Motorways and Tramlines: 2006

Here´s the thing: I have about 5 new articles that I want to post, but I can´t because I just don´t have time to type them up. And then I have another, oh, 15, articles that I will write. Sometime. Really.

But not now. Way too busy. People, you have to understand. I´ve got things going on. People to see, deals to seal and all that.

Quick and dirty:

- After Todos Santos / San Cristobal, I studied in Xela for another week.

- For the last two weeks I´ve been studying at the Mountain School, which is a sister school of the one here in Xela.

- I´m done studying now because I know Spanish perfectly. Eeees lah veardad.

- Over the next week I´ll be winding my way up to Tikal to marvel at how high people could pile rocks back in the day. (Kurt Vonnegut´s theory? That there was less gravity back then, so people just tossed huge stones around like they were pillows. Sounds smart to me.)

- Week after that I´ll be in Belize doing heaven only knows what. Probably swimming and getting malaria.

- December 12 I´ll be back in Michigan eating absurd amounts of incredibly unhealthy food. Happy Birthday Jesus, now pass me the yule-tide bacon-wrapped mayonnaise pie.

New photos are up! I´ll post more about these fun times (and honestly, it has been an AMAZING two weeks) over Christmas. In the meantime, you can look at the photos and make up your own story about what occurred. Hint: almost all of the photos sets started with a game of truth or dare. Enjoy.

Oh, all right. I´ll give some real hints.

Mountain School Miscellaneous - pictures of the school, a rather impressive set of pictorial instructions, a Marimba, our school won the soccer tourney against a couple other teams from Xela! youth activity night, various people and teachers.

The People and Land Near the Mountain School - soooooo, this is a bunch of pictures about the people and land near the mountain school.

Santiaguito - a mountain near the school that keeps blowing up. Predawn hike to see sunrise. More on the volcano here.

Mountain School - 1st Host Family - Juan, Cecilia, Marie Esperanza, a couple of little kids that I don't recognize, and PUPPIES! And two kittens! One was named Snoopy! And four chicks! They´re all friends! It´s like Noah´s ark!

San Alfonso Women´s Collective - a bunch of very strong women sticking together to survive in a fairly hostile environment. Photos of weaving, traditional dances, my family, I slept on a board in a shed, playing soccer with the boys, pictures of people, and where chocolate comes from.

Mountain School - 2nd Host Family - Lesbia is the Grandmum of Berenice (5) and Marie (4.) I played tag with the girls every morning after breakfast. And more puppies! Rocky, and Paulusa. Get this, Rocky was the name of not one, but TWO of the dogs I had when I was a child! And if you don´t think this set has some of the cutest pictures you've ever seen, I´ll fight you.

Purdy Flowers - I know none of you care, but I am still adding pictures here too. I´m just saying.

Gotta roll. Will try to post over the next couple of weeks.

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One (Stupid) Way To Show You Care

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The Road to Todos Santos - 10.30.2006

The market at Terminal Minerva was overflowing. Children carried thick bundles of crimson leaves and plopped them next to piles of marigolds that were beginning to rot. People were scrambling everywhere, buying food and flowers for the Day of the Dead. The flowers would be used to decorate the graves of family members, to welcome their spirits as they returned to the world of the living. The food would be used to nourish them.

For 20 minutes we pressed through the 300-yard long market before we finally reached the bus station on the other side. Somewhere along the way a pickpocket relieved me of 180 Quetzales.

We sat three to a seat on the bus to Huehuetenango. The middle-aged man who sat closest to the isle struggled to stay seated as the bus careened around drastic curves.

At the turnoff to San Fransisco the traffic slowed and then stopped. Everyone in the bus stood to see what was going on. There was a crowd at the intersection. The man and I decided that it was some sort of protest. Then a few police trucks and motorcycles pushed through the crowd and we realized that it was the Tour de Guatemala.

The lead cyclist was out of his saddle and pushing hard on the climb, and my guess is that he was in the early stages of his break. He seemed to be breathing easily despite the thick diesel exhaust of the escort trucks. One minute later the chase group appeared with only three riders. They were in their saddles and struggling to stay in formation. The peloton was three minutes behind the leader, but pushing quickly, and I suspect that in the end the escapees were swallowed on the long descent.

The support vehicles rolled past, and traffic inched forward on the three roads. It took us 10 minutes to nudge our way through the tangle, and just as we did the final cyclist struggled past us. He was fighting the cars for space on the road after being abandoned by the race´s escorts.

We arrived in Huehuetenango at lunchtime and by 1 pm we were aboard a new bus departing for Todos Santos. Again, we road three abreast. It was a beautiful, convoluted, slithering haul over the mountain pass and it was easy to see why the road is famous for it´s catastrophic accidents.

Our barker was middle-aged, fairly handsome, and lecherous. He asked every woman we passed if they wanted a ride, and then he winked at them and game them a sleazy smile.

The barker and most of the passengers were wearing the same getup: a white shirt with purple stripes and a thick embroidered color of red and purple and green thread; red pants with white and blue stripes; a straw hat with a purple and red band. This is the traditional uniform for residents of Todos Santos, and it is one reason that the village is famous. The other villages have either changed or abandoned their traditional cloth patterns after centuries of exposure to foreigners but the residents of Todos are still using the same patterns they have used for as long as history has recorded.

Todos Santos is also famous for:

- The horse race on All Saints´ Day

- Poverty

- Drunkenness

- And, I believe, for seeing some brutal battles with the government during the war.

We wove up and over a ridge, and then settled into an alpine plateau that was wide, and nearly treeless, and lonely. The dark afternoon clouds were settling in. Rows of red flowers perched on long stalks, marking the raised boundaries of fields and lanes. Groups of children kept watch over flocks of dirty sheep near the clusters of houses that served as villages.

A man in the back of the bus called for us to stop at a concrete hut nearby. He came forward as we slowed and stepped down towards the open door. A girl maybe 4 years old trotted from the house and handed him a few coins to pay his fare as well as a small bundle of food in a purple cloth. I couldn´t hear what he said to her before sending her scurrying back towards the house, but she was giggling as she turned back to wave at us.

From the plateau the road turned to dirt and dropped quickly into another valley. We ran directly into the bank of clouds that were rushing over the ridge that stood between them and Huehue. We could see the road, but not much else. I could smell our brakes burning. Somewhere a few thousand feet below us was Todos.

The town only has a few main streets, so it is not entirely surprising that within 5 minutes of our arrival we had encountered another group of friends in town for the festival. We all gathered for dinner at one of the few cafes in town. I had a not-bad omelet with tomatoes and onions.

An 11 year-old boy with a shirt that said ¨Boy Gang¨ made paper airplanes with one of our friends. Then he gave me his paper pirate hat in exchange for my Tigers cap. Immediately after the exchange, he ran to the railing of our patio and pretended to hurl the cap onto the roof of the house below us. I chased him around for a bit, running just slowly enough, before finally catching him in the midst of the tables. He had a small conniption as I tickled him, and he quickly agreed to forfeit his prize. He joined us at our table again, still laughing. When I asked him what his name was, he told me it was El Capitan.

The clouds were steadily dropping all afternoon and so the evening came rapidly. We took a walk in the falling light after supper. Sounds were muted in the mist, and for the first time in Guatemala I felt something approaching tranquility.

We followed a song up the hill and found three men playing a huge xylophone. Two drunk men were dancing in the street.

That night the town gathered in a tiny concrete gymnasium to crown Miss Todos Santos. The gym was nearly empty when we arrived. Another xylophone band was there. I learn that the xylophone is actually called a marimba. (Something new every day.) We listened to the marimba music as the gym slowly filled.

Then some ratbastard set off a heeeeuuuuge firecracker just outside the door, and I nearly filled my pants.

We were ready to start.

Fourteen young women gather at the back of the gym. One by one, they were introduced, and they slowly danced up to the stage.

Photos of the Road to Todos Santos
Photos of the Miss Todos Santos Pageant

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Tajumulco - 9.30.2006

We walk on a rolling dirt road through small Mayan farms for a quarter mile. Children peek out of the houses, and upon seeing our white skin they ask us for candy.

The road attempts a direct assault on the mountain, climbing straight up the steep slope. But within a few hundred yards it fails, and all that remains is a footpath that has sunk 16 inches below the sod. We walk in small gullies like this for most of the day.

Similar gullies cut the meadows all over the lower slopes and my guess was that they are cow paths. The guerrilla corrects me. They are the remains of footpaths left by farmers, who once grew wheat and potatoes here. The farmers have left now. The soil was only rich enough for two or three harvests, and then it was barren. Also, once the trees were removed, the soil was left to the mercy of heavy rains.

****

But there are, indeed, cows on the mountain, and at mid-morning we walk through a small herd. They are grazing in an upper meadow surrounded by a thin forest of scraggly pines. The herd is guarded by a sturdy older man wearing a checkered shirt and a white cowboy hat. He has a weathered, creased smile, and he tends to look at the ground. He holds a machete calmly in his right hand. Occasionally he rests it lightly, blade up, on his right shoulder. He reminds me of my Grandfather.

When he sees us approach, he slowly moves the herd uphill, using a series of casual threats and encouragements. One cow refuses to move until the man slaps her stiffly on the rump with the broad side of his machete.

The herd ambles into the trees above the meadow, and soon I lose sight of them. Still, for the next few minutes I can hear him calling to them.

****

The guerrilla and I wait there with a few other hikers for the rest of the group to catch up. It is cold and misty, and we quickly put on jackets and hats to ward off the chill. The meadow is slightly above the clouds that sift through the mountains. There is a sturdy breeze from the southeast that rapidly carries forward new clouds, and pushes out the old.

From time to time the clouds break apart, and I can see the valley below us and the ridge beyond it. Small towns hide in hollows of the ridge, and garden plots measure out each family´s share of the lower slopes. Reddish brown scars mark the many places where roads slice across the hillsides.

****

The others arrive and we settle down to a quick lunch. The Danes eat hard-boiled eggs. The guides scooped spoonfuls of avocado from their husks. I eat banana bread and handfuls of granola.

****

Our other guide is the guerrilla´s father, Pedro. He´s a chuckling, winky old man with big teeth that are frequently unveiled by happy grins. My guess is that he´s the kind of Grandpa who knows how to give a heck of a horsey ride to his grand kids.

During the war, Pedro was kidnapped by the Government, imprisoned in a hole in the ground, and tortured for 15 days. He was allowed to live so he could serve as a warning to the village. It took him two years to recuperate.

Today, his job is to walk behind us to make sure none of the slower hikers get left behind.

****

The guerrilla, of course, leads our caravan. In his left hand he carries a small radio from which flows a steady stream of Latin pop songs.

****

When we start hiking again, I drift to the rear of the pack to find new people to talk to. This is a good decision, for soon I get to see one of the Danes stick her hand in a cow pie while she struggles to keep her balance.

Then I too slip a little bit. Pedro laughs and tells me I almost ´bought it´. I tell him that in the States we use the phrase ´bought the farm.´ He says it´s the same basic idea. That gets me thinking about funny sayings, and so I ask a friend if her family took any funny proverbs over to America when they immigrated from India. She says that her mom used to warn her that if she kept kicking her brother, God would curse her by putting worms in her feet.

We walk in silence for a bit.

Then I tell her that as far as I can tell, the best phrase ever born of the English language is ´...(he fell) ass over teakettle.´

****

The guerrilla leads us to a small peninsula on the ridge we are traversing. Below us is a valley we haven`t seen yet, and on the valley floor is a village. In that village, the guerrilla tells us, 80 unarmed men were rounded up by the government and massacred for aiding the movement.

He then talks about the military importance of this mountain - a dormant volcano, actually - and of the firefights that took place here, and there, and there. The guerrillas had a radio on the mountain, and from here they were able to broadcast all they way down to Argentina, because the summit is the highest point in Central America.

He talks a bit about other villages being destroyed by the government. In one village, the men were locked in the church. The women were separated from the children. The women were raped and then shot. Then the children were disemboweled. Then the men were shot.

He points to a distant ridge where he served as a guerrilla and promises to tell us more when we reach camp. Then he leads us back to the path.

As we fall in line behind him, he flips on his radio again. On comes Kylie Minogue singing ´´Can´t Get You Out Of My Head.´´ The guerrilla starts grinning like crazy, and pretends to dance a little. A few Danes follow his lead and start singing boisterously.

A couple of us look back toward the village, but the wind has carried in a new bank of clouds and it has disappeared.

If I had to guess, I´d say that we were probably 1,000 meters above it.

****

After battling all morning long, the sun finally succumbs to the clouds around noon, and the afternoon becomes frigid and dark. We are inside the clouds when we reached our camp, and the mist and the wind only make things worse. I´m already wearing all of the clothes I brought, so I hop around to stay warm.

After our tents are up, the guerrilla gathers us around to talk more about the war. His father, meanwhile, hacks the dead limbs off trees with his machete. Everything is wet but soon he coerces a smokey fire from the timber.

****

The guerrilla was 18 years old when he joined the movement. He fought for five years before the peace accords were signed. While in the field he was allowed two hours of sleep per day. His bed was a single sheet of canvas. He was allowed two meals per day - each meal was a small cup of rice that he would boil on a fire no bigger than a pancake.

When firefights would break out and he would have to go for as many as five days with no food or sleep at all. The biggest fight he was in was near Zunil. He was one of 75 guerrillas engaged in a running battle with more than 1,000 government soldiers. This was in 1995.

We shudder as he tells us about washing his clothes in the winter. He had to put them back on while they were still wet, because he couldn't risk lighting a fire to dry them.

He briefly mentions losing friends in the war, but doesn´t go into detail about it.

****

We gather around the fire for supper. The guides place boiled potatoes and tamales on the coals to warm them up. The guerrilla offers me a bit of potato, and I give him some cheese in return.

In Guatemala all of the trash, including plastic and metal, is burned. There is no point carrying it back to Xela. We throw it on the fire, and then hold our breath until the flames are no longer green.

****

It is too cold to sleep comfortably, and I don´t have a sleeping pad, so my night is nothing by a series of 15-minute naps. At 4:30am I awake to the sound of two nasally tenors bleating about godonlyknowswhat. It is the guerrilla´s radio. This is his way of telling us to get ready for the predawn hike to the summit.

As I pull on my shoes I notice that there is ice on the outside of the tent.

At the fire, the guerrilla is cheery. He says he really only needs about an hour of sleep to be ready for the day, and last night he got four.

****

The Danes are slow getting ready, and we start late. It is difficult to find footing among the loose rocks by flashlight, but the guerrilla is impatient and walks quickly up the slope. Soon he is far ahead of us. When we can no longer see his flashlight, we follow the sound of the merengue music that floats from his radio.

A few of the stronger hikers separate from the others and catch the guerrilla. We ask him to wait for the others. Their flashlights snake up the slope toward us as we sit and rest.

****

From here we can see the lights from all the towns around the volcano. White street lights in Guatemala. Red lights in Mexico. I´m reminded of my descent into London - looking out the window of my plane, seeing all of the chaos as it is coerced into orderly, luminescent rows. But here the lights are not organized into battalions. Here they are more fluid, following the shape of the ridges.

We talk to the guide a bit. He says that 10 years ago, he could never have imaged tourists walking on this mountain. At that point it was hard for him to imagine anything but war. Then he talks about how beautiful it is up here and how nice the air is.

****

We reach the crater and the wind is insistent, nearly violent. The sun is not up yet as we circle the crater to reach the summit. The path is very narrow, but I think a fall would be survivable. We are about 14,000 feet above sea level. We are well above the clouds. It is freezing.

The rest of our group arrives and finally Pedro appears. He has a long green bath towel tied around his head, babushka style. He is wearing two pairs of jeans, but the waist on the outer pair isn´t big enough so it goes unbuttoned, held in place only by his leather belt. He holds a purple and white checkered blanket around his shoulders.

As usual, he is happy, almost giddy. He points out to me the town where he lives.

****

The sun comes up, and the shadow of our mountain is cast well into the Chiapas of Mexico. It is a black pyramid that seems to me to be hundreds of miles long.

****

We prepare to return.

The guerrilla is ecstatic. The volcano gives him energy, he says. He flexes his arms like a superhero, fists by his ears.

He pauses on the edge of the crater for a few moments, letting us pass. A gaudy song by Shakira bounces out of his radio. He watches as we descend slowly, picking our way among the loose stones.

Then suddenly he howls like a wolf and hurtles down the slope, leaping from rock to rock. As he rushes past us, he is laughing like a child.

Photos of Tajumulco

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Electricity

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San Fransisco - 9.22.2006

The first thing I see as I step off the bus is a flock of turkeys resting quietly, almost comfortably, under the weight of a cargo net.

One block up the hill the market begins and from this distance it is difficult to distinguish individual objects. I´m not going to be flowery here. It simply looks like a bag of Skittles blew up.

At first, Noah and I stick with the guerrilla, but soon he loses us in the crowd and we are alone. We walk uphill.

There are handwoven textiles everywhere we look. The colors are almost too much for the fabric - 15, 20 different shades on a single cut. I find myself drawn to the simpler patterns. I ask a man how much he wants for a 20x5 foot section of thick dark green cloth. He tells me 200 Q ($32.) That´s the pre-bargaining price for gringos. My guess is that I could get it for half of that.

It is difficult to walk. There are too many people. (Some say this is the biggest market in all of Central America.) A Mayan woman and her child brush past us. With one hand, they steady the baskets on their heads. With the other they nudge their way through the crowd. In the mother´s basket a chicken rests quietly under a net. My guess is that the child is 10 years old. In her basket she carries a bushel or so of vegetables. She has a hard time keeping up with her mom because she keeps turning around to stare at me.

Just behind them, a women drags a disgruntled pig on the end of a stout rope.

At the top of the hill we find a collection of butchers. In each shop hang hind quarters of cows. The hide has been removed and the meat is now purple. On a small table in front of one shop the lower portions of a cows legs lie side by side. The hooves have not been removed. Neither has the hide, and it is a creamy yellow, like unripe corn.

At the top of the hill we reach a collection of vegetable sellers. Over the next 30 yards or so are piles of potatoes, beans bananas, plantains, small onions, and, and, and.

We turn from the vegetables, and immediately encounter rows of fake American jeans and shirts. And there are piles of fake gold chains with fake gold crosses.

And then there is a weathered old man selling hats. His skin is a deep coffee color, but somehow it has a silver sheen to it. Like a lot of older Guatemalans, several of his front teeth are capped in gold. He grins when I approach his booth. I ask him for a tiny hat to fit my tiny head. He laughs and picks one out of his pile. It fits perfectly. I look like an idiot. He protests as I walk away, and I try to tell him that it´s not the hat´s fault. It doesn´t make him any happier.

We make our way back to the bus.

In one alley, we spot a barber carefully trimming a man´s sideburns with a straight razor.

Photos of San Fransisco

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Microbus

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The Danes

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Scrabble - 9.21.2006

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A New Vocabulary Word For You

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A New Vocabulary Word For Me

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Central Park Parade - 9.21.2006

The crowd was building when I arrived at the central park. Thousands of school girls lined the streets, wearing uniforms: white, knee-high socks, blue/green checkered skirts, white shirts, and blue vests. On a couple side streets small bands where measuring out dirges with their drums.

The local police were present in their black uniforms. Regular army soldiers stood discretely in the corners of the park.

The fireworks began at the south end of the park - not big explosions with lots of colors, just the small ones that sound like gunshots. Several hundred thousand exploded, nonstop, for the next six and a half minutes.

The parade crawled up the west street, in front of the Catholic Church. At the center of the parade, schoolgirls carried a heavy platform on their shoulders. On the platform stood a wooden statue of the Virgin Mary. She was 5 feet tall, and she wore a golden royal crown. Around her shoulders was a thick royal cape, rose red, with massive gold embroidered flowers. She held Jesus, of course. He had a halo made of gold that made him look like a tiny, pale version of the statue of liberty. The mother and child swayed back and forth, to the beat of drums, as the schoolgirls who carried them waddled forward.

The girls walked slowly over a massive sign composed of either colored dirt or sawdust. I couldn’t see what it said, but it was a golden yellow with red writing and there were lots of blues and greens too. The sign was probably 35 yards long and 10 yards wide.

The bands seemed to be competing, and the music became mushed. Behind me was an ice cream vendor who, in an attempt to attract costumers, was creating his own rhythm with a small bell.

Mary swayed past me up the hill - past the McDonalds - towards a building, 30 yards distant, which advertised a breakfast buffet every Sunday.

Behind Mary were a couple dozen people, most of them carrying umbrellas for shade. The afternoon rains hadn’t yet arrived.

Flanking the whole procession were priests in white. With them were dark indigenous women who wearing white dresses with bright golden fabric on the shoulders.

A man approached the statue with a plastic bag filled with flower petals. He tossed handfuls of petals onto Mary with the same underhanded motion that old men use when they feed bread crumbs to pigeons.

A woman walked in front of Mary wearing a beautiful Mayan dress. She had a clay pot filled with burning coals. It smelled like cedar. Waves of smoke passed over the crowd and the Madonna.

Other women are walking forward too, with lace covered bowls, which held large white candles.

After Mary passed, some of the crowd drifted away.

Suddenly the music was clear, and a song that sounded like Taps emerged. The notes slowly ascended and then descended.

Then cacophony returned, and remained as the children’s band slowly filed past. Their leader was 12 years old. She had a long wooden staff rather than a baton. She moved rhythmically, but jerkily, like a marionette. Every so often she lost the rhythm. Then she would pause and look behind her, waiting for the music to clarify a little. When the beat became clear, she would begin conducting again.

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Chicken Bus To Zunil - 9.19.2006

A ´chicken bus´ is just a regular American school bus, but with one heck of a paint job. Usually lots of red and green stripes. Sometimes there is chrome on the windows.

Inside, the bus is normal except instead of school children there are dozen of Mayans and Ladinos. Dresses with a thousand colors and lots of cowboy hats.

I don´t think the buses are equipped with shocks. Probably no struts either. In their place lives a clan of gnomes with sledge hammers. Their only joy in life is whacking the bus floor just as the passengers are starting to get comfortable.

Occasionally the drivers do wheelies and hit jumps and such.

*****

Today’s bus took us to Zunil, and to San Simon. We rode through beautiful farms, broken into small (family?) plots that ascend from the valley floor to the middle of the ridges. Corn, cabbages, radishes and all kinds of other vegetables jump from hillsides that require two free hands to climb. If you fell, it would be a good 6 or 7 rolls before you could figure out how to stop yourself.

Zunil is famous for its vegetables. The soil here is deep red with a black feeling.

*****

There are 5 San Simons in Guatemala. Zunil has one. He is about 5 feet tall and made entirely of wood. Today, San Simon was wearing work boots, blue jeans, a nice blue button down shirt, a matching tie, a dark jacket, a neck warmer, dark aviator glasses, a red bandanna, and a cowboy hat. Around his neck hung a beautiful satchel, and by his right (mittened) hand was a walking cane.

San Simon is somewhere between a scarecrow and the title character from A Weekend At Bernie’s.

In front of San Simon burned hundreds of candles that have been lit by worshipers. Each candle color corresponds to a different problem that San Simon is asked to solve. Blue for love, White for health, etc.

When we visited the sanctuary - a family’s concrete garage – there were 10 or so worshippers. They sat on benches that lined the walls. They were silent and still, except when they rose to sprinkle rum around their candles.

One Mayan woman nursed her child.

One Ladino man poured a little rum on his fingers, and then flicked it over his candles.

One Mayan woman’s cell phone rang. Her ring tone was the Hokey Pokey.

Worshippers bring gifts to San Simon: clothes for him to wear, various kinds of food, and today he received a 2 liter bottle of Pepsi. San Simon’s mouth is frozen into a permanent yawn, and occasionally his caretakers pour food down his throat.

*****

On our way back to the bus stop, we briefly visited the town’s massive Catholic Church, which was founded in 1730 or so. The original cross is still there too, behind bars with the other valuables. The cross is made of gold and stands probably 10 feet tall. Everything is covered with thick dust.

In front of the cross burned dozens of candles. The church’s lone worshipper sat silently in the front pew.

*****

Our tour guide for this trip was a guerrilla for 5 years before the current peace accords were signed. For 5 years, no one knew his real name, and he did not know the real names of the others. That way, if one of them was captured, he couldn't rat out the others.

One of my friends here wondered how our guide had the will to change from a civilian to a guerrilla, and live in the mountains like that for 5 years. I figured the bigger question was how he could find his way back his first life.

*****

The guerrilla dozed off on the trip back to Xela. The bus picked up Mayan women at every stop until we reached a certain point mid trip where they all departed, pouring off the bus like spilled paint. Each of them slipped past the large wooden crucifix that was mounted to the dashboard.

Photos of Zunil

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Motorways and Tramlines

Parade for the Virgin

Photos Finally Culled

Videos!

Home Sweet Home

Swimming in Water 11.28.2006

Walking on Lava - 11.26.2006

Holy Toledo, It´s Almost Christmas

One (Stupid) Way To Show You Care

The Road to Todos Santos - 10.30.2006

Central Park Parade, Take 2 - 10.29.2006

Off to Todos Santos

And a Good Morning to You As Well - 9.28.2006

The Emptiest of Feelings - 9.27.2006

Transport

Bye-Bye Bratwurst - 10.7.2006

Fun Things To Do On Your Motorcycle

Gin

Bratwurst - 10.4.2006

Tajumulco - 9.30.2006

Electricity

San Fransisco - 9.22.2006

Microbus

The Danes

Scrabble - 9.21.2006

A New Vocabulary Word For You

A New Vocabulary Word For Me

Central Park Parade - 9.21.2006

Chicken Bus To Zunil - 9.19.2006

Two Jokes - 9.19.2006

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