The Blog of Britt Hultgren

Song of the Sleepless: 5 am

August 8th, 2010 § 0

5 am
Five ay em

I’ve been up since 2:50, but I’ve only now roused myself from bed. I struggled assiduously to fall back asleep, but I was unable. My body lay supinated for hours, but my mind somnolently stumbled on…directionless. I forged new ground for sleepless philosophers everywhere by coining the term “dualistic somnambulism.” The body is ataxic, but the mind is sleepwalking. At 2:50 in the morning, the mind/body nexus breaks. It’s a fact. Spinoza would hate me, but he’s dead, and I’ve been awake for hours. I don’t need to respect his crazy, dead, sleeping philosophy.

I couldn’t control what I remembered, nor where my thoughts were headed. I re-encountered my first kiss; the first time I held a baby; the first time a friend died. But what I lacked in control, I made up for in power: I didn’t have any boundaries to what I could or could not do. I imagined excitedly (if that is the right word) that I was flying slowly or floating quickly. Excited, of course, being a relative term; I was excited like a tree, or excited like a pole. I was as excited as the lowest form of life can be excited. Excited like a hibernating protozoa. Somehow, I was excited and capable. I could have run a marathon, if I had the choice or desire. I just moved. It was zen, in a way. I didn’t think, but I was thinking. I didn’t move, but I was moving. I wasn’t sitting curled up like a pretzel, but–by God–if I would have thought it, I would have been able to do it. But try as I might to uncover the source of my insomnia, it remained concealed.

So I lay there. Still and silent. Time went by quickly, but it seemed agonizingly slow. I looked at my watch at 3:00 and felt years melt away, but I still did not sleep. I breathed. I beat my heart. I moved food and water through my viscera. I just didn’t sleep. I massaged the cabinets in my lungs, trying to restore them from the damage of smoking last night. Last night.
I played imaginary chess with Gary Kasporov, which I didn’t enjoy–I’d rather be sleeping. He won, but he didn’t mock me, and he instructed me how to play better in the future. I will never remember these imaginary chess tips from the master. I checked my watch: 4:15. It seemed like a long time, but could it really have been one-and-a-quarter hours? Mercury is NOT in retrograde any longer, so it must be true. Maybe Gary reset my watch when he was castling me.

I found a way to gently steer my hulking cognitive vessel. Not by much, like doing the J-stroke with a spoon on a rudderless battleship, but it turned where I wanted it to, if only to the femto degree. Go ahead and laugh, but its my femto degree of control, and I need it, because it’s all I have. Frankly, I am satisfied simply with knowing that I am awake. I am alive and I am awake. I could sleuth later, but I had to get up.

I rolled out of bed, maneuvered deftly around my brother sleeping on the floor, snatched my computer and snuck upstairs without waking the dogs. Clearly my ninja skills are not as undeveloped as my sleeping skills.

My world is characterized by differences right now; it is a series of opposing worlds layered, one upon the other.
Take, for example, the sunrise. In the real world, it is still dark; this is the lack of sunrise. Daylight savings time pokes Helios in the ribs earlier now, but not as early as five–even he gets to sleep longer than I do. Staring from my kitchen windows into the liquid black, I can see without seeing anything. Instead of objects, shapes, and colours, I see depth, thickness, and texture. When I blink, the soft darkness becomes grainy with starbursts–from dark pool to black quicksand made from ash and aquifer. The kind of quicksand that you only see once. Suffocating dark.

The real sunrise is happening on computer’s wallpaper image. Riding strongly above a plain speckled with a few stands of trees is a magnificent cloud. Portentious and inimical. Vesuvius erupted again, but instead of bringing night, it brought a terrifying sunrise. It makes me think of Vesuvius. Who was the graffiti artist whose last (maybe only) recorded words were “all voices fell silent”? Will I have any famous last words? None so captivating. None so outstanding. Perhaps we will have forgotten Pompeii when I am old, and I can steal that person’s legacy and graft it into my own. Of course, the circumstances surrounding my death would have to be appropriate. I couldn’t die alone. Those words are forever bound to the apocalypse. I pray that I don’t have to utter them seriously.

Out of the deep dark, something moves. A long, sleek form in the long sleek ocean of smooth, emollient black. A narwhal soars in front of or behind me. I can’t really tell which, but I see either its shape or its shadow in my eyes. Its fuselage is the colour of midnight, with keel of maddening gray. As it passes by, it leaves behind it a trail of dark phosphorescence–flecks of gneiss and quartz that prismatically reflect all the gloomy spectra of black and night. It’s horn is a great basalt column cutting sharp lines in the inky, pyroxene silence.

All black. All at 5 am.

In Photos: The Hidden Corners of Santa Anita

May 28th, 2010 § 0

For approximately 36 years, Guatemala was at war with itself. Or rather, there was war within itself. From 1960 to 1996, State enacted atrocities that under today’s international human rights standards would have qualified as genocide. Between 80,000 and 200,000 people were killed and 50,000 people “disappeared”. When it became clear that the decade of governmental labor unions and social reforms were too far left for the comfort of Western stakeholders, the CIA intervened with its first recorded Latin American government intervention, overthrowing the populist government in 1954, filling the void with extremist leaders and dictators and decades of conflict. The indigenous people of Guatemala, the Maya, were specially, systematically stripped of their wealth of agricultural resources.

Hundreds of thousands resisted, forming guerilla factions. Taking advantage of the dense, mountainous terrain of Guatemala, they used armed conflict and unarmed social movements as their primary weapon against the government that was crushing the People into gravel to pave the roads for the Wealthy elite.

Throughout the 60s, 70s, and 80s they fought this way. A community of believers and survivors, struggling to regain their rights, their land, their homeland, and their identity.

In 1996, the conflict was brought to an official close with the signing of the peace accords in December. The fighting was anything but civil, and despite the overwhelming atrocities of the government, the guerillas often exacerbated the violence with many ignominious actions of their own.

Many guerillas attempted a return to a life of normalcy. For a cohort of 500 who had fought together for decades, they took a different path. They established a farm (finca) called Santa Anita, on which dug in roots to grow up their children in peace.

Santa Anita is perhaps known today as the ex-guerilla commune that produces organic, fair-trade coffee, along with a delectable banana bread. I wanted to show a few of the pictures of the people and places behind the rows of coffee trees. The wild vegetation that reminds them of their decades of struggle. A woman demonstrating what they used to eat (still eat) while in the mountains. The hands that fought the war.

The Engaged Photographer: The Open Society Institute and it’s Moving Walls

May 24th, 2010 § 0

Moving Walls is an photography exhibition put on by the Open Society Institute (part of the Soros Foundation network).

The series is all about communication through photography. It’s about storytelling through photography, really.

This from the website:

Moving Walls is a photographic exhibition series sponsored by the Open Society Institute. The series represents the transitional condition of open societies and the promotion and maintenance of democratic values. Nations often erect obstacles and barriers such as political oppression, economic instability, and racism. Yet, even as these walls are built, there are people committed to tearing them down. As the name of the exhibition series implies, Moving Walls is an artistic interpretation of this struggle.

Watch this video for a beautiful picture of the program:

Galleries like this appeal to me because they blur the lines of the aesthetic and ethical. There is the inherent goodness and helpfulness and artliness of art, and then there is the ability to extend art beyond itself. The classic adage “a picture is worth a thousand words” is very true, but in many cases a picture is also worth a thousand lives, a thousand empowered women, a thousand educated children.

What do you think? Is storytelling in any medium as powerful as I believe it is (or at least can be)?

Link to Moving Walls

In Front of Her, Three Figures

May 16th, 2010 § 0

She wore a long, formless coat.

Multicolored, the patterns transformed like chameleon skin, changing from checkers to crosses to hounds tooth to checkers to vertical lines. The lines were drawn toward the bottom of the garment, and moved like willow branches, swaying gently with each step.

The woman passed me, crossed herself, bowed, and sat at the end of the row, two isles up.

In front of her stood three figures. The Mother, the Son, and in the middle–the most colossal–the Mother holding the Son. All were gilded in some way (garment fringes, crowns, scepters), and all wore that same, universal face. Somewhere mix of anticipation–no, that’s not right–anxiety, sadness, longing, and china doll blankness. Three of them looked directly at me, only the baby stared heavenward.

The woman paid them no attention, staring only from her window seat at the figure blurred by passing faithful. The pregnant mother with child, the placard read. The woman’s eyes were moist and still, focused and preparing to cry. Technorati Tags: Poetry, travel, life, beauty, sadness, reality

Three Little Hearts

May 6th, 2010 § 0

Three Little Hearts

Behind the levee, three little hearts beat forth the rhythm of life.

Two boys ran through the desiccated legs of cornstalks. The ripe yellow heads were taken weeks ago by a large mechanized guillotine, leaving only rows of savaged green trunks and leafy detritus. What the combines left, the sun and insects claimed. The invasion of locusts was rich for a brief ecstasy in time, but quickly ate itself into poverty, and moved on to further conquests. The elderly, infirmed, and disabled (who, it must be said, could not be moved and would have died eventually) were left behind. It was this wobbly cohort of melancholy rejects that bore witness to what they took as three resettlers. When the kids approached, the bugs ceased their ruminations and did their best to flap out of the way.

The boys ran chaotically, giggling, imagining the grasshoppers that stirred and rose in flocks were pigeons in mighty courtyards of the Middle Ages. The birds built a spherical formation, and rose higher and higher, past the parapets and crenellated walls, right into the sun, swarming –Oh! He was watching them rise, and fell! He skimmed his shoulder and got dust in his eye— blinking, he watched descend not birds but hard, angry insects with edged wings and clawed feet.

“oooow, ow, ow.” He whimpered. His brother stopped running, and looked down at him. The fallen one pushed himself up on one elbow and one stiffly outstretched arm. He looked at the dust covering his arms. He felt his shoulder burning. The dirt in his eye elicited moisture, and he was unsure if he would release an ablution of tears to purify his wounded spirit. He glanced to his companion, who was standing over him, still breathing heavy. There was sympathy in his eyes, but it clung to the periphery like eyeliner. In the center were orbs of magic, still full of life and joy and play. “He he haaa!” He laughed. The other, still lying, was washed clean of his fears and thoughts of pain, laughed, and jumped up. To the kingdom! They laughed and turned to chase the invaders once again through the courtyard, as flocks of pigeons rose to avoid the gallant archer and dashing swordsman.

A girl squatted near the bottom of the levee at the frontier of the grassy watershield and the monochrome farmland behind it. She was holding a dead grasshopper, looking closely at each detail. She imagined she was Lewis and Clark, or maybe Marco Polo (she couldn’t remember which had come through this area), looking for the first time at a new creature with the eye of a trained explorer. Color: Yellow, brown, and black. Size: About twice the length of a pointer finger. Smell: Dirt, or nothing. She turned it over to look at the bottom, with its legs curled up to form a rib cage it never had. The external covering of the wings looked like a brown and black cornhusk. She moved this, exposing the wing, which she pulled gently until it broke off. She held the fragment up to her eye. Clear. She must add the color “clear” to her observations. The movement behind the wing distracted her, and shifted her focus. She saw the boys and lowered the wing. Rocking backwards on her heals, she stood up, and brushed the charcoal black hair from her bright amber eyes.

“Hey boys!” she hollered. “Look! Did you know that grasshoppers were clear?”

The boys diligently opened the velum parchment embossed with the royal seal: an appeal from the Princess of the Great Wall. Their immediate presence was required. They broke off their attack on the Plainsman’s Castle, and set their heels towards the lush green faraway land.

A moment later, they arrived shouting and swinging their arms to parry and return épée thrusts. They dodged anachronistic grenade blasts moments before finding safety on the soft, sloping levee walls.

“Look!” she said, displaying on her open palm the discombobulated grasshopper cadaver, autopsied to reveal both semi-translucent wings, some severed legs, the rest of the body, and a piece of grass. The boys huddled closely for a moment, not really knowing for what they were looking. They excitedly grabbed her hand, as if steadying themselves on their first ice-skating experience.

“See”, she demonstrated, “ it’s clear!”

A few quick oohs and aws pushed hot breath across the scandalized little bug, and then the shadow of Cessna on approach to land at the nearby airport swept overhead, drawing the stares of the boys.

“Look out!” one said “it’s the Cobra!”

“Ah!” the other dived out of the way, narrowly dodging strafing fire.

Tchk-tchk-tchk-tchk-tchk! He mimicked gunfire, spittle flying from his pursed lips.

And they were gone again. Running and rolling through the field. She watched them, and thought about what might be really happening inside of them. She was only 4 years older than they were, but she was much more attuned than they were to the emotional tide of their home. When one would get sores in his mouth, or the other would cough in tuberculoid rattles, she would notice—while they would miss—the echoing gasps of their mother crying in the kitchen, or the maquillage smile worn by their father. His eyes were deep and sad, as if pulled deeper into his body by the weight of the boys’ pills that he distributed. She encountered the battleground of tear and whiskey stained countertops, the remnants of last night’s battle of My fucking disease? Oh, it’s just killing you to watch them suffer? Pretty fucking funny! I’m the one that gave it to them; you don’t think I fucking know how much it hurts? It’s killing me too, you know!

Still, there was no way of telling what was wrong—something bad, she knew, but what? She didn’t know. She didn’t think about it, unconsciously trusting that if it was important to know, their parents would tell her.

She watched them dodge dragons and join dogfights. One of them fell. Are those cornstalks sharp? She felt a tinge of protectiveness. Yes, they were living not knowing that anything was wrong. She knew this, and she didn’t know enough to ruin it for them, but they were still alive and vulnerable. She dropped the grasshopper, and ran towards them yelling “Hey guys, be careful! Those things are sharp!”

In Colombia, Open Scars and Ways to Help

April 20th, 2010 § 1

La Paloma de San Antonio, Medellin, Colombia. The Dove of San Antonio, Colombia

Bogotá, Colombia—

It was an exciting day in Medellin, Colombia. There was a concert in a park in central downtown area, drawing residents of all ages through the famous La Playa street toward the park. Theresa Martinez Cordoba walked hand-in-hand with her mother through the crowd, in search of a good place to listen to the music.

Once situated, Theresa struck out on her own to take a look at the nearby art installation by Medellin’s own Fernando Botero. At age 9, the black metal dove towered over her. She had just begun studying Portuguese, and as she looked up at the bulbous black bird, she remembered the word for dove was pomba. She chuckled, because the word was close to the Spanish word for ‘bomb’, or bomba—because it indeed looked like that bird was blowing up, comically filling with air until it was ready to pop. She turned around to search for her mother; she would think this coincidence was so funny! She scanned the crowd for a moment, and then a piece of jagged steel ripped through her cerebral cortex and everything went dark. A terrible blast tore through the crowd, scattering people and body parts like chaff.

The exact details of June 11, 1995 are not completely clear. A bomb that was placed beneath the feet of Botero’s dove exploded during a musical concert, killing between 23-29 people, and injuring just over 200 others. The guerilla/political group FARC (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarios de Colombia/ Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia) eventually claimed credit for the bombing, which took place in an historically cartel/paramilitary stronghold of Medellin. Botero later donated another dove statue, provided that it would be placed next to the remains of his original bomb-blasted piece.

Two Doves. San Antonio Park, after the bombing. Medellin, Colombia

Today, the statues sit in San Antonio park in Medellin. The remnants of the destroyed dove sit atop a pedestal stamped with a plaque listing the name and age of those killed. Ages range as low as four years old. The juxtaposition is eerie, and one cannot help but think how Theresa, who would be 23 now, would view the art installations. Would a college graduate in comparative language studies still find art interesting? Or maybe a waitress and single mother? Supposition, in any case, is no substitute for reality.

Theresa is a ghost face of the conflict. She is the past. To discuss statistics about the conflicts are important, but in many ways they are less meaningful than to appreciate that real individuals have been and are being affected by conflicts.

In Medellin, I stayed at a house for boys affected by the armed conflict. These are some of today’s faces of the conflict. The majority of them were younger than 15 years old, and most of them had either moved to the house or been placed there, due to displacement by the paramilitary forces in Colombia. One boy, Lucho, had come to the shelter basically starved, to the point that he is developmentally retarded and resembles more closely a five year old instead of a nine year old.

In Colombia, there are primarily three major players in the wargames: FARC and other guerilla groups; paramilitary groups; and the Colombian military services. Drug cartels and leaders (like Pablo Escobar, who was killed jumping from rooftop to rooftop in Medellin in 1993) are major players, but they generally play for all sides. One would be hard pressed to find a drug that was produced in Colombia that has not in some way been involved with any of these three groups. Drugs are money, and everyone wants a cut.

Here is just one possible permutation of the players’ interchange: The paramilitaries make deal with drug cartels to protect them in exchange for money to buy bigger guns; FARC steals drugs from the cartels and sells them to buy bigger guns; the military intercepts drug boats in between Colombia and Panamá, accepts a hefty bribe from the drug runners, who then buy bigger guns, so they won’t have to stop for the military next time. This is just one of the combinations as described to me by an officer of the Colombian Coast Guard. He said any of these connections could go the other way, or both ways, or all three ways. He explained that the point is that drugs have a heavy influence on conflict.

The FARC is the largest, most significant guerilla group. Claiming to be freedom fighters by defending public interests from corporations, imperialist influence, neoliberalist policies, many Colombians stand in support of the FARC and guerilla ideologies, though not the methodology of violence. They are the oldest, most substantial guerilla group in the Americas, dating back to the early 1960’s.

The paramilitaries are private, illegal armies that are unregulated and found throughout the country. They exist in opposition to the guerillas (such as FARC), and commonly protect western corporate interests.

One should note that if drugs are one of the primary sources of funding for the conflict in Colombia, agriculture and oil are probably the main external reason for the enduring conflict. Western presence in Central and South America is probably the single biggest contributor to the conflict. Probably the biggest internal contributor is the lack of strong education in the country.

The FARC and other guerilla groups exist in opposition of neoliberal, imperial and western corporate policies. The paramilitaries were formed in opposition to the guerilla movement, and are supported or directly funded in a large part by western corporations (in the past Swiss NGOs have publically funded paramilitary operations).

The history of guerilla warfare extends slightly beyond the USA’s first major incursion into Central and South American political instabilization (Guatemala in the 1950s), but in the last 3 decades, the United Fruit Company (now Chiquita), Nestlé, and Exxon (among others) have exerted heavy influence on Latin America. Frequently accused of human rights violations, including direct support of the paramilitaries to protect their interests. United Fruit/Chiquita has settled out of court on numerous occasions, acknowledging direct involvement and funding in paramilitary activity. The Paramilitaries use the funding and threaten, displace, and often murder Colombians so that their foreign and domestic funders can encroach, and grow more hectares of palms for palm oil, coffee beans, bananas, and other fruits, or have better access to oil.

Tourist material and travel magazines give the a perception of things improving, relative to exceptionally violent 70’s and 80’s, but to the people of Colombia, the conflict is still simmering. There might be less violence in the city centers, but the displacement and violence in the countryside is still a constant part of life.

As an outsider, it is often very difficult to look for ways to help without making things worse. For Colombia (and Latin America in general) both internal and external change needs to take place.

For Colombians, the internal change lies in the pages of books. Education reform will need to take place. The infrastructure for social development in the country has been available for decades, but the priorities of the government in terms of distributing services is lacking. The post-high school education system emphasizes vocational degrees: one-year programs to become a computer technician, plumber, roofer, etc. The problem is that the education is extremely limited and focuses only on the skills needed for a particular job. It produces a mass of low-skilled labor for an already oversaturated market. Furthermore, the graduates have no interdisciplinary study of history, politics, or social studies. They tend to be less concerned with the state of the country, and more concerned with making money—which is difficult in an oversaturated market. It thus becomes very attractive for them to enlist themselves in the drug trade or the paramilitary along with unemployed and displaced people.

As the people become more socially aware, politically conscious, they will become better reasoned, more rational, and open to reconciliation. After decades of violence and unrest, reconciliation for emotional and physical injustice cannot be understated.

Externally, those not in Colombia can help by voting and eating and drinking right—and avoiding any cocaine or heroine drug use.

According to the CIA Factbook, The USA consumes the greatest amount of cocaine and Colombian heroin worldwide, most of which comes from Colombia, via Central America and Mexico. Purchasing and using these drugs provides money to fuel and further the conflict.

If you believe that the drug policies are inappropriate, that leads to the second way to help externally: voting. Use your voice to change the politics of the situation to make the drugs fair trade, or regulated, or in some way less sanguinary. But until the situation is changed, cocaine and heroin use are recreational drugs that negatively impact Colombia.

As far as diet is concerned, take the time to investigate food purchases. Know where your bananas, coffee, fruits, chocolates and yogurts come from. Chiquita and Dole and Nestlé are notorious human rights offenders, and if possible, steering clear of them or raising a voice against them could benefit the social situation in Latin America.

It is also a great use of time read up on Central and South American politics, particularly in the ways that you are involved (USA and Western companies you purchase from or support; the oil you use in your car). A great place to start for this is Bitter Fruit: The Story of the American Coup in Guatemala (Amazon)

For Theresa and thousands others in Colombia and Latin America, there is not much that can be done. But we can do our best to prevent future violence and ameliorate social problems by making conscious decisions about everyday life items.

If you are interested in ways to support specific agencies or portfolios in Latin America (Women’s Empowerment; Displaced people; Labor Rights; Education; etc.), please contact me using the “Contact” tab above.

Have Money, Will Travel – How to Travel with Money

April 13th, 2010 § 0

Travelers Cheques Credit/Debit Card or Cash. With Which to Travel?

An important thing to consider when traveling is in what form you will carry your money. Cash? What denominations? Checks? Credit Card? Choosing the right monetary medium for the trip will help things run smoothly.

Not everyone who travels needs money. I have crossed paths with many travelers who are impecunious, relying on hitchhiking, charity, and—occasionally—sleight of hand or petty theft to get by. Then there are those with a “traveler’s skillset.” This versatile group includes artisans, mechanics, cooks, and people with regional specific skills. They can find a job (generally low-paying or work-for-trade) by painting, playing music at bars, repairing broken boat motors, helping preparing food, and leading kayak trips, scuba diving trips—or whatever the regional activity calls for.

The latter group generally requires you to be quite good, or at least experienced, at some job that is needed in your destination. You cannot expect to get a job as a motorcycle mechanic if you only know how to change the oil in lawnmower. Or you can’t expect to find work singing in a bar just because you can play guitar (I have tried this before, and the fact that my musical repertoire is limited to an eclectic mix of difficult to listen-to music often closes the door. Another reason is that everyone plays the guitar—learn the fiddle or flugelhorn). Both groups generally require time to find work, set up a network, and get settled. So even if you do have some skills, but you just want to travel for a few weeks or keep moving for a few months, you will need to spend some money. How to travel with it?

Probably the most popular forms money takes are: Travelers Cheques; Cash; and Card.

Travelers Cheques are only issued by a few companies, the largest being American Express. In fact, I have only ever seen AE Travelers Cheques, but I am assured other companies exist (it was probably AE’ idea to spell it in such a spellcheck unfriendly way). You generally have to acquire them through your bank. Simply show up at your bank, give them some cash, and they will give you some Travelers Cheques in the value of your cash. You will have to pay a service charge, usually 3%-5% of the total value of the Cheques. So if you want to take out $1000 USD in Travelers Cheques, you will need to pay the bank somewhere around $30USD to $50USD in fees. Travelers Cheques are nice, because they require your signature before having any real value. You sign the Cheques once to acquire them from the bank, and then sign them again at a foreign bank to exchange them for cash. So, on the upside, if someone steals your Cheques, they can’t really do anything with them, unless they have a copy of your signature, and a photo ID of you, and they look like you. If you have an evil twin, don’t use Travelers Cheques. On the other hand, you need to know how much money you want to take with you before you leave, and you also have to find an open bank to convert your Cheques to cash. If you are traveling throughout Central America, for example, good luck finding a bank open on Saturdays, Sundays, or most Fridays. Often they are shut down for labor reasons, too. Banks can be surprisingly fickle.

Cash is another option. Just pack a bunch of cash and catch your plane. This option is probably the worst choice. If you have a lot of cash, you will have to put it somewhere, and even though money is flat, a lot of it stacks into some pretty sizable, hip-hop music video worthy wads. You become a quick target when you pull out a wallet and flip through some hundred-dollar bills like Young Jeezy or Chamillionaire to get to your lunch money. It is good to carry some US dollars with you at all times, though. I think it is good to carry some cash, though.

I try to keep the equivalent of $10USD of local currency in my pocket, just in case I get robbed, I can hand them the money, and they can make the quick getaway. Nobody gets hurt. A taxi driver in Honduras was threatening me with violence once because I refused to pay the equivalent of $25USD for a 5-minute taxi ride. So I just tossed him 3 bucks and he walked away. They generally just want the quick money with no trouble. $100USD in 10’s and 5’s is good to have on hand for emergencies, as every money-changer will take US Dollars, and often hostels or hotels will take it instead of local currency as well.

The final option is Cards. Traveler, Credit, and Debit. Banks now offer a type of Travelers’ Debit Card, which is essentially a prepaid debit card that works in the same way as a normal debit card, except that when you sign up for it, you put a limited amount of money on the card. The benefit of this is that if you lose the card/the numbers are stolen, your checking account will not be emptied. The downside is that, like Travelers Cheques, you have to know how much money you will need for the trip in advance, and you are also charged about 3%-5% of the value you put on the card as a fee. Credit cards are good to have with you, maybe zipped into a pocket of your money wallet, but only used in emergencies. It is frighteningly easy to steal a credit card number and run up charges. The final option is Debit cards. Debit cards are my favorite option for traveling, but only if they are set up properly.

Banks will charge you for a prepaid travelers’ card, but they will not charge you to set up another checking account. So, simply set up another checking account with your bank, and they will mail you your own brand new “travelers’ debit card”—free of charge. All you have to do to limit the amount of money that can be stolen is to go online and transfer amounts of money bit by bit. The other checking accounts and savings accounts are protected, and if this card gets stolen, you still have your other accounts in good shape—no fuss with restarting accounts, or making your life at home hectic. Simply transfer $300USD into the account, and use it for a week, then add a little more over the weekend. Every time you withdraw from an ATM, however, you will be charged between $2USD and $3USD, in addition to about a 2% bank fee. This works out to be about the same fee amount as the same relative Travelers Cheques fees, and a little more than Cheques if you make more frequent, smaller amount withdrawals. Overall, my banker was impressed with the idea and said she would suggest it to future travelers.

For me, the slightly extra fee amount is worth the convenience and not worrying about what happens if that card gets nicked.

How do you travel with money? Wad it up and go? Trade your farming skills for transportation? Travelers’ Cheques? What do you think about the improvised Traveler’s Debit Card?

Goodbye For Now, Until Things Change

March 16th, 2010 § 3

Goodbye for Now, Until Things Change

The decision to leave one home for another due to the political direction of their country, some expatriates in Honduras find a new community floating in the Caribbean.

Politics have the tendency of bringing people together even as they push them apart. Dinner parties unconsciously arranged to include friends of similar political views are suddenly split when someone introduces a significantly different point of view. “Us” and “them” are soon realized when the host rises to clean the dishes, accompanied by close friends, who busily whisper incredulities above the dishwater. At the same time, the insurrectionist receives a short, surreptitious nod from a confederate seated across the table. I’m with you. Sorbet, thank you very much, and have a nice evening.

For communities of expatriates all around the world, there are myriad reasons for leaving one country for another, from broken homes to bankruptcy, but very often politics is the foundation for the split from their past. Many of the transplanted left their country and formed groups nested within global communities that share their ideals. Some live in Jordan to surround themselves in a community that opposes the USA’s position of support for Israel. Missionaries in Uganda are drawn by the strong Pentecostalism as a base for turning hearts to Christianity. For Roatan and Utila, small caribbean islands located off the northern coast of Honduras, political differences seem to be the foundation upon which stands the commonly declared “living the dream” motif of island life.

Most of the islands’ population share the mainland Honduran and Central American view of the Capitalist American focused on materialism and power. An interesting compromise of capitalism, many of the expatriates of Roatan and Utila are all too willing to agree that the capitalist system is broken, despite figuratively sailing beneath its colors. Many will even ride their five-thousand dollar dingies from their one-hundred thousand dollar yachts to shore to grab a beer and agree with the locals–the Western system is broken. In the paradisiacal caribbean waters off the coast of Honduras, one is tempted to subscribe to this mentality, iif disliking a political system means life this nice and a breeze this gentle.

A weathered man named Doug was sitting at the dock in the mainland city of La Ceiba, Honduras, waiting for a friend to arrive from Utila.

“You can’t really get right from Utila to Roatan anymore–got to take the ferry to the mainland, and then the ferry to the other island.” He said, reclining against a wood slat bench in the dock station. “I’ve known this guy for years, so it’s worth the effort, though.”

He wore black shorts and a light blue collared shirt that appeared to be cut specifically to be unbuttoned at the top, revealing his salt and pepper chest hair blooming atop heavily suntanned skin, which creased prominently in Doug’s laugh lines. He wore his bucket hat with the side flaps pulled up, allowing his course, salt washed hair to reach out and down from his cap at wild angles. He was energetic and liked to interject a quick laugh into nearly finished thoughts. The entire presentation gave him the presence of a man anywhere between 45 and 60 years of age.

Originally from a picturesque small town in Montana 100 miles from the Canadian border, Doug conceded that he had more or less traded one paradise for another when he moved to Roatan. “I figure why bother living in hell while I am alive when I’m going to be headed there soon enough.” he said with a raspy laugh.

Doug explained that In the years following World War II, Americans lost sight of what is important and started focusing on material wealth. He explained that the last president he could tolerate was Jimmy Carter, mainly because of his emphasis on contentment.

“He had the idea that nobody would have enough until Americans realized what enough was.” Doug said. But by the time of his presidency, the Doug had already made up his mind to leave the country.

“I had been thinking about doing it for a while” he said with an island induced languor that turned to a flick of anger, “but as soon as Ronny Fucking Reagan took office, I was out of there.” So he packed few possessions, and moved to Roatan, bought a sailboat, and has been living on it for the past 15 years, sailing around the Caribbean.

“I still love America. I go back there every year, when the hurricanes come around.” he lets slip a burst of laughter. ” I see my kids and family. But here I don’t have be be a part of the system. It’s all about things up there. Here, so many of us don’t worry about getting more than we need.

“And I really hope things get better in America. I’m happy here, though. And my son just turned 18, so he’ll be coming down to live and sail with me for a year. We get all of our food from the sea and from uncharted islands. I couldn’t ask for more.”

He stood and went to meet his friend, on the way passing a younger man who immediately took Doug’s place on the bench. Wearing a tattoo on the outside of his left calf of a spear fisherman in the old diving bell outfit, he advertised his love for the sea even before mentioning it.

“I’ve been diving and spearfishing for my entire life. My whole family is full of mechanics and spear fishermen like me.” he said, commenting on the slightly patinated artwork.

Raised just outside of New Orleans, 24-year Andrew Leleux embodied the big easy feeling, complete with an effortless smile and a ready laugh. His bright aquamarine eyes cased a playfulness common to ‘Nawlins. A boat mechanic for the past 8 years, he has been constantly involved in water based activities for almost his entire life, going now to Utila to become a SCUBA diving instructor.

“I used to spend a lot of time in the Gulf of Mexico free diving for food. An afternoon of fish is plenty for the whole family. And when I lived in St. Croix, I would go spear fishing just about everyday. Catch me some big ‘ol Snappers.” he said, smoothing out syllables with a bayou cadence. “Just decided that I should become a SCUBA instructor so I can work a job that lets me travel and that I like.”

Other than spending some time in the Pacific Northwest, Andrew had lived most of his life in New Orleans. His brief jaunt to the British Virgin Island of St. Croix a year ago was spurred by his discontent with the way the USA represented to him greedy capitalism. But he was equally disgusted by the abusive fishing and diving practices, as well as the hate between the native St. Crucians and the business owners, so Andrew moved back to the USA after one year. He quickly found that he was still looking to escape what he saw as greed of the political system in the USA. He decided to work day and night to get back out of the States.

“It wasn’t easy, y’know? I mean, my family and I are really tight-knit. My mom called to say goodbye, and just cried it out through the phone. Had to be quick like that, because it was so hard. But I just can’t be in the states right now. I guess it is just everything with the war, but also the constant stress on buying things. I fish to feed myself, not to drive an industry.”

When informed about Doug, Andrew smiled. “Man, I wish I would have met him. He sounds like a really cool guy. Maybe I’ll run into him sometime.”

In the small island communities such as Roatan and Utila, it is likely that Doug and Andrew will run into each other and be able to discuss their own specific politick of departing the USA. Doug, sagacious and experienced, and Andrew, the apprentice taking up the mantel for future generations of kindred spirits scattered from their countries’ political ideals, coming together while they wait for things in the USA to get better.

Valentine’s Day and My Mountain School Studies

February 14th, 2010 § 1

Photo Credit: Carolineoncrack.com

On this, auspicious of all days in February, I would like to throw out a few quick quotes on Love.

Love is the only Gold ~Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson is one of those poets that I cannot seem to escape. His strong victorian monologue, perfect punctuation, and use of language have been inspiring me for years. Of course, this particularly quote can be assigned to probably millions of people over the years, but I remember hearing this quote for the first time from a teacher with a strong Brooklyn accent (erstwhile unfamiliar to me)–so it fell upon my ears as “Love is the only God”. ~Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Memorable for the reverence we should have for Love.

Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido ~ Pablo Neruda (from the poem of the same name)

“Love is so short, and forgetting is so long”

Recently I have been reading Pablo Neruda, perhaps my favorite Spanish speaking poet. I love how sad this line is, but today it stands out to me because I think that Love is also long, and long in remembrance. Let’s bear a legacy of love that is beautiful in brevity, as well as strong in it’s staying power.

Maybe I’m just getting all saccharine today.

Happy Valentine’s Day to all, and spread the Love!

I will be heading to a school in the mountains of Guatemala for the next 2-3 weeks, and will only have sporadic internet access. So please accept my advanced apologies for any delayed responses.