20 January 2008
Great News
The book that first interested me in mathematics, A Mathematician's Apology, is part of the public domain in Canada and is available online in its entirety thanks to the University of Alberta. Read it if you've the time. If you haven't the time, quit your job.
07 December 2007
what's love got to do with it?
Love is differnt here. In a guidebook I read that if you want to tell somebody that you love them then you had better have a ring in hand and be ready to start a large family. I'm having a somewhat difficult time with this. I tell my friends that I love them, and I mean it. I find that I'm constantly thinking things like "no, I really enjoy camping, but I don't want to give people the wrong idea about why I like sleeping outdoors". It is hard to edit out our American idioms when trying to speak en Español. One morning at breakfast Ben tried to tell our host father that the food was delicious. Instead he looked Micho square in the eyes and said: "I love you, Beans". Everyone involved was deeply embarrassed, both because of what amounts to a taboo against discussing love here, and because Ben thought Micho's name was Beans. Despite the seriousness of the term, or maybe because of it, the song "I want to know what love is" plays nearly constantly here in the shops and cafes. It's a confusing concept, love.
short, sweet, distinct
Today is my sixteenth afternoon in Xela and the final day of my second week of language school. I've fallen back into the very familiar habit of spending a lot of time studying in a single coffee shop, but it's different here. I'm using more notecards now than I ever did in Anchorage.
In the bathroom of the aforementioned Xela coffe shop is a sign that reads as follows:
I'm not sure if building codes exist in Guatemala, but if they do they say nothing about standardized lightswitch placement. Every room is different. I have used bathrooms with light fixtures but no switch that I could find and have had to feel my way about. That's no fun in any bathroom.
In the bathroom of the aforementioned Xela coffe shop is a sign that reads as follows:
Please when it
uses the
sanatarium it
to tosses water.
This is a nice looking sign that somebody took time to create, laminate, and hang over the urinal.uses the
sanatarium it
to tosses water.
I'm not sure if building codes exist in Guatemala, but if they do they say nothing about standardized lightswitch placement. Every room is different. I have used bathrooms with light fixtures but no switch that I could find and have had to feel my way about. That's no fun in any bathroom.
27 November 2007
Xela what?
Holy cow, today is the 7th day that I've been in Guatemala. I've become pretty familiar with Xela, Zona 1 anyway, but it is still very much foreign to me. Perhaps if I spoke the language I wouldn't feel like such an outsider, but I doubt it. After all, I am in Guatemala.
We spent last Wednesday night in the entirely unremarkable tourist town named Panajachel, know to the locals as "Gringotenango". We hadn't intended to stop there, but our driver, after assuring us that she knew where she was going, missed our turn and didn't want to turn around so late in the day. That was probably wise of her; I've read that it's not terribly safe to travel at night in the mountains here. In Panajachel it seemed that there were at least as many Europeans and Americans as there were Guatemalans.
After a few hours in the car we were finally in Qetzaltenango. During the entire trip down Ben and I had been trying to figure out how we could split from Joan without offending her or leaving her stranded, so it came as a welcome surprise when Joan asked where she could drop us off. It seems that Joan was as tired of us as we were of her. Perfect. After an awkward goodbye, during which we both tried, and failed, to sound like we'd had a good time and hoped to run into each other during our travels, we split from Joan. If you'd like more info, some dirt or gossip about the whole Joan affair, you'll have to email me or wait until we meet in the future.
Once freed we walked around Xela for a few hours and then checked into a hostel. This was my first hostel experience. There we met other travelers from around the globe, took cold showers, and went to a disco. This was also my first disco experience. I thought that the night couldn't get any weirder when I saw Ben on stage dancing with 5 or 6 other people. I was wrong, and it ended with me hearing a swarthy local fellow say to one of the girls from our hostel "I am the coffee and you are the milk and after we dance we should drink each other". That's one hell of a language barrier.
We're no longer at the hostel. We spent the weekend visiting a St Alphonso, a cooperative coffee plantation started by women who had been displaced to Mexico during Guatemala's unbelievably brutal civil war. The land where their village had been was given away because all of the inhabitants were killed or had fled, so when they returned these women were relocated to a different part of Guatemala where nobody speaks their indigenous language. It's a terrible situation but they seem to be doing alright. That is, alright compared to the rampant poverty that is common in rural Guatemala.
Now we're with a host family, are attending the Kie Balam language school, and I've gotten sick from eating street food. To be clear, I'm not trying to disparage street food, because I've eaten lots of it since I've been in the C.A. and have only had this one instance of trouble. Eat street food, just don't eat street corn that was cooked on a grill and allowed to cool for an hour in a pile of similar ears of corn. Learn from my mistake.
Quetzaltenango = Xelahu = Xela. It's a long story that involves Spaniards, battles, birds, and linguistic laziness.
We spent last Wednesday night in the entirely unremarkable tourist town named Panajachel, know to the locals as "Gringotenango". We hadn't intended to stop there, but our driver, after assuring us that she knew where she was going, missed our turn and didn't want to turn around so late in the day. That was probably wise of her; I've read that it's not terribly safe to travel at night in the mountains here. In Panajachel it seemed that there were at least as many Europeans and Americans as there were Guatemalans.
After a few hours in the car we were finally in Qetzaltenango. During the entire trip down Ben and I had been trying to figure out how we could split from Joan without offending her or leaving her stranded, so it came as a welcome surprise when Joan asked where she could drop us off. It seems that Joan was as tired of us as we were of her. Perfect. After an awkward goodbye, during which we both tried, and failed, to sound like we'd had a good time and hoped to run into each other during our travels, we split from Joan. If you'd like more info, some dirt or gossip about the whole Joan affair, you'll have to email me or wait until we meet in the future.
Once freed we walked around Xela for a few hours and then checked into a hostel. This was my first hostel experience. There we met other travelers from around the globe, took cold showers, and went to a disco. This was also my first disco experience. I thought that the night couldn't get any weirder when I saw Ben on stage dancing with 5 or 6 other people. I was wrong, and it ended with me hearing a swarthy local fellow say to one of the girls from our hostel "I am the coffee and you are the milk and after we dance we should drink each other". That's one hell of a language barrier.
We're no longer at the hostel. We spent the weekend visiting a St Alphonso, a cooperative coffee plantation started by women who had been displaced to Mexico during Guatemala's unbelievably brutal civil war. The land where their village had been was given away because all of the inhabitants were killed or had fled, so when they returned these women were relocated to a different part of Guatemala where nobody speaks their indigenous language. It's a terrible situation but they seem to be doing alright. That is, alright compared to the rampant poverty that is common in rural Guatemala.
Now we're with a host family, are attending the Kie Balam language school, and I've gotten sick from eating street food. To be clear, I'm not trying to disparage street food, because I've eaten lots of it since I've been in the C.A. and have only had this one instance of trouble. Eat street food, just don't eat street corn that was cooked on a grill and allowed to cool for an hour in a pile of similar ears of corn. Learn from my mistake.
Quetzaltenango = Xelahu = Xela. It's a long story that involves Spaniards, battles, birds, and linguistic laziness.
23 November 2007
some details about being threatened with a pistol
A few posts in the past I mentioned that we had been threatened, and I described this encounter as having been fun. I'd like to give a few more details now.
Ben and I were in Lafayette for four days and three nights. We didn't stay so long intentionally, but because southwest Louisiana is lousy for hitchhikers. On our third day in town we resigned ourselves to spending the money on bus tickets to Shreveport. After one of several unsuccessful attempts to buy a ticket at the Baton Rouge - Shreveport price instead of the more expensive Lafayette - Shreveport price ($30 more for 75 fewer miles on the same bus!) we wandered outside and to the corner where we griped about Greyhound and how they've not done well for me.
While we spoke a man poked his head between the spaces on the large picket fence surrounding the nearest house. He asked if we were doing alright, and we replied that we were. He then said something else that I didn't understand, but caused Ben to approach the fence. He and Ben quietly mumbled at each other for a few minutes during which I couldn't understand what was being said. Ben then stepped back and had that frustrated, "I've just had a stupid argument" look that became so familiar to those us of that lived or spent much time in the Arkansas House.
I looked from Ben to the other mumbler who then began making faces at me. For about one second each he held different variations on the classic top-lip-puffed-with-air funny face. I was laughing a little, but was confused because Ben's not one to get frustrated by funny faces. "What, you can't hear what I'm asking?" the man asked me. I stammered for a minute and wondered whether there existed some sort of ASL-like face language that had somehow avoided my attention. After another minute of confusion, during which I tried to explain that I didn't know what he was asking and he kept asking whether I understood, the man had had enough.
Once again he pushed his face between two fence posts and made another variation of the same funny face. When he let the air out of his lip he said "you'll probably understand if I ask you with my pistol, right". It wasn't a question. I told him that I didn't understand what he was asking me and that I wanted no trouble. He then stormed into the house, presumably to get his pistol. I don't know whether he returned, or if he even had a pistol to use as an instructional aid, because we left. Ben still wore that familiar, frustrated look.
It was then, as we walked down the block away from the Greyhound terminal and its crazy neighbor, that I understood what he was saying. Through those funny faces he was trying to communicate something like "look, man, I'm f-ing nutty and dangerous and it's in your best interest not to speak loudly around me". If Ben and I had been commiserating about our shared Greyhound frustration in quieter voices we would likely never have had any trouble.
Ben later told me that the man had asked us not to stand on the sidewalk, and that when he approached the fence it was to engage the man in a mumbled dialog about the rights of ordinary citizens to control their own stretches of sidewalk versus the rights of others to use however they liked those same narrow stretches of public property.
We saw the same man later that night when we were buying our Baton Rouge - Shreveport tickets from a more informed Greyhound worker who was more interested in the somewhat outdated business practice of looking out for consumers. This time our face-making antagonist was standing outside the station smoking pot with a nice, younger kid that we had met the night before and who Ben had used his cellular phone to record rapping. We got out of there before he recognized us and stole away to a public park for some urban camping.
That's what it is like to be in Lafayette.
Ben and I were in Lafayette for four days and three nights. We didn't stay so long intentionally, but because southwest Louisiana is lousy for hitchhikers. On our third day in town we resigned ourselves to spending the money on bus tickets to Shreveport. After one of several unsuccessful attempts to buy a ticket at the Baton Rouge - Shreveport price instead of the more expensive Lafayette - Shreveport price ($30 more for 75 fewer miles on the same bus!) we wandered outside and to the corner where we griped about Greyhound and how they've not done well for me.
While we spoke a man poked his head between the spaces on the large picket fence surrounding the nearest house. He asked if we were doing alright, and we replied that we were. He then said something else that I didn't understand, but caused Ben to approach the fence. He and Ben quietly mumbled at each other for a few minutes during which I couldn't understand what was being said. Ben then stepped back and had that frustrated, "I've just had a stupid argument" look that became so familiar to those us of that lived or spent much time in the Arkansas House.
I looked from Ben to the other mumbler who then began making faces at me. For about one second each he held different variations on the classic top-lip-puffed-with-air funny face. I was laughing a little, but was confused because Ben's not one to get frustrated by funny faces. "What, you can't hear what I'm asking?" the man asked me. I stammered for a minute and wondered whether there existed some sort of ASL-like face language that had somehow avoided my attention. After another minute of confusion, during which I tried to explain that I didn't know what he was asking and he kept asking whether I understood, the man had had enough.
Once again he pushed his face between two fence posts and made another variation of the same funny face. When he let the air out of his lip he said "you'll probably understand if I ask you with my pistol, right". It wasn't a question. I told him that I didn't understand what he was asking me and that I wanted no trouble. He then stormed into the house, presumably to get his pistol. I don't know whether he returned, or if he even had a pistol to use as an instructional aid, because we left. Ben still wore that familiar, frustrated look.
It was then, as we walked down the block away from the Greyhound terminal and its crazy neighbor, that I understood what he was saying. Through those funny faces he was trying to communicate something like "look, man, I'm f-ing nutty and dangerous and it's in your best interest not to speak loudly around me". If Ben and I had been commiserating about our shared Greyhound frustration in quieter voices we would likely never have had any trouble.
Ben later told me that the man had asked us not to stand on the sidewalk, and that when he approached the fence it was to engage the man in a mumbled dialog about the rights of ordinary citizens to control their own stretches of sidewalk versus the rights of others to use however they liked those same narrow stretches of public property.
We saw the same man later that night when we were buying our Baton Rouge - Shreveport tickets from a more informed Greyhound worker who was more interested in the somewhat outdated business practice of looking out for consumers. This time our face-making antagonist was standing outside the station smoking pot with a nice, younger kid that we had met the night before and who Ben had used his cellular phone to record rapping. We got out of there before he recognized us and stole away to a public park for some urban camping.
That's what it is like to be in Lafayette.
21 November 2007
Shreveport-Bossier-Panajachel
After arriving in Shreveport we were picked up by the first of the four Mikes that we met in the last month. We had left our bikes and most of our gear at his house and once again stayed with him for our visit to northwest Louisiana. After getting our gear ready for bike travel again, fixing flats, and skateboarding at the local indoor park we were ready to get back on our bikes and start riding. But then, we met Joan.
Joan is a realtor from Savannah, Georgia. She posted an ad on craigslist looking for people interested in riding with her to Guatemala. One phonecall later we were once again on a bus, this time on our way to Houston to meet Joan and ride with her to Guatemala. That was one week ago. We're in Guatemala now, and have seen a lot of Mexico. I'll post about it later with more details. Now though, for the first time in a month, we're up to date. Now you have to email me and tell me how you're doing.
Joan is a realtor from Savannah, Georgia. She posted an ad on craigslist looking for people interested in riding with her to Guatemala. One phonecall later we were once again on a bus, this time on our way to Houston to meet Joan and ride with her to Guatemala. That was one week ago. We're in Guatemala now, and have seen a lot of Mexico. I'll post about it later with more details. Now though, for the first time in a month, we're up to date. Now you have to email me and tell me how you're doing.
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