to be enamored. But, well, I was a little tired, and Flores was a little…"gritty."
While the colorful buildings, the sweet people, the culture and authenticity of place all were alive and well in Lake Peten Itza's Flores, it just lacked the charm of the other cities I visited in Guatemala, reminding me of the setting for a scary movie where someone gets killed strolling the banks. Similar to other cities in Guatemala (I think Central America really), though, there is a young expat culture here too. They study Spanish, bum around, frequent the same places each night saying "Hasta Manana" at closing time, and backpack the region. They're all in college, or left college for Central America, scraping by each day on whatever money they can muster. I have actually seen TWO instances where these types hover in restaurants and, very discreetly, make their way around the restaurant eating the leftovers off of unfinished plates on vacated tables!!! One time, yes, was in Flores. And the girl devoured a whole leftover fruit plate, licking her pineapple-juiced fingers after each steal! Very unsettling...
From Flores, I went to Tikal for the day. Starting at dawn, watching the sunrise, strolling the park before the mass of people entered around 10 AM, Tikal is a very-mini Maccu-Picchu: predominantly jungle dotted with excavated remnants of Mayan civilizations, mostly temples. The day was hot, VERY hot, and I kept leaving my water bottle in various places as I stopped to take pictures and had to go back and find it. It was like a day of hide and seek with an inanimate object. I specifically wore black on black because, for any of you that don't know this, I am a sweater. I am not (and never will be) one of those
perfectly dry girls who can hike in a skirt and pastel colored shirt and stay wedding-day photogenic throughout. Nor am I one of those people who can walk around sightseeing spots with four backpacks and a guitar, nary a glisten on my brow. Me, I carry an airline ticket through a 90 degree region in a bathing suit, and I sweat. Anyone who has seen me after running at the gym for an hour (Ilysa, Rosen...?) aren't looking to hug me close (or at all). That's for sure. But, I thought the black-on-black ensemble would help the situation. Foiled again. As evidenced the last time I was in South America, I have sightseeing-outfit-troubles. Consistently. This time, the white powdery atmosphere of the ruins set into my black outfit as a light layer of dust, drying when I wasn't climbing temple stairs, as white outlines of previously soaked areas. I looked like a pavement on which chalk outlines were drawn. Reverse sweat rings. I was mortified, keeping my arms crossed a lot... But, I kept on keeping on, listening in awe to the sounds of the howler monkeys (they sound like ferocious lions and I actually turned back and sought company to walk through the dense jungle paths to each ruin amidst the lion roars of the howlers), woodpeckers (have you ever heard woodpeckers peck? they sound like old doors creaking open in haunted mansions...), and various species of birds that sang like no birds I've ever heard before. I felt like a sweaty Snow White in black. It really was pretty amazing, Tikal. And cheap. Compared to Maccu-Picchu, which is quite costly to enter, Tikal is a mere $7, but as the guards told me, Survivor filmed a stint near Tikal recently (is this true, my reality-friendly friends?), and since then they're trying to raise their prices to $10. Hearing a guard in Mayan ruins talk about the inflation of entry b/c of a American reality-phenomenon like Survivor, in Spanish, was pretty amazing, as well...
Not being an archeological lingerer in these types of tourist sights, I was ready to go (and change my clothes...) by about 11 AM and caught a bus through the countryside back to Flores to wind down my time in Guatemala. I spent more time than I planned here. Despite parental Don't Go's, I really fell for the country, the obviously charming parts, and the not so charming parts, alike. I highly recc a trip down here to anyone looking for a little adventure. Tomorrow, I'm off to Belize for some sun, sand and scuba. Very much looking forward.
More soon,
~M
1) I'm really not a LAKE person (boring, no surf, contained, usually murky, always a mist over them, surrounding towns - kinda bland).
2) When a guide book uses the word "gritty" in ANY description of a town, skip it. EVEN when everyone else raves about the place. Once you've come to trust your guide book, don't doubt it. "Gritty"
translates to "crack-den-ish" like the Van Dam exit en route to the 59th Street Bridge.
Everyone seems to love Flores, the way station for trips to the Mayan ruins (Guatemala's largest) of Tikal. My flight from Guatemala City was purchased in the (aforementioned hazy) lake town of Panajachel at this shady travel agency with folding chairs, a cash box, and lone Guatemala poster taped to the wall as a sell-tool. So at 4 AM, when I got to the airport and nobody, and I mean NOBODY, showed recognition of the airline I was flying, snickering to each other in Spanish when I showed them the ticket (HELLO, I CAN UNDERSTAND YOU, PEOPLE!!!), I felt a little upset. Finally, a lady with a walkie-talkie walkie-talkied a voice who told her that I had to go to the small planes part of the airport. One taxi, 30 minutes, and 50 Quetzales (Guat currency, ripped off again by a taxi driver!) later, we find ourselves near a deserted airfield with one bulb of a light way off yonder. Check-in, yeah...well, there's no room on the 6-seater for me. I'll have to transfer to yet another flight, at yet another terminal that is yet harder to find. When I landed in Flores, I had wanted to be refreshed, I wanted to be enamored. But, well, I was a little tired, and Flores was a little…"gritty."
While the colorful buildings, the sweet people, the culture and authenticity of place all were alive and well in Lake Peten Itza's Flores, it just lacked the charm of the other cities I visited in Guatemala, reminding me of the setting for a scary movie where someone gets killed strolling the banks. Similar to other cities in Guatemala (I think Central America really), though, there is a young expat culture here too. They study Spanish, bum around, frequent the same places each night saying "Hasta Manana" at closing time, and backpack the region. They're all in college, or left college for Central America, scraping by each day on whatever money they can muster. I have actually seen TWO instances where these types hover in restaurants and, very discreetly, make their way around the restaurant eating the leftovers off of unfinished plates on vacated tables!!! One time, yes, was in Flores. And the girl devoured a whole leftover fruit plate, licking her pineapple-juiced fingers after each steal! Very unsettling...
From Flores, I went to Tikal for the day. Starting at dawn, watching the sunrise, strolling the park before the mass of people entered around 10 AM, Tikal is a very-mini Maccu-Picchu: predominantly jungle dotted with excavated remnants of Mayan civilizations, mostly temples. The day was hot, VERY hot, and I kept leaving my water bottle in various places as I stopped to take pictures and had to go back and find it. It was like a day of hide and seek with an inanimate object. I specifically wore black on black because, for any of you that don't know this, I am a sweater. I am not (and never will be) one of those
perfectly dry girls who can hike in a skirt and pastel colored shirt and stay wedding-day photogenic throughout. Nor am I one of those people who can walk around sightseeing spots with four backpacks and a guitar, nary a glisten on my brow. Me, I carry an airline ticket through a 90 degree region in a bathing suit, and I sweat. Anyone who has seen me after running at the gym for an hour (Ilysa, Rosen...?) aren't looking to hug me close (or at all). That's for sure. But, I thought the black-on-black ensemble would help the situation. Foiled again. As evidenced the last time I was in South America, I have sightseeing-outfit-troubles. Consistently. This time, the white powdery atmosphere of the ruins set into my black outfit as a light layer of dust, drying when I wasn't climbing temple stairs, as white outlines of previously soaked areas. I looked like a pavement on which chalk outlines were drawn. Reverse sweat rings. I was mortified, keeping my arms crossed a lot... But, I kept on keeping on, listening in awe to the sounds of the howler monkeys (they sound like ferocious lions and I actually turned back and sought company to walk through the dense jungle paths to each ruin amidst the lion roars of the howlers), woodpeckers (have you ever heard woodpeckers peck? they sound like old doors creaking open in haunted mansions...), and various species of birds that sang like no birds I've ever heard before. I felt like a sweaty Snow White in black. It really was pretty amazing, Tikal. And cheap. Compared to Maccu-Picchu, which is quite costly to enter, Tikal is a mere $7, but as the guards told me, Survivor filmed a stint near Tikal recently (is this true, my reality-friendly friends?), and since then they're trying to raise their prices to $10. Hearing a guard in Mayan ruins talk about the inflation of entry b/c of a American reality-phenomenon like Survivor, in Spanish, was pretty amazing, as well...
Not being an archeological lingerer in these types of tourist sights, I was ready to go (and change my clothes...) by about 11 AM and caught a bus through the countryside back to Flores to wind down my time in Guatemala. I spent more time than I planned here. Despite parental Don't Go's, I really fell for the country, the obviously charming parts, and the not so charming parts, alike. I highly recc a trip down here to anyone looking for a little adventure. Tomorrow, I'm off to Belize for some sun, sand and scuba. Very much looking forward.
More soon,
~M
Friday, April 21, 2006
Lack of water, Lack of guide.
Day three brought me to Antigua, a mountain town about 30 miles out of Guatemala City. As I emailed hotels for lodging, a small villa/hotel next to the hotel I had my eye on emailed me back in about 10 seconds. Alex, the proprietor and fellow New Yorker, was Chatty Cathy on email, the place seemed nice, and so as not to have hassle, I booked it. She would send a shuttle for me the next day, 12:30 PM – wait in front of my Guatemala City hotel. Possibly I should’ve known that my next 24 hours would be off when the shuttle was an hour late and Alex, when called on it, responded “Yo no se.” But, this is Central America, after all, you roll with the punches, right?
Driving into Antigua, I was automatically enamored. It’s this quaint little town with cobblestone streets and multi-colored one-story buildings, behind the doorways of which were lovely inns and posadas with grassy courtyards and cozy environs. Arriving at La Capilla (I have to find out what Capilla means in Spanish…), completed the experience. Like the posadas I passed, La Capilla was a large villa of 5 suites, surrounding a lush garden with a fountain as center. Alex, an attractive 40-ish brunette, came to the door, addressing me by name to her large, but gorgeous, blue-eyed mixed breed of a dog. Even the dog didn’t put me off (yet…). Into the villa I wandered, realizing what a special place this might be. After settling into my room, Alex brings me around back to a tiled pool area. There, I find three very young, very tanned boys lounging. They’re all under 20. Danes and Americans, the trio are a few of the many “boys” that Alex keeps around. They are world students in Antigua to build houses for the poor and study Spanish. Alex calls them all “Hon,” they eat her food, drink her beer, plug their Ipods into her sound system, smoke her cigarettes and order pizza to her villa. No, they don’t live there, they just hang there. They met her playing poker in town, and are the half-naked, massage-giving pool boys for Ladies Tuesdays, the DJs for BBQ Thursdays, and the chefs for Ceviche Saturdays.
Ok…..
After a couple of games of backgammon that I begrudgingly lost to a hot Dutchie with great hands, I decide to head into town as Thor arrived. Thor is a nerdy local expat from the States who is packing an extra 30 lbs and a baby girl whom he forgets at the entry of the pool…until she starts to cry about 20 minutes later. The Dutchies remind me that I must come to Ladies Tuesdays tomorrow, they’ve got new costumes: mere bowties! Into town I head for a breather, a walk around the Plaza Central (eerily reminiscent of Cusco, Peru but on a smaller scale) and a snack before heading back to La Capilla. Alex is leaving as I return, she gives me a cell phone to reach her in case of emergency. Ok… There I am, completely alone in a huge villa, all other amenities of which have been completely padlocked, and there’s nary a staff member around. I’m not sure how to handle this. I wander around a bit, highly aware that should I want for anything, I’m locked out except for my room and the pool. So, I look on the bright side – a whole villa to myself – and go to take a shower. Turn on the faucet…no water. I go from room to room (the other rooms aren’t locked, the padlocks on them deceiving) to check the water. Nope, it’s the same. What the … ?!?! I turn on my computer. No service. Hmmm… What has happened to the bustling La Capilla in the past three hours? I call Alex on my designated cell.
Alex: Hola, Marie Elena, que pasa?
Me: I’m so sorry to bother you…
Alex: Then, Hon…why are you bothering me?
Me: Well…there’s no water.
Alex: Really? What do you mean?
Me: Um….there’s just, well…no water.
Alex: Weird. I just checked the tanks before I left. Are you sure?
(No, I’m not sure…)
Me: Um…yeah, quite. Nothing as I turn on the faucets.
Alex: Oh. Wow. Ok. I’ll be right back, then. You sure?
Me: Yes. Again, sorry to bother, but…
Alex: No, no….I’m coming back.
Alex arrives, pours herself a scotch, takes off her jean jacket and opens the tanks. Yep, no PSI, no pressure, no water. She checks the computers. They’re on, but not connecting. Shit, she’s about to lose her only guest. “This is when you need a man,” she says. Enter Elliott. A man. Elliott is a local textile exporter, originally from Jersey. Elliott is ten sheets to the wind, pours himself a scotch from the now-unpadlocked bar, tells Alex she should’ve told him about this earlier because he has “a guy” and sits down near the pool, slurring through our introductions (and two more scotches). We all look at each other for a while, as I smell the waft of non-powdery, mucho-alcoholy Elliott from afar. Finally, giving up, Alex makes a call to the place I originally wanted to stay at next door, books me a room at the same price she was charging me, packs up my room with an unstable Elliottt, and has yet another “boy” move me out of La Capilla. Guatemala is shaping up to be VERY interesting…
Next day, after waking up in my fabulous Ralph Lauren-via-Guatemala room at my new hotel, I decide to see the town, the many churches (which are gorgeous) on foot for the first half of the day, and the surrounding mountainside on horseback for the afternoon. After some help from my new, 24-hour hotel staff, I embark on a three hour journey with Paco, the ranch hand. Well, I ASSUMED he was a qualified ranch hand – he had the flannel/jeans combo with the big buckle belt, he had the cowboy hat with a ribbon of red yarn around it, he even had the requisite gold front tooth. I explain to him that I don’t want to walk all day, I’m a qualified rider, I need to be able to gallop my way through the day, not trot. Si, Si, says Paco. And, we’re off. But not before trading horses, because my stirrups were too short, on the last hole, and couldn’t be lengthened. Ditto my ranchero’s horse after the swap. I felt like a jockey with my knees up WAY too high, but decided to make do (though I’m regretting it a little, I have a shooting pain down my right leg, still…the trials and tribulations of height with respect to Guatemalan saddles). Now trotting on cobblestone, let alone galloping, I’ve come to find is not so fun. I definitely wore the wrong bra and am starting to rethink my little “Let’s gallop” conversation. I guess it’s not often that the tourists of Antigua see people in the cobblestone streets on horseback and I unwittingly became the subject of many photographs taken by people with fanny packs and Jams. But, as we got into Candelaria Park, the terrain changed, as did my guide’s willingness to move through the mountainside. Trot, Walk, Trot. Uh, Paco…mas rapido, es ok? Si, si, says Paco again. So, off I go. Cut to the next scene, it’s about 20 minutes later, and Paco, who had been right behind me in the beginning of the Park, is nowhere to be found. I wait a few minutes, then a few minutes more, then start to head back to find him. When I do, he’s OFF his horse, walking in front of it, panting like the horse just rode him.
Me: “Paco, que pasa?”
Paco: “Es un buena cabellera! Muy rapido!” (Translation: You’re a good rider, very fast! Note to reader: I was VERY proud of this observation of Paco’s…as many of you know, I love my horseback riding…)
But, Paco’s supposedly my GUIDE. What is happening here?!?!? I’m utterly confused. So, as Paco, seemingly embarrassed mounts his horse again, I take off. Twenty minutes later, same scenario. I go back, he’s on foot, about to keel over, horse grazing the bushes behind him. So, I explain that I’d prefer NOT to wait and can I just meet him back at the hotel, the pace is too slow. So, he ties up his horse to a tree, says “sure” with a wide smile, takes out his cell phone and CALLS FOR A RIDE!!!! He says he’ll meet me back at the hotel, he’s through! I mean….You can’t ditch your horse and call for a ride!!! What’s up with that!?!?! So, there I am, riding solo through the streets of Antigua, astride a horse, being stopped by cops asking me where my guide is, that I shouldn’t be riding alone. I have to explain. In Spanish, no less. Blah blah…. Now, I’m even more of a spectacle – the solo gringa on horseback. And, when I get back to my hotel, there’s Paco, with a stable attached to his little pick-up truck for my horse! He’s not even riding the horse home. He’s towing it! Who ever heard of such a thing? In Guatemala, no less. Antigua has just been one crazy experience after the next.
Hope you all had an equally fun-filled week.
I’m headed to the Mayan ruins at Tikal in northern Guatemala next, after having spent a couple of days at Lake Atitlan (beautiful) and the market town of Chichicastenango (say THAT three times fast), which was authentic and oh-so-colorfully-Guatemalan. There, I dusted off my bargaining skills…successfully, of course. Gotta go figure out how to fit the three new skirts into my luggage…. (Yes, Cher, one’s for you. I will WOW you with trip presents yet. I’m wholly determined.)
More soon,
~M
Driving into Antigua, I was automatically enamored. It’s this quaint little town with cobblestone streets and multi-colored one-story buildings, behind the doorways of which were lovely inns and posadas with grassy courtyards and cozy environs. Arriving at La Capilla (I have to find out what Capilla means in Spanish…), completed the experience. Like the posadas I passed, La Capilla was a large villa of 5 suites, surrounding a lush garden with a fountain as center. Alex, an attractive 40-ish brunette, came to the door, addressing me by name to her large, but gorgeous, blue-eyed mixed breed of a dog. Even the dog didn’t put me off (yet…). Into the villa I wandered, realizing what a special place this might be. After settling into my room, Alex brings me around back to a tiled pool area. There, I find three very young, very tanned boys lounging. They’re all under 20. Danes and Americans, the trio are a few of the many “boys” that Alex keeps around. They are world students in Antigua to build houses for the poor and study Spanish. Alex calls them all “Hon,” they eat her food, drink her beer, plug their Ipods into her sound system, smoke her cigarettes and order pizza to her villa. No, they don’t live there, they just hang there. They met her playing poker in town, and are the half-naked, massage-giving pool boys for Ladies Tuesdays, the DJs for BBQ Thursdays, and the chefs for Ceviche Saturdays.
Ok…..
After a couple of games of backgammon that I begrudgingly lost to a hot Dutchie with great hands, I decide to head into town as Thor arrived. Thor is a nerdy local expat from the States who is packing an extra 30 lbs and a baby girl whom he forgets at the entry of the pool…until she starts to cry about 20 minutes later. The Dutchies remind me that I must come to Ladies Tuesdays tomorrow, they’ve got new costumes: mere bowties! Into town I head for a breather, a walk around the Plaza Central (eerily reminiscent of Cusco, Peru but on a smaller scale) and a snack before heading back to La Capilla. Alex is leaving as I return, she gives me a cell phone to reach her in case of emergency. Ok… There I am, completely alone in a huge villa, all other amenities of which have been completely padlocked, and there’s nary a staff member around. I’m not sure how to handle this. I wander around a bit, highly aware that should I want for anything, I’m locked out except for my room and the pool. So, I look on the bright side – a whole villa to myself – and go to take a shower. Turn on the faucet…no water. I go from room to room (the other rooms aren’t locked, the padlocks on them deceiving) to check the water. Nope, it’s the same. What the … ?!?! I turn on my computer. No service. Hmmm… What has happened to the bustling La Capilla in the past three hours? I call Alex on my designated cell.
Alex: Hola, Marie Elena, que pasa?
Me: I’m so sorry to bother you…
Alex: Then, Hon…why are you bothering me?
Me: Well…there’s no water.
Alex: Really? What do you mean?
Me: Um….there’s just, well…no water.
Alex: Weird. I just checked the tanks before I left. Are you sure?
(No, I’m not sure…)
Me: Um…yeah, quite. Nothing as I turn on the faucets.
Alex: Oh. Wow. Ok. I’ll be right back, then. You sure?
Me: Yes. Again, sorry to bother, but…
Alex: No, no….I’m coming back.
Alex arrives, pours herself a scotch, takes off her jean jacket and opens the tanks. Yep, no PSI, no pressure, no water. She checks the computers. They’re on, but not connecting. Shit, she’s about to lose her only guest. “This is when you need a man,” she says. Enter Elliott. A man. Elliott is a local textile exporter, originally from Jersey. Elliott is ten sheets to the wind, pours himself a scotch from the now-unpadlocked bar, tells Alex she should’ve told him about this earlier because he has “a guy” and sits down near the pool, slurring through our introductions (and two more scotches). We all look at each other for a while, as I smell the waft of non-powdery, mucho-alcoholy Elliott from afar. Finally, giving up, Alex makes a call to the place I originally wanted to stay at next door, books me a room at the same price she was charging me, packs up my room with an unstable Elliottt, and has yet another “boy” move me out of La Capilla. Guatemala is shaping up to be VERY interesting…
Next day, after waking up in my fabulous Ralph Lauren-via-Guatemala room at my new hotel, I decide to see the town, the many churches (which are gorgeous) on foot for the first half of the day, and the surrounding mountainside on horseback for the afternoon. After some help from my new, 24-hour hotel staff, I embark on a three hour journey with Paco, the ranch hand. Well, I ASSUMED he was a qualified ranch hand – he had the flannel/jeans combo with the big buckle belt, he had the cowboy hat with a ribbon of red yarn around it, he even had the requisite gold front tooth. I explain to him that I don’t want to walk all day, I’m a qualified rider, I need to be able to gallop my way through the day, not trot. Si, Si, says Paco. And, we’re off. But not before trading horses, because my stirrups were too short, on the last hole, and couldn’t be lengthened. Ditto my ranchero’s horse after the swap. I felt like a jockey with my knees up WAY too high, but decided to make do (though I’m regretting it a little, I have a shooting pain down my right leg, still…the trials and tribulations of height with respect to Guatemalan saddles). Now trotting on cobblestone, let alone galloping, I’ve come to find is not so fun. I definitely wore the wrong bra and am starting to rethink my little “Let’s gallop” conversation. I guess it’s not often that the tourists of Antigua see people in the cobblestone streets on horseback and I unwittingly became the subject of many photographs taken by people with fanny packs and Jams. But, as we got into Candelaria Park, the terrain changed, as did my guide’s willingness to move through the mountainside. Trot, Walk, Trot. Uh, Paco…mas rapido, es ok? Si, si, says Paco again. So, off I go. Cut to the next scene, it’s about 20 minutes later, and Paco, who had been right behind me in the beginning of the Park, is nowhere to be found. I wait a few minutes, then a few minutes more, then start to head back to find him. When I do, he’s OFF his horse, walking in front of it, panting like the horse just rode him.
Me: “Paco, que pasa?”
Paco: “Es un buena cabellera! Muy rapido!” (Translation: You’re a good rider, very fast! Note to reader: I was VERY proud of this observation of Paco’s…as many of you know, I love my horseback riding…)
But, Paco’s supposedly my GUIDE. What is happening here?!?!? I’m utterly confused. So, as Paco, seemingly embarrassed mounts his horse again, I take off. Twenty minutes later, same scenario. I go back, he’s on foot, about to keel over, horse grazing the bushes behind him. So, I explain that I’d prefer NOT to wait and can I just meet him back at the hotel, the pace is too slow. So, he ties up his horse to a tree, says “sure” with a wide smile, takes out his cell phone and CALLS FOR A RIDE!!!! He says he’ll meet me back at the hotel, he’s through! I mean….You can’t ditch your horse and call for a ride!!! What’s up with that!?!?! So, there I am, riding solo through the streets of Antigua, astride a horse, being stopped by cops asking me where my guide is, that I shouldn’t be riding alone. I have to explain. In Spanish, no less. Blah blah…. Now, I’m even more of a spectacle – the solo gringa on horseback. And, when I get back to my hotel, there’s Paco, with a stable attached to his little pick-up truck for my horse! He’s not even riding the horse home. He’s towing it! Who ever heard of such a thing? In Guatemala, no less. Antigua has just been one crazy experience after the next.
Hope you all had an equally fun-filled week.
I’m headed to the Mayan ruins at Tikal in northern Guatemala next, after having spent a couple of days at Lake Atitlan (beautiful) and the market town of Chichicastenango (say THAT three times fast), which was authentic and oh-so-colorfully-Guatemalan. There, I dusted off my bargaining skills…successfully, of course. Gotta go figure out how to fit the three new skirts into my luggage…. (Yes, Cher, one’s for you. I will WOW you with trip presents yet. I’m wholly determined.)
More soon,
~M
Next up: Central America...
Back in Latin America…and it feels good.
After a hectic couple of weeks in New York wherein my sister got engaged, my best friend got married, and I had lot of friends and family to catch up with besides, getting on the plane to Guatemala City was a welcome departure. During that flight I tried to reflect on my trip to Asia, but I must admit, there’s something unsettled about it for me. Possibly it was the inability to digest it properly once back in the States because of loyalties at home which required my attention; possibly it was the pace at which I experienced eight vastly different countries, each requiring focus and learning, patience and perserverence; possibly it was the fact that I didn’t head-over-heels-love everywhere I visited in Asia and I very much want every stop on this journey to be entirely magical – but, newsflash: life isn’t always magical. So while Asia was one of the most outstanding experiences of my life, it’s still not an experience I’ve come to complete terms with yet. Nor may I ever. I guess I’ll have to learn to accept that. And, slowly continue to process it.
However, the rhythm of this trip I’m on is constant, so I must go forward.
So, first stop, next leg: Guatemala.
I’m not sure what I expected of Guatemala, or what I expect of Central America on the whole. I adored Costa Rica when I visited a few years back, but the Central America part of this trip came about when I fell so hard for South America. If I wasn’t as flexible as I’ve started to allow myself to be (haha…), I’d be in Australia right now. Anyhow, all I know of cities like Guatemala, Honduras, Panama are the things that my dad would tell me after his frequent trips when he owned a manufacturing business: Don’t go. So, I had little to go on other than I loved the culture and there HAD to be redeeming qualities to these places, to the homes of ancient Mayan civilizations of old, no? Yes. I’ve been here for almost a week, and Guatemala is most definitely underrated. It’s a gorgeous country, reminiscent (for me) of Peru, rich in culture and customs, and short little people in colorful outfits, cowboy hats, and the friendliest dispositions. Guatemala has helped me get my travel groove back on.
I arrived in Guatemala City to the sounds of a mariachi band outside the airport terminal – husbands playing guitars to Spanish songs, wives whipping up tortillas for sale nearby, and smelled the familiar smell of the Latin world. For some reason, the people of Latin America have this powdery smell, almost like a baby, that is instantly recognizable, and actually, calming. They fly by but leave the talcum and I love it. Sheets at authentic posadas smell this way too – maybe it’s not the people but the textiles – either way, I’m into it. Other than the lovely nasal and auditory re-entry to Latin America, Guatemala City is bland and worthy of little mention other than that I spent Easter Sunday there, which was a trip since I’ve never seen a holiday mass in my own country, let alone another one.
Easter was pretty amazing to witness – the parades of statues of saints and Jesus’ that made their way into the churches, hoisted on the shoulders of 20-30 men each who, like pallbearers, took severe honor in the task at hand. Each statue was followed into the church by throngs of people clapping and cheering for their chosen saint or God. I made my way into the church behind Jesus, being carried by the flow of the people making their way in front of me and behind me, but no worries, I was EASILY a head taller than any single person in the church, so no matter where I stood, I had the best view. The Guatemalans are teeny, hardly over five feet, any of them. Being 5’6”, I felt like an absolute giant, but the upside was that my vantage point was definitely the best going. There were bleachers outside the churches for the overflow that the pews and floor spaces (lines with lawn chairs and grannies in visible knee highs) inside the church couldn’t hold. Men, women, children, holding umbrellas to shield them from the sun, listened to the mass, which was broadcast over a huge sound system, allowing all to participate in the ritual of Sunday Mass. After mass, everyone converged on the square, or Plaza Mayor, outside of the church to celebrate in a carnival-like way. Hundreds of booths that sold everything from clothes to toys to food to souvenir trinkets to religious relics lined the square. Men with ice-blocks bigger than themselves shaved frozen pieces into paper cones for the kids. Clowns making balloon-animals, shoe-shine boys, photographers, magicians, and singers hooked up to sound-systems on nearby pick-up trucks entertained, while whole families set up fast-food outlets to feed the Guats. It was a holiday circus that was easy to wander through for hours on end.
But...my time there last about 2 hours, at which point, I had enough “Easter” and took solace in the pool at my hotel, paying respect to my very favorite resurrection…the sun.
Happy Holidays.
More soon...
~M
After a hectic couple of weeks in New York wherein my sister got engaged, my best friend got married, and I had lot of friends and family to catch up with besides, getting on the plane to Guatemala City was a welcome departure. During that flight I tried to reflect on my trip to Asia, but I must admit, there’s something unsettled about it for me. Possibly it was the inability to digest it properly once back in the States because of loyalties at home which required my attention; possibly it was the pace at which I experienced eight vastly different countries, each requiring focus and learning, patience and perserverence; possibly it was the fact that I didn’t head-over-heels-love everywhere I visited in Asia and I very much want every stop on this journey to be entirely magical – but, newsflash: life isn’t always magical. So while Asia was one of the most outstanding experiences of my life, it’s still not an experience I’ve come to complete terms with yet. Nor may I ever. I guess I’ll have to learn to accept that. And, slowly continue to process it.
However, the rhythm of this trip I’m on is constant, so I must go forward.
So, first stop, next leg: Guatemala.
I’m not sure what I expected of Guatemala, or what I expect of Central America on the whole. I adored Costa Rica when I visited a few years back, but the Central America part of this trip came about when I fell so hard for South America. If I wasn’t as flexible as I’ve started to allow myself to be (haha…), I’d be in Australia right now. Anyhow, all I know of cities like Guatemala, Honduras, Panama are the things that my dad would tell me after his frequent trips when he owned a manufacturing business: Don’t go. So, I had little to go on other than I loved the culture and there HAD to be redeeming qualities to these places, to the homes of ancient Mayan civilizations of old, no? Yes. I’ve been here for almost a week, and Guatemala is most definitely underrated. It’s a gorgeous country, reminiscent (for me) of Peru, rich in culture and customs, and short little people in colorful outfits, cowboy hats, and the friendliest dispositions. Guatemala has helped me get my travel groove back on.
I arrived in Guatemala City to the sounds of a mariachi band outside the airport terminal – husbands playing guitars to Spanish songs, wives whipping up tortillas for sale nearby, and smelled the familiar smell of the Latin world. For some reason, the people of Latin America have this powdery smell, almost like a baby, that is instantly recognizable, and actually, calming. They fly by but leave the talcum and I love it. Sheets at authentic posadas smell this way too – maybe it’s not the people but the textiles – either way, I’m into it. Other than the lovely nasal and auditory re-entry to Latin America, Guatemala City is bland and worthy of little mention other than that I spent Easter Sunday there, which was a trip since I’ve never seen a holiday mass in my own country, let alone another one.
Easter was pretty amazing to witness – the parades of statues of saints and Jesus’ that made their way into the churches, hoisted on the shoulders of 20-30 men each who, like pallbearers, took severe honor in the task at hand. Each statue was followed into the church by throngs of people clapping and cheering for their chosen saint or God. I made my way into the church behind Jesus, being carried by the flow of the people making their way in front of me and behind me, but no worries, I was EASILY a head taller than any single person in the church, so no matter where I stood, I had the best view. The Guatemalans are teeny, hardly over five feet, any of them. Being 5’6”, I felt like an absolute giant, but the upside was that my vantage point was definitely the best going. There were bleachers outside the churches for the overflow that the pews and floor spaces (lines with lawn chairs and grannies in visible knee highs) inside the church couldn’t hold. Men, women, children, holding umbrellas to shield them from the sun, listened to the mass, which was broadcast over a huge sound system, allowing all to participate in the ritual of Sunday Mass. After mass, everyone converged on the square, or Plaza Mayor, outside of the church to celebrate in a carnival-like way. Hundreds of booths that sold everything from clothes to toys to food to souvenir trinkets to religious relics lined the square. Men with ice-blocks bigger than themselves shaved frozen pieces into paper cones for the kids. Clowns making balloon-animals, shoe-shine boys, photographers, magicians, and singers hooked up to sound-systems on nearby pick-up trucks entertained, while whole families set up fast-food outlets to feed the Guats. It was a holiday circus that was easy to wander through for hours on end.
But...my time there last about 2 hours, at which point, I had enough “Easter” and took solace in the pool at my hotel, paying respect to my very favorite resurrection…the sun.
Happy Holidays.
More soon...
~M
Sunday, March 26, 2006
DO NOT FEED THE MONKEYS!!!
I left Singapore, watching the city disappear as I passed overhead in the plane, looking like a replica of a model community made of plastic below me. The perfection of the trees and lakes and buildings below, it’s just fascinating to see in person, Singapore is sterility redefined.
Arriving in Bali, I was excited. Everyone has the most wonderful things to say about Bali and I was eager to experience it for myself. Being the end of my trip, I splurged and checked into the Oberoi on Seminyak Beach, the east coast of the island. It rained much of my time there, but the Balinese style villas and resorts were so peaceful, filled with lily ponds and dark cobblestone walkways throughout the grounds, foot-high torches lighting up the paths at night, service unmatched with suntan lotion and water spritzers refilled hourly at the pool overlooking the beach all day long, ice cream cones of sorbets given at 11:30 AM and 3:30 PM to all guests, ten minute massages in the AM and PM at poolside, as well. It was blissful. And the shopping in Seminyak was insane. The home décor is so colorful and airy, the clothes all authentic Scoop Beach-esque tunics and tank tops, tissue paper skirts and sarongs, beaded flip-flops and necklaces, for a fraction of Scoop prices (needless to say, I did VERY well here in Bali shopping since the rain kept me a slave to the stores), the art post-modern and intriguing. The restaurants along the beach and in the town are divine, the first New York level of food and service yet. And the two Barbie twins at the pool by day, whose bodies folded up perfectly like beach chairs with nary a roll (you know the type), frolicking topless with their perfect tits and asses around a wrinkled and sun-exposed Speedo-ed playboy of, at the very least, 70 years old, had the attention of both staff and guests alike…especially when they sat around Grandpa and caressed each other, then alternatively caressed him. Yeah, the beach side of Bali was great for a few days….
BUT, the real Bali is to be found in Ubud, the interior of the country, an artist community of perfection and culture that absolutely mesmerized me. I could’ve easily stayed in Ubud another week, it was one my favorite places on this trip. I was in love with the people, the landscape, the culture, the little touches of the city and know I will absolutely be coming back to Bali, and spending a lot more time in Ubud when I do.
Ubud is one of those small towns with a ton of charm. The narrow, one-way streets are lined with shops, cafes, art galleries, and villa resorts. Every day, as the town comes to life, small offerings of flowers and incense are placed in doorways, giving the entire town the smell of freshness and flowers. In every shop, in every home, Balinese traditional music plays in the background, a mix of Enya-Enigma type dream music with xylophone and drum beat accents. You almost don’t hear it, and then, when you do, you can’t help but smile – it’s so calming. I checked into a resort where they upgraded my room to a suite (they do this a lot in places where tourism has suffered from either the tsunami or terrorism) that had a verandah which overlooked a rice paddy. Every afternoon, I read on a lounge chair and watched the sunset while the Balinese tended to their paddies below me. Each morning I would either take a drive or a bike ride out of town through the countryside and talk to the people – the Indonesians are the friendliest, warmest people I’ve encountered out here. Their smiles and genuine desire to help you embrace their island is so refreshing, they don’t hawk you (except on the beach side), they don’t beg, they don’t pester, they are just as interested in you, as you are of them, and want to learn simultaneously from the interactions. I talked to so many different types of people, artists, locals, shop owners, holy men, it was amazing. Everyone was approachable and equally interesting.
I indulged in daily Balinese massages, then a run, then took my breakfast, (which I will miss terribly while I’m home for two weeks, the AM spreads) where a couple was on my same schedule EVERY DAY. The British woman of the pair (Cher, a complete clone of Heather Gitlitz) was chatty chatty Cathy, who didn’t shut up from the second she sat down, talking about nonsense to the guy who, I SWEAR, was nodding off during her rants. And the same schtick happened every morning, she would hem and haw over eggs or pancakes, eggs or pancakes, when the waiter would come over to her. “I just dunno today, should I greet the morning with some eggs, or should I allow the pancakes to win out? Hmmm, what do you think?” in her grating British accent. Oh my god….kill myself. She was always done up in some ridiculously formal skirt of a silk or satin, a lacy shirt AND…Tevas. It annoyed the hell out of me. She carried an umbrella for walking in the sun. But, not a pretty little parasol, it was a golf umbrella that could house a small army underneath. Each day, I dreaded getting to the dining area, she killed my tranquility.
But, then, I’d head off onto my day, and forget the bothersome Brit at breakfast. The temples you can find throughout the city and countryside are all gorgeous, and the villages where the Indonesians live were fascinating, each family has it’s own temple, in addition to their living quarters, the tips of which peek from behind the walls of the family compounds. Driving around is a treat, just taking it all in. One of the highlights I was told I had to see was the Monkey Forest, which is a forest of just that, monkeys living in the wild around three Hindu temples. There’s thousands of them and I couldn’t wait to go into the forest. On a trip to Costa Rica a few years back, Ilana and I were a monkey’s plaything (or two) when we found them there, Lukoff hedging off getting rowdy with them, us making fun of her for being apprehensive around the cute little monkeys. Well, Lukoff, you were the wiser. Here’s my Monkey Forest story:
So, I head into Monkey Forest, at the end of aptly named Monkey Forest Road. As you approach, there’s at least 10-15 monkeys hanging around the entrance, waiting for the tourists to feed them bananas. ALL the guidebooks say specifically “Do not feed the monkeys,” and there’s a sign on entry saying the same, but RIGHT UNDER the sign, is a vendor at a little folding table with a sign that reads “Official Monkey Forest Bananas” and is piled high with bunches of about 20 baby bananas. Everyone entering is buying bananas and feeding, taking pictures with and running around with the greeter monkeys. Ok….so, I buy some bananas. If I don’t use them all on the monkeys, I’ll have them for myself to snack on, right? So far, so good. So, I take my bunch, all ready to go play with these cute little guys, like in Costa Rica, I’m a monkey expert. I’m THE monkey girl. As I start giving out the bananas to the monkeys that are jumping on me, climbing up my skirt, sitting on my shoulder, I hand my camera off to a Japanese (maybe Chinese) tourist close by to snap a few pix of me in my monkey glory. A large, hulking monkey approaches. I have two bananas left, one in each hand. I bend down toward him and extend my left hand to him, holding my right a little farther out. He takes the one in my left hand, but reaches for my right hand. WHY I didn’t just it to him, I’m not sure. In my mind, possibly I thought I needed to ration the bananas in an attempt to “be fair” to the other monkeys. What logic is this? They’re monkeys. Well, the monkey didn’t like the logic either, because as he climbed over me to get the other banana that I pulled away again, he FREAKED OUT, and…attacked me. He grabbed my right arm with both hands, and started scratching me, then, biting my arm over and over again, like it was a piece of corn on the cob, jumping up and down all the while, screeching. All of his monkey friends are gathered around watching, clapping, screeching too. All I kept seeing were these little teeth, going into my arm, over and over again. WHAT THE FUCK!?!?! I’m being mauled by a monkey, in Bali, now. Right now. The Japanese (Chinese, maybe) tourists are bugging out, the guards all come running, my arm is scratched open and bloody, and the monkey, both bananas in hand walks off, giving me dirty looks every few minutes as he saunters back into the forest. Calm (why, not sure…?), I walk into the ticket booth, where the staff cleans and dresses my wounds while I ask if the monkeys have diseases. “Like rabies?” you mean, says one monkey forest man. “Sure,” I say, “oh, and like…AIDS.” To which, they say – “no, no, don’t worry, monkeys safe.” So, with a bleeding arm (I cannot be deterred), I re-enter the forest, after getting a refund for my bananas, politely handing them back, and go see the temples. I’m like the walking warning sign for the rest of tourists, different languages being whispered in the ear of the apprehensive partner to the other, as they nod toward my shredded forearm. As if to say, “Look at her, be careful with those bananas, hon.” Quite a day, to say the least. My massages suffered, as my masseuses couldn’t adequately rub my right as vigorously as they rubbed my left arm, and I felt slightly off-kilter after each session, but hey….at least I got all my shots before I left, right. Lesson to all, unison now… DO NOT FEED THE MONKEYS.
At night, I took in different dance ceremonies (there are about 7 different types of Balinese dances performed every night) followed by tasting menus at a variety of local haunts. Balinese dance is an art form, the way they move their bodies, focusing on details like wrist and ankle flicks and rapid (and slightly freaky) eye movements to convey emotions, were mesmerizing. Sure, there were a few too many ants for my liking generally, in Bali, and the heat was overpowering, giving me little water blister rashes when I ran, like in Peru on my Macchu Piccu hike, and obviously, the monkey situation, but overall, Bali was absolutely amazing. A perfect way to wind down my Asia trip.
Now, back to Singapore for another night with Pam and Rich. Then, to Bangkok for a spa day at the Banyan Tree, then one more island to go before I’m home. Can’t wait to see you all. Three months in Asia, while amazing in SO many ways, is a long time. I cannot wait for a fat-ass steak. And a veal chop parm. And a cheeseburger from PJ Clarkes or Melons. Ok, making myself hungry. The consolation – I have pad thai in my future in Bangkok.
xo
Arriving in Bali, I was excited. Everyone has the most wonderful things to say about Bali and I was eager to experience it for myself. Being the end of my trip, I splurged and checked into the Oberoi on Seminyak Beach, the east coast of the island. It rained much of my time there, but the Balinese style villas and resorts were so peaceful, filled with lily ponds and dark cobblestone walkways throughout the grounds, foot-high torches lighting up the paths at night, service unmatched with suntan lotion and water spritzers refilled hourly at the pool overlooking the beach all day long, ice cream cones of sorbets given at 11:30 AM and 3:30 PM to all guests, ten minute massages in the AM and PM at poolside, as well. It was blissful. And the shopping in Seminyak was insane. The home décor is so colorful and airy, the clothes all authentic Scoop Beach-esque tunics and tank tops, tissue paper skirts and sarongs, beaded flip-flops and necklaces, for a fraction of Scoop prices (needless to say, I did VERY well here in Bali shopping since the rain kept me a slave to the stores), the art post-modern and intriguing. The restaurants along the beach and in the town are divine, the first New York level of food and service yet. And the two Barbie twins at the pool by day, whose bodies folded up perfectly like beach chairs with nary a roll (you know the type), frolicking topless with their perfect tits and asses around a wrinkled and sun-exposed Speedo-ed playboy of, at the very least, 70 years old, had the attention of both staff and guests alike…especially when they sat around Grandpa and caressed each other, then alternatively caressed him. Yeah, the beach side of Bali was great for a few days….
BUT, the real Bali is to be found in Ubud, the interior of the country, an artist community of perfection and culture that absolutely mesmerized me. I could’ve easily stayed in Ubud another week, it was one my favorite places on this trip. I was in love with the people, the landscape, the culture, the little touches of the city and know I will absolutely be coming back to Bali, and spending a lot more time in Ubud when I do.
Ubud is one of those small towns with a ton of charm. The narrow, one-way streets are lined with shops, cafes, art galleries, and villa resorts. Every day, as the town comes to life, small offerings of flowers and incense are placed in doorways, giving the entire town the smell of freshness and flowers. In every shop, in every home, Balinese traditional music plays in the background, a mix of Enya-Enigma type dream music with xylophone and drum beat accents. You almost don’t hear it, and then, when you do, you can’t help but smile – it’s so calming. I checked into a resort where they upgraded my room to a suite (they do this a lot in places where tourism has suffered from either the tsunami or terrorism) that had a verandah which overlooked a rice paddy. Every afternoon, I read on a lounge chair and watched the sunset while the Balinese tended to their paddies below me. Each morning I would either take a drive or a bike ride out of town through the countryside and talk to the people – the Indonesians are the friendliest, warmest people I’ve encountered out here. Their smiles and genuine desire to help you embrace their island is so refreshing, they don’t hawk you (except on the beach side), they don’t beg, they don’t pester, they are just as interested in you, as you are of them, and want to learn simultaneously from the interactions. I talked to so many different types of people, artists, locals, shop owners, holy men, it was amazing. Everyone was approachable and equally interesting.
I indulged in daily Balinese massages, then a run, then took my breakfast, (which I will miss terribly while I’m home for two weeks, the AM spreads) where a couple was on my same schedule EVERY DAY. The British woman of the pair (Cher, a complete clone of Heather Gitlitz) was chatty chatty Cathy, who didn’t shut up from the second she sat down, talking about nonsense to the guy who, I SWEAR, was nodding off during her rants. And the same schtick happened every morning, she would hem and haw over eggs or pancakes, eggs or pancakes, when the waiter would come over to her. “I just dunno today, should I greet the morning with some eggs, or should I allow the pancakes to win out? Hmmm, what do you think?” in her grating British accent. Oh my god….kill myself. She was always done up in some ridiculously formal skirt of a silk or satin, a lacy shirt AND…Tevas. It annoyed the hell out of me. She carried an umbrella for walking in the sun. But, not a pretty little parasol, it was a golf umbrella that could house a small army underneath. Each day, I dreaded getting to the dining area, she killed my tranquility.
But, then, I’d head off onto my day, and forget the bothersome Brit at breakfast. The temples you can find throughout the city and countryside are all gorgeous, and the villages where the Indonesians live were fascinating, each family has it’s own temple, in addition to their living quarters, the tips of which peek from behind the walls of the family compounds. Driving around is a treat, just taking it all in. One of the highlights I was told I had to see was the Monkey Forest, which is a forest of just that, monkeys living in the wild around three Hindu temples. There’s thousands of them and I couldn’t wait to go into the forest. On a trip to Costa Rica a few years back, Ilana and I were a monkey’s plaything (or two) when we found them there, Lukoff hedging off getting rowdy with them, us making fun of her for being apprehensive around the cute little monkeys. Well, Lukoff, you were the wiser. Here’s my Monkey Forest story:
So, I head into Monkey Forest, at the end of aptly named Monkey Forest Road. As you approach, there’s at least 10-15 monkeys hanging around the entrance, waiting for the tourists to feed them bananas. ALL the guidebooks say specifically “Do not feed the monkeys,” and there’s a sign on entry saying the same, but RIGHT UNDER the sign, is a vendor at a little folding table with a sign that reads “Official Monkey Forest Bananas” and is piled high with bunches of about 20 baby bananas. Everyone entering is buying bananas and feeding, taking pictures with and running around with the greeter monkeys. Ok….so, I buy some bananas. If I don’t use them all on the monkeys, I’ll have them for myself to snack on, right? So far, so good. So, I take my bunch, all ready to go play with these cute little guys, like in Costa Rica, I’m a monkey expert. I’m THE monkey girl. As I start giving out the bananas to the monkeys that are jumping on me, climbing up my skirt, sitting on my shoulder, I hand my camera off to a Japanese (maybe Chinese) tourist close by to snap a few pix of me in my monkey glory. A large, hulking monkey approaches. I have two bananas left, one in each hand. I bend down toward him and extend my left hand to him, holding my right a little farther out. He takes the one in my left hand, but reaches for my right hand. WHY I didn’t just it to him, I’m not sure. In my mind, possibly I thought I needed to ration the bananas in an attempt to “be fair” to the other monkeys. What logic is this? They’re monkeys. Well, the monkey didn’t like the logic either, because as he climbed over me to get the other banana that I pulled away again, he FREAKED OUT, and…attacked me. He grabbed my right arm with both hands, and started scratching me, then, biting my arm over and over again, like it was a piece of corn on the cob, jumping up and down all the while, screeching. All of his monkey friends are gathered around watching, clapping, screeching too. All I kept seeing were these little teeth, going into my arm, over and over again. WHAT THE FUCK!?!?! I’m being mauled by a monkey, in Bali, now. Right now. The Japanese (Chinese, maybe) tourists are bugging out, the guards all come running, my arm is scratched open and bloody, and the monkey, both bananas in hand walks off, giving me dirty looks every few minutes as he saunters back into the forest. Calm (why, not sure…?), I walk into the ticket booth, where the staff cleans and dresses my wounds while I ask if the monkeys have diseases. “Like rabies?” you mean, says one monkey forest man. “Sure,” I say, “oh, and like…AIDS.” To which, they say – “no, no, don’t worry, monkeys safe.” So, with a bleeding arm (I cannot be deterred), I re-enter the forest, after getting a refund for my bananas, politely handing them back, and go see the temples. I’m like the walking warning sign for the rest of tourists, different languages being whispered in the ear of the apprehensive partner to the other, as they nod toward my shredded forearm. As if to say, “Look at her, be careful with those bananas, hon.” Quite a day, to say the least. My massages suffered, as my masseuses couldn’t adequately rub my right as vigorously as they rubbed my left arm, and I felt slightly off-kilter after each session, but hey….at least I got all my shots before I left, right. Lesson to all, unison now… DO NOT FEED THE MONKEYS.
At night, I took in different dance ceremonies (there are about 7 different types of Balinese dances performed every night) followed by tasting menus at a variety of local haunts. Balinese dance is an art form, the way they move their bodies, focusing on details like wrist and ankle flicks and rapid (and slightly freaky) eye movements to convey emotions, were mesmerizing. Sure, there were a few too many ants for my liking generally, in Bali, and the heat was overpowering, giving me little water blister rashes when I ran, like in Peru on my Macchu Piccu hike, and obviously, the monkey situation, but overall, Bali was absolutely amazing. A perfect way to wind down my Asia trip.
Now, back to Singapore for another night with Pam and Rich. Then, to Bangkok for a spa day at the Banyan Tree, then one more island to go before I’m home. Can’t wait to see you all. Three months in Asia, while amazing in SO many ways, is a long time. I cannot wait for a fat-ass steak. And a veal chop parm. And a cheeseburger from PJ Clarkes or Melons. Ok, making myself hungry. The consolation – I have pad thai in my future in Bangkok.
xo
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Shiny Happy City, Shopping
I know how to shop. This we know. But…
Singapore overwhelmed me. God, did it overwhelm me. I think I’m still recovering from shop shock. And, outside of two beautiful tea sets and a magnet for my dad (he’s charting my route on his garage fridge – for those of you who frequented the Massapequa house/garage, you’re familiar…), I didn’t buy anything. It was just too furious a pace, too frenzied an atmosphere, too wild a spree for, yes…even me.
Singapore is the squeakiest, cleanest city in the world. There rumors are true, well…some of them (they don’t cane you for gum-chewing in public), and the ten-second rule in Singapore is EASILY the ten-minute rule. You can drop ice cream on the floor, let it melt a bit, slop it up with a spoon, and eat it. It’s THAT clean here. It’s mind-boggling. I got to the Singapore airport and immediately had to don my sunglasses. First of all, it’s enormous. But it's also SO bright and shiny and seemingly, new, it’s all glass and chrome and lights and modernity. There’s a spa, a gym, a swimming pool, gardens, hundreds of food courts, and about 200 stores per terminal. There’s Gucci, Prada, Hermes boutiques IN the airport.
I mean….
Finding my way to my friend Pam’s, an old Harper colleauge who lives here with her husband, Rich, the roads are immaculate, landscaped with gardens, flowers, greenery. There is nary a candy wrapper to be seen lying roadside, no roadkill, no postings about apartments for rent, music shows coming to the area, lost children or kittens, just concrete and metal and shrubbery. The cabs smell lemon-fresh, the toll booths are devoid of exhaust residue, the city air is (gasp!) highly breathable. When I arrived at Pam’s apartment complex, Emerald Green, it’s Melrose Place-ian, only nicer. The streets, hilly at points, full of colorful low-rise colonials housing shops and lounges (the whole lounge thing, they’ve got it down pat – everything is Bond Street-esque, it’s great) and cafes, are quaint and inviting. You can hear a pin-drop in Singapore, no one yells, no horns honk, no babies cry. IS THIS REALLY PART OF ASIA?
I spent two days in Singapore, Disney-land for city planners, the wet dream of good government. Part Jetsons, part Chicago, part DC, there’s no traffic, people wait for cabs at stands throughout the city, democratically, PATIENTLY. The gleaming office buildings shine over the Singapore River (I wonder, briefly, how many window washers, garbage men, bathroom attendants, street cleaners, etc… the city employs to keep it so damn sanitary), leading down to Riverside Point, a bit Michigan Avenue lake front, only…yep, you guessed it, cleaner. But, back to the more important stuff. The shopping….
Orchard Road is Sing’s main thoroughfare for shops. It’s like an odyssey of indoor malls with mirrored outsides and formica insides. Floors upon floors of stores, restaurants (all restaurants are in malls, very weird), doctors offices, food courts. And, I’m not talking 4-5 of these malls, there’s HUNDREDS of them. Same stores, over and over again. On both sides of the length of Orchard Road, (and it’s not the length of, like Vanderbilt Ave, it’s more like 2nd Avenue), I probably saw 8-10 Louis Vuittons, 5 Chanels, 5 Dior, 5 Ferregamos. This isn’t your friendly neighborhood Gap kind of shopping (though Gap, Old Navy and Banana are coming to Singapore this fall), this is the real deal, intensified. In addition to the French Connections, the Betsey Johnsons, the Nine Wests (THESE ARE the $$ shoes here...go figure!) the Diesels and Stussys, it’s fast food central, as EVERY mall has a food court. So, you see Starbucks signs on EVERY corner, Burger King next to McDonalds, next to Dairy Queen and Orange Julius. KFC lurks next to Subway, next to the Coffee Beanery and Haagen Daz. It’s consumerism exploded, it’s a nightmare of spending. And, you’d think that because there are so many stores, it wouldn’t be so crowded, right? WRONG. DEAD WRONG. It’s like the Friday after Thanksgiving, Black Friday, I think they call it, EVERY DAY. Asian style. A million tiny Asians, shopping, fiercely pushing, clawing through the racks, buying and charging, and running from mall to mall. Everyone carries a shopping bag, two, four, eight. I, with my measly tea sets and magnet, am appalling to them. I suck at their national pastime. I am a shopping novice in Sing. I bow my head, ashamed at my own failures, and leave Orchard Road (but not before indulging on a DELICIOUS half-BBQ chicken salad chopped at California Pizza Kitchen). Me and my lone bag, defeated.
Spending money gained (for once!!), I head back to Pam’s for a great authentic Chinese meal on a backstreet of Sing’s Chinatown, and then, off to Bali for a final dose of SE Asian culture before returning home to the consumer world I know, love, and can shop oh-so-well . . . NYC.
xoxo
Singapore overwhelmed me. God, did it overwhelm me. I think I’m still recovering from shop shock. And, outside of two beautiful tea sets and a magnet for my dad (he’s charting my route on his garage fridge – for those of you who frequented the Massapequa house/garage, you’re familiar…), I didn’t buy anything. It was just too furious a pace, too frenzied an atmosphere, too wild a spree for, yes…even me.
Singapore is the squeakiest, cleanest city in the world. There rumors are true, well…some of them (they don’t cane you for gum-chewing in public), and the ten-second rule in Singapore is EASILY the ten-minute rule. You can drop ice cream on the floor, let it melt a bit, slop it up with a spoon, and eat it. It’s THAT clean here. It’s mind-boggling. I got to the Singapore airport and immediately had to don my sunglasses. First of all, it’s enormous. But it's also SO bright and shiny and seemingly, new, it’s all glass and chrome and lights and modernity. There’s a spa, a gym, a swimming pool, gardens, hundreds of food courts, and about 200 stores per terminal. There’s Gucci, Prada, Hermes boutiques IN the airport.
I mean….
Finding my way to my friend Pam’s, an old Harper colleauge who lives here with her husband, Rich, the roads are immaculate, landscaped with gardens, flowers, greenery. There is nary a candy wrapper to be seen lying roadside, no roadkill, no postings about apartments for rent, music shows coming to the area, lost children or kittens, just concrete and metal and shrubbery. The cabs smell lemon-fresh, the toll booths are devoid of exhaust residue, the city air is (gasp!) highly breathable. When I arrived at Pam’s apartment complex, Emerald Green, it’s Melrose Place-ian, only nicer. The streets, hilly at points, full of colorful low-rise colonials housing shops and lounges (the whole lounge thing, they’ve got it down pat – everything is Bond Street-esque, it’s great) and cafes, are quaint and inviting. You can hear a pin-drop in Singapore, no one yells, no horns honk, no babies cry. IS THIS REALLY PART OF ASIA?
I spent two days in Singapore, Disney-land for city planners, the wet dream of good government. Part Jetsons, part Chicago, part DC, there’s no traffic, people wait for cabs at stands throughout the city, democratically, PATIENTLY. The gleaming office buildings shine over the Singapore River (I wonder, briefly, how many window washers, garbage men, bathroom attendants, street cleaners, etc… the city employs to keep it so damn sanitary), leading down to Riverside Point, a bit Michigan Avenue lake front, only…yep, you guessed it, cleaner. But, back to the more important stuff. The shopping….
Orchard Road is Sing’s main thoroughfare for shops. It’s like an odyssey of indoor malls with mirrored outsides and formica insides. Floors upon floors of stores, restaurants (all restaurants are in malls, very weird), doctors offices, food courts. And, I’m not talking 4-5 of these malls, there’s HUNDREDS of them. Same stores, over and over again. On both sides of the length of Orchard Road, (and it’s not the length of, like Vanderbilt Ave, it’s more like 2nd Avenue), I probably saw 8-10 Louis Vuittons, 5 Chanels, 5 Dior, 5 Ferregamos. This isn’t your friendly neighborhood Gap kind of shopping (though Gap, Old Navy and Banana are coming to Singapore this fall), this is the real deal, intensified. In addition to the French Connections, the Betsey Johnsons, the Nine Wests (THESE ARE the $$ shoes here...go figure!) the Diesels and Stussys, it’s fast food central, as EVERY mall has a food court. So, you see Starbucks signs on EVERY corner, Burger King next to McDonalds, next to Dairy Queen and Orange Julius. KFC lurks next to Subway, next to the Coffee Beanery and Haagen Daz. It’s consumerism exploded, it’s a nightmare of spending. And, you’d think that because there are so many stores, it wouldn’t be so crowded, right? WRONG. DEAD WRONG. It’s like the Friday after Thanksgiving, Black Friday, I think they call it, EVERY DAY. Asian style. A million tiny Asians, shopping, fiercely pushing, clawing through the racks, buying and charging, and running from mall to mall. Everyone carries a shopping bag, two, four, eight. I, with my measly tea sets and magnet, am appalling to them. I suck at their national pastime. I am a shopping novice in Sing. I bow my head, ashamed at my own failures, and leave Orchard Road (but not before indulging on a DELICIOUS half-BBQ chicken salad chopped at California Pizza Kitchen). Me and my lone bag, defeated.
Spending money gained (for once!!), I head back to Pam’s for a great authentic Chinese meal on a backstreet of Sing’s Chinatown, and then, off to Bali for a final dose of SE Asian culture before returning home to the consumer world I know, love, and can shop oh-so-well . . . NYC.
xoxo
Thursday, March 16, 2006
The Magnificent Maldives
I can now die happy.
The Maldives are all that and more. The most AMAZING place I’ve ever been, beach-wise. They are what, in my ‘suspending-non-religious-beliefs-for-just-a-moment’ reality, I hope heaven is like. The Maldives. Yes, they are heaven on earth.
Traveling constantly, seeing new places and things every day, with a never-ending to-do-list of the world map, I wind up having high expectations for a lot of the places I’m going. The last person I met told me about such-and-such a place, the guide book glorifies another nearby place, my best friend’s sister’s mother-in-law’s uncle said I just HAD to hit that local to the other place place. I try, god knows, I try to do all of the “musts” and, lots of times, I’m disappointed. So, going into the Maldives, I had HIGH HIGH hopes. I heard the diving was out-of-this-world, the beaches magnificent, the level of service unmatched, the weather perfect, and the resorts luxurious. All of those things are true. Not half-true, not depends on where you stay true, 100% true. I was blown away. I did it all blindly, my hotel booking, my island, my package – I KNEW NOTHING going into it, except what I was reading online about the country. There’s only one guide book on the Maldives (Lonely Planet and a) it’s hard to find and b) I think Lonely Planet un-user-friendly and prefer Fodor’s) and there little else to go by. So, I spent countless nights awake online, searching websites that had a bit here and a bit there about the islands. From that, I chose Kurumba, the oldest resort in the Maldives, recently renovated, with affordable (and laughable) price points, and a GORGEOUS website. Sounds good.
Oh, man…it was BETTER than good. My villa was bigger than my apartment in the city (not a hard accomplishment, but…), and beautifully decorated. I had an indoor and outdoor shower (which I was obsessed with – I took outdoor showers about 4 times a day), I had a reading nook, I had a canopy bed with chiffon sheets that closed around me when I slept, like a princess’s bedroom (in my mind’s fairy tale). It all opened out onto a porch that came right up to the sand of the beach, the water lapping playfully at my door. I mean….
The Maldives are made up of hundreds of tiny islands, about 140 of those are inhabited by resorts, and another 40 or so, inhabited by a small Maldivian population of 270,000. Outside of the resorts, which must BUY an individual island from the Maldivian government in order to open, the islands of the Maldives are poor, low-functioning islands. The high-low of the Maldives is actually quite disturbing, but most tourists don’t take the time to travel to the actual inhabited islands, they stay at their resort. Shame, as the people are so sweet and friendly, and the crafts are about 1/10th of the price of the hotels. Hehe… Needless to say, I shopped. The main industry is tourism, with two artificial islands recently built to accommodate a Coca-Cola bottling plant and a steel company. Otherwise, there’s no industry in the smallest world capital of Male.
This was my typical day for a week in the Maldives:
7 AM Wake Up. Breakfast at the biggest breakfast buffet I’ve ever seen. Unnecessarily big. Like stupid, too many choices that early in the AM, big. There I would eat an omelette (sometimes veggies, sometimes ham and cheese as a throwback to my previous and, upcoming trip to South America), hash browns (they were like McDonalds hash browns of my childhood and I couldn’t resist though each night I SWORE I wouldn’t have another hash brown but then I would see them, next to the fruit juice section as I got O.J., and be physically unable to keep my fingers away from the hash brown tongs), pancakes (Mom – I was a pancake whore. Everyone reading – so is my mom, a fellow pancake whore. Dad, a date at IHOP in FL in April. They made two kinds everyday – plain and banana, choc chip, blueberry, lemon (gross, I tried), so I would have one regular and one fancy one with loads of syrup) and then, fruit for breakfast dessert. This was my only meal until dinner time (no, kids, I’m not regressing – it was a temporary thing….). So, I indulged. As you can tell from the description, I was into my breakfasts…Sorry for going overboard there.
8:30 AM – Scuba Diving. I dove everyday I was in the Maldives. More on this to come.
Between 11-2 PM – return from diving and set up shop on two lounge chairs. One for me. One for Ipod, current book, Clarins SPF 15 for face and body, snorkel, fins and bottle of water. Lay out, relax. I would go into the room every so often to make Iced Nescafe, Let me explain. The coffee was very strong on the island, but I had a coffee maker and milk, et al…in my room, so would brew my own Nescafe (it’s not really brewing, but it sounds better) and put it in a water bottle and fridge it. I was obsessed. The houseboy caught on, and left me extra Nescafes and sugars every time he came to tidy my room (about 3 times/day they “tidy”).
5-6 – Watch sunset, or get massage.
6-7 – Run.
8 - ?? Dinner (usually fresh caught fish or sushi) on the beach and drinks with other guests. One night I ventured into Karaoke-land. Not worth detailing. I sucked, though I put on a good show. I think…
How’s that for a life? Yeah, I know…. Too bad it’s now over and I’m sitting in the airport waiting for a delayed flight to Singapore on a hard-ass wicker chair with a head cold. So, don’t worry – the good life isn’t as good right now.
So, the diving here was absolutely incredible. The clarity and visibility were astounding, the sea life was overwhelming, the dive team comfortable to be with, and my dive buddies (4 unrelated Brits who I wound up diving with every day), completely in sync with me. I wound up getting so hooked, that I became certified as a Deep Water Diver (can go to depths of 130 feet instead of 60 now…) and started on my Advanced Open Water Certification. OBSESSED. What we also did (me and the Brits) was a dive charter one day, where we did two dives – one shark dive, one dolphin dive. Both were fantastic. My divemaster Mohamed said it was the best day he’s had in his whole life in the Maldives. The shark dive was at about 100 feet, for about 40 minutes. We wound up surrounded (in a non-threatening way) by about 30 white-tipped reef sharks, who were happy to hang out with us, swimming by gracefully while we clung to coral in an attempt to watch them for as long as we could without being pulled by the current. The dolphin dive deposited us in about 100 feet of clear blue water. Not good with an underwater compass (though I working on it…), I couldn’t tell you which way was up, it was all just blue, no reefs on one side, no sea life to give away direction. And then, after about ten minutes of “ok, let’s go SEE something,” the dolphins appeared. About 200 of them, swimming in schools of 15-20 each, everywhere you looked, playing with us, frolicking, squeaking, twirling. Mommies, babies, big, small – it was one of the greatest times I’ve had underwater. SOOO fun. I also dove a wreck, a perfectly intact sunken ship off the coast of Male – downed in 1981, so it’s still in pretty good condition. Surreal to swim in and out of cabins of the ship, stand on the mast, peer through the windows in the galleys. Awesome underwater site. In addition to the diving, the snorkeling in the Maldives is equally good. The fish are fearless, they swim right by you, and hang around the shore if you feed them. I spent many hours snorkeling off my beach, watching stingrays and lobsters, eels and turtles, saunter back and forth the ocean floor.
Of course, being a Muslim country, the Maldives wouldn’t be complete without what I’m now calling my “Muslim Moments.” This one involved Ahmed, the mysterious Kurumba staffer (everyone’s name is Ahmed or Muhamed here – Muslim country theory – so it was hard to figure out just which Ahmed it was), who took to me from afar, seemingly, and started calling my room on a regular basis asking me to be what I thought was his “Good Friend,” to which I would get annoyed and have frustrated conversations with him about WHY he was calling me and that I didn’t understand him because of his accent (why I didn’t just hang up, I’m not sure…), when I realized that he was saying “GIRL FRIEND” and had to report him to security. The island then ALL knew my name, room number, to “look out for me” etc… The housekeeping head made me look through mug shots, if you will (photos of all the houseboys standing next to a made bed, smiling – their mattress handiwork), of all the houseboys to make sure Ahmed wasn’t among them. Blah blah… I’m out of the Muslim world after today, so hopefully, no more shady stories of men looking for a Western piece.
In sum: Even with Ahmed lurking somewhere close by but undetected, there were no drawbacks to the Maldives and EVERYONE should make it a point to get here in their lifetime (especially since they might not be here in 15 years…). If you have a honeymoon coming up – COME HERE! I would know immediately who the brides were, as the bodies on the female partners were uber-thin, and those same girls were eating pancakes, crossaints, hash browns, waffles and muffins every AM at breakfast, scarfing down steaks and baked potatoes with butter AND sour cream at dinner – poor thangs probably hadn’t eaten since their engagements. One such bride still made it to the gym each night, bless her 80 pound heart. The rest were happy reveling in their lack of photography and spotlights, wedding dresses and size 2s, in their short-term futures. My resort was one of the nicest from what I heard and saw, but I would say that South Male (where a lot of the good resorts are – Four Seasons is next to Kurumba, Banyan Tree, etc…) is too close to the airport, and while I’m not usually phased by planes, trains and automobiles, I did catch myself hearing an airplane every so often (Girls of Blue Jay Way – I can’t IMAGINE Rosen’s bitching on Maldivian air issues…!!!) But, otherwise, SHEER PERFECTION.
My plane just arrived. Onto Singapore to stay with my friend Pam and her husband. I have no idea what happens in Singapore except that you get caned if you chew gum while walking down the street and are killed if you possess/use drugs and it’s supposedly very clean. So, I have a lot of reading to do on the plane. I turned to mush in the Maldives and have to refocus on Singapore and Bali, my next stops. But likely, without any prior expectations, these countries will be amazing. Can’t wait.
More soon…
xoxo
The Maldives are all that and more. The most AMAZING place I’ve ever been, beach-wise. They are what, in my ‘suspending-non-religious-beliefs-for-just-a-moment’ reality, I hope heaven is like. The Maldives. Yes, they are heaven on earth.
Traveling constantly, seeing new places and things every day, with a never-ending to-do-list of the world map, I wind up having high expectations for a lot of the places I’m going. The last person I met told me about such-and-such a place, the guide book glorifies another nearby place, my best friend’s sister’s mother-in-law’s uncle said I just HAD to hit that local to the other place place. I try, god knows, I try to do all of the “musts” and, lots of times, I’m disappointed. So, going into the Maldives, I had HIGH HIGH hopes. I heard the diving was out-of-this-world, the beaches magnificent, the level of service unmatched, the weather perfect, and the resorts luxurious. All of those things are true. Not half-true, not depends on where you stay true, 100% true. I was blown away. I did it all blindly, my hotel booking, my island, my package – I KNEW NOTHING going into it, except what I was reading online about the country. There’s only one guide book on the Maldives (Lonely Planet and a) it’s hard to find and b) I think Lonely Planet un-user-friendly and prefer Fodor’s) and there little else to go by. So, I spent countless nights awake online, searching websites that had a bit here and a bit there about the islands. From that, I chose Kurumba, the oldest resort in the Maldives, recently renovated, with affordable (and laughable) price points, and a GORGEOUS website. Sounds good.
Oh, man…it was BETTER than good. My villa was bigger than my apartment in the city (not a hard accomplishment, but…), and beautifully decorated. I had an indoor and outdoor shower (which I was obsessed with – I took outdoor showers about 4 times a day), I had a reading nook, I had a canopy bed with chiffon sheets that closed around me when I slept, like a princess’s bedroom (in my mind’s fairy tale). It all opened out onto a porch that came right up to the sand of the beach, the water lapping playfully at my door. I mean….
The Maldives are made up of hundreds of tiny islands, about 140 of those are inhabited by resorts, and another 40 or so, inhabited by a small Maldivian population of 270,000. Outside of the resorts, which must BUY an individual island from the Maldivian government in order to open, the islands of the Maldives are poor, low-functioning islands. The high-low of the Maldives is actually quite disturbing, but most tourists don’t take the time to travel to the actual inhabited islands, they stay at their resort. Shame, as the people are so sweet and friendly, and the crafts are about 1/10th of the price of the hotels. Hehe… Needless to say, I shopped. The main industry is tourism, with two artificial islands recently built to accommodate a Coca-Cola bottling plant and a steel company. Otherwise, there’s no industry in the smallest world capital of Male.
This was my typical day for a week in the Maldives:
7 AM Wake Up. Breakfast at the biggest breakfast buffet I’ve ever seen. Unnecessarily big. Like stupid, too many choices that early in the AM, big. There I would eat an omelette (sometimes veggies, sometimes ham and cheese as a throwback to my previous and, upcoming trip to South America), hash browns (they were like McDonalds hash browns of my childhood and I couldn’t resist though each night I SWORE I wouldn’t have another hash brown but then I would see them, next to the fruit juice section as I got O.J., and be physically unable to keep my fingers away from the hash brown tongs), pancakes (Mom – I was a pancake whore. Everyone reading – so is my mom, a fellow pancake whore. Dad, a date at IHOP in FL in April. They made two kinds everyday – plain and banana, choc chip, blueberry, lemon (gross, I tried), so I would have one regular and one fancy one with loads of syrup) and then, fruit for breakfast dessert. This was my only meal until dinner time (no, kids, I’m not regressing – it was a temporary thing….). So, I indulged. As you can tell from the description, I was into my breakfasts…Sorry for going overboard there.
8:30 AM – Scuba Diving. I dove everyday I was in the Maldives. More on this to come.
Between 11-2 PM – return from diving and set up shop on two lounge chairs. One for me. One for Ipod, current book, Clarins SPF 15 for face and body, snorkel, fins and bottle of water. Lay out, relax. I would go into the room every so often to make Iced Nescafe, Let me explain. The coffee was very strong on the island, but I had a coffee maker and milk, et al…in my room, so would brew my own Nescafe (it’s not really brewing, but it sounds better) and put it in a water bottle and fridge it. I was obsessed. The houseboy caught on, and left me extra Nescafes and sugars every time he came to tidy my room (about 3 times/day they “tidy”).
5-6 – Watch sunset, or get massage.
6-7 – Run.
8 - ?? Dinner (usually fresh caught fish or sushi) on the beach and drinks with other guests. One night I ventured into Karaoke-land. Not worth detailing. I sucked, though I put on a good show. I think…
How’s that for a life? Yeah, I know…. Too bad it’s now over and I’m sitting in the airport waiting for a delayed flight to Singapore on a hard-ass wicker chair with a head cold. So, don’t worry – the good life isn’t as good right now.
So, the diving here was absolutely incredible. The clarity and visibility were astounding, the sea life was overwhelming, the dive team comfortable to be with, and my dive buddies (4 unrelated Brits who I wound up diving with every day), completely in sync with me. I wound up getting so hooked, that I became certified as a Deep Water Diver (can go to depths of 130 feet instead of 60 now…) and started on my Advanced Open Water Certification. OBSESSED. What we also did (me and the Brits) was a dive charter one day, where we did two dives – one shark dive, one dolphin dive. Both were fantastic. My divemaster Mohamed said it was the best day he’s had in his whole life in the Maldives. The shark dive was at about 100 feet, for about 40 minutes. We wound up surrounded (in a non-threatening way) by about 30 white-tipped reef sharks, who were happy to hang out with us, swimming by gracefully while we clung to coral in an attempt to watch them for as long as we could without being pulled by the current. The dolphin dive deposited us in about 100 feet of clear blue water. Not good with an underwater compass (though I working on it…), I couldn’t tell you which way was up, it was all just blue, no reefs on one side, no sea life to give away direction. And then, after about ten minutes of “ok, let’s go SEE something,” the dolphins appeared. About 200 of them, swimming in schools of 15-20 each, everywhere you looked, playing with us, frolicking, squeaking, twirling. Mommies, babies, big, small – it was one of the greatest times I’ve had underwater. SOOO fun. I also dove a wreck, a perfectly intact sunken ship off the coast of Male – downed in 1981, so it’s still in pretty good condition. Surreal to swim in and out of cabins of the ship, stand on the mast, peer through the windows in the galleys. Awesome underwater site. In addition to the diving, the snorkeling in the Maldives is equally good. The fish are fearless, they swim right by you, and hang around the shore if you feed them. I spent many hours snorkeling off my beach, watching stingrays and lobsters, eels and turtles, saunter back and forth the ocean floor.
Of course, being a Muslim country, the Maldives wouldn’t be complete without what I’m now calling my “Muslim Moments.” This one involved Ahmed, the mysterious Kurumba staffer (everyone’s name is Ahmed or Muhamed here – Muslim country theory – so it was hard to figure out just which Ahmed it was), who took to me from afar, seemingly, and started calling my room on a regular basis asking me to be what I thought was his “Good Friend,” to which I would get annoyed and have frustrated conversations with him about WHY he was calling me and that I didn’t understand him because of his accent (why I didn’t just hang up, I’m not sure…), when I realized that he was saying “GIRL FRIEND” and had to report him to security. The island then ALL knew my name, room number, to “look out for me” etc… The housekeeping head made me look through mug shots, if you will (photos of all the houseboys standing next to a made bed, smiling – their mattress handiwork), of all the houseboys to make sure Ahmed wasn’t among them. Blah blah… I’m out of the Muslim world after today, so hopefully, no more shady stories of men looking for a Western piece.
In sum: Even with Ahmed lurking somewhere close by but undetected, there were no drawbacks to the Maldives and EVERYONE should make it a point to get here in their lifetime (especially since they might not be here in 15 years…). If you have a honeymoon coming up – COME HERE! I would know immediately who the brides were, as the bodies on the female partners were uber-thin, and those same girls were eating pancakes, crossaints, hash browns, waffles and muffins every AM at breakfast, scarfing down steaks and baked potatoes with butter AND sour cream at dinner – poor thangs probably hadn’t eaten since their engagements. One such bride still made it to the gym each night, bless her 80 pound heart. The rest were happy reveling in their lack of photography and spotlights, wedding dresses and size 2s, in their short-term futures. My resort was one of the nicest from what I heard and saw, but I would say that South Male (where a lot of the good resorts are – Four Seasons is next to Kurumba, Banyan Tree, etc…) is too close to the airport, and while I’m not usually phased by planes, trains and automobiles, I did catch myself hearing an airplane every so often (Girls of Blue Jay Way – I can’t IMAGINE Rosen’s bitching on Maldivian air issues…!!!) But, otherwise, SHEER PERFECTION.
My plane just arrived. Onto Singapore to stay with my friend Pam and her husband. I have no idea what happens in Singapore except that you get caned if you chew gum while walking down the street and are killed if you possess/use drugs and it’s supposedly very clean. So, I have a lot of reading to do on the plane. I turned to mush in the Maldives and have to refocus on Singapore and Bali, my next stops. But likely, without any prior expectations, these countries will be amazing. Can’t wait.
More soon…
xoxo
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