San Antonio in Cali, Columbia

Guest Blogger Yulia Or Lev writes about her first journey to Columbia.

I came to Colombia to close a circle. After months staying in first
New York and then Guatemala, I felt I needed an energy change before
I came back home to Israel.

I am not sure what exactly I was looking for when coming to Columbia.
It is is a very interesting and diverse country. There are the Pacific
and Caribbean coasts, big cosmopolitan cities and surrounding farms
and countryside and a natural landscape that includes a desert, jungle
and the Amazon. Initially, I thought maybe I wanted to have fun at
beach parties on the Caribbean coast, but then I decided I’d rather go
to more calm areas of the country and meet local people.

Thanks to time spent learning the language in Guatemala (a country
where I found great peace, despite its recent violent history), I now
speak Spanish well enough to have hours of conversation with locals in
Latin countries. My Spanish is far from being perfect (thank God we
Israelis are used to speaking with our hands!) but it is one of the
greatest gifts I have received on my trip. There is nothing like
sitting on the beach talking to a 35 year old indigenous woman who has
a baby wrapped on her back and six more kids at home. That´s what real
traveling is for me.

In the city of Cali, where I arrived from Guatemala I met wonderful,
warm, helpful, welcoming and charming people. People in Cali also seem
generally better educated and more open-minded than those I met in
Guatemala. In Cali, I felt that no matter what happened, I would
always be fine because the people are so helpful. Locals told me that
people in Medellin are even nicer, but I don’t know if that is
possible. In Cali, people I had never met in my life literally walked
or drove me to places when I was lost. And I got lost several time
since the North of Cali is confusing.

The North of Cali, especially a neighborhood called San Antonio, is
the place to be if you are looking for an interesting bohemian
environment. It´s the colonial part of Cali, beautiful and quiet but
with things going on at night. At small bar-restaurants people meet to
actually hang out (as opposed to party which, according to locals, is
the only thing most Colombian like to do). I
stayed in a wonderful place called Cafe Tostaky
and was made to feel at home by a French-Colombian couple Claudia and Vince who
are really special people. Although I didn´t go dancing, Cali is
known as THE place to go salsa dancing.

From Cali, I headed to the Caribbean coast to Cartagena which I didn´t
like because it´s very commercial, very expensive and where some of
the people can be really annoying. There is a lot of poverty in
Cartagena and tourists are often aggressively approached at every
step. Cartagena is also full of drugs and hookers - much more than
elsewhere in the country. Its true that many people like Cartagena -
it is beautiful and the partying is great - but I really did not like
the energy and felt threatened there, like a target.

I would have liked to visit Leticia in the south of the country but, due to the legacy of guerrilla activity, often the only way to get there from other parts of the country is by plane and it´s damn expensive (US$400us dollars one way!). It sounds amazing, there are
jungles, indigenous people, the Amazon. It´s possible to cross the border with Brazil on foot or by boat from Brazil/Peru. Hopefully I will visit Leticia next time I am in the region.

Colombia is pretty expensive. I don´t know about food, but
accommodation seemed to be about double comparing to what you get in
Guatemala. But, if I do come back here again it will be because of the
people. Of all the people I’ve met on my trip, it is the Colombians
who I connected to with my heart.

Grey Skies Over Ipanema, Rio De Janeiro

Living and traveling far from home can gently tinge with nostalgia any chance reminders of one´s own culture. For this reason, I have a special place in my heart for the beautiful and bizarre experience of witnessing a Maya youth orchestra in Guatemala perform a selection of songs including Down By The Sally Gardens and The Irish Washerwoman.

However, some reminders of home are less heart-warming. For the last four days of this (my third) visit to Rio De Janeiro, I cannot escape the lilting stalkers of Cork, Dublin and Louth accents. My prison of proximity to momentos of home is partly due to my having chosen short stays in hostels - the Ipanema Beach House (friendly, with a pool and WiFi access) and Casas 6 & 16 (other decent Ipanema options, save for non-functioning WiFi) - instead of my usual favorite of renting an apartment for a week.

Some of the Irish patter that - along with ever present Damien Rice music - seems the anointed soundtrack of the hostel district was welcome. In particular, it was a cool diversion to meet two very impressive Louth brothers called Laurence and Patrick who are just finishing a Latin American adventure of genuine discovery.

However, other reminders of Ireland I have mentally filed under reasons not to rush home. The Fields of Athenry reverberated along Ipanema´s Barao Da Torre in much the same manner as on many an O´Connell Street. A melifulous voice leads the tune, while 8 drunken fans join in - vandalising the melody with ecentric approaches to pitch, time and volume. The hostel owners predictably inform the revelers that the neighbours have complained and a solemn promise is good-humouredly made to enjoy the night at low volume. Two minutes later The Raitlin Bog is bellowed loud enough to be heard in Copacabana.

Another reminder of home is the weather - grey and overcast at the moment. I had Ipanema beach almost entirely to myself on a Sunday afternoon walk - the mist and washed-out sky imbuing the waves crashing onshore with a haunting menace. To my Irish eyes, the beach looked even more beautiful this way than when kissed by warmest sunlight. Yet 16 degrees and grey skies render this most perfect of beaches an un-tempting prospect for most Cariocas.

Big Fear At Low Altitude: Zip-lining in Caldas Novas, Goias, Brazil

This post is Track 16 of Travelogue Soundtrack.

The harness operator had lost patience. “Ou voce pula ou voce se caga” ("you either jump or you shit yourself"). Failing to take the hint, failing to launch and failing to escape my terror, I remain perched, ridiculously immobile, at the top of the zipline.

I first discovered my fear of heights as a seven year old child when on a school trip to the Isle of Man’s Laxey Wheel. My classmates scampered happily upwards to enjoy views from the top of the biggest waterwheel in the British Isles. Yet I remained welded eye-level to the axle, transfixed with terror. The rotation of the bright red 11m long spokes hypnotically churned my stomach. I only surrendered my iron grip on the guide-rail when I rejoined my class as it snaked its way to the safety of firm ground.

26 years later, I was in Hot Park - Brazil’s largest water park in Caldas Novas, Goais - and was again similarly frozen. I was unable to jump.

Such irrational fears are said to be “all in our head” or more specifically to reside in the amygdala, the tiny fear and anger centre of our brain. But for me, vertigo is a terror of the body not the mind - a rebellion of my physical form against my conscious self. When approaching a precipice, all the cells in my body tighten. Calm whispers of my rational being are overwhelmed by the strident choruses of body molecules screaming “STOP! DON’T! YOU CAN’T! YOU’LL HAVE A HEART ATTACK!!!”

At Presidente Figueiro in Amazonas, my body again froze on the cusp of leaping into the murky brown waters near the foot of the beautiful Santuario Falls. It wasn’t enough for my mind to issue re-assuring thoughts that the piranhas, caimans and other local hazards were safely located a few kilometres away. My body needed proofs of sense rather than of thought. But my eyes could not see beneath the surface.

My mind and my body simply did not trust each other. Apparently my body possessed a greater appetite for self-preservation than my mind. The decision to quit my job in Ireland and move to Latin America was a much more consequential leap into the unknown than that at Presidente Figueiro. I had many fears about doing so - am I wrecking my career?, am I being irresponsible?, will my relationships suffer? is this exactly the wrong thing to do with my life? Yet, I neither hesitated about making the decision, nor equivocated about it once it was made. By contrast jumping from even relatively modest heights produced paralysis.

Of course fear is not a purely negative sensation - it has the excellent side effect of keeping us alive. Although we diminish as people as our fear increases, such self-shrinkage is a reasonable strategy when surrounded by danger. However, life as a small target is a kind of blasphemy - a failure to experience and celebrate the full extent of ourselves. Thus, the paradoxical expansions and contractions of hope and fear create the heartbeat of our lives - supplying the impulses with which we venture into uncertainty.

The week that was ending with absurd paralysis at Hot Park had started more promisingly in Rio De Janeiro. On midnight on New Year’s Eve, I had joined 2 million Cariocas on Copacabana beach. Nearly all of us dressed in white as we arrived at the edge of the Atlantic. We were here to greet Iemanjá, the Goddess of the Water, and to ask her to bless our New Year. Such a peaceful and optimistic mass communal exercise represents humanity at its best - embracing the unknown in hope, rather than retreating from it in fear. Spectacular fireworks announced we had made it safely into the new territory of 2008.

Perhaps I absorbed some of the hope and optimism of Rio’s Reveillon festival at a cellular level. My body relaxed and I jumped. I jumped on the zipline in Hot Park, into the murky Amazonian waters in Presidente Figueiro and the river rapids in Brotas. In mid-air, suspended between fear and hope, my mind and body made their peace with each other. Both only felt complete when leaping into the unknown.

This is the second post in the Spin Cycle series. Post one is available here

Hi, I’m Ilana and I’m writing this post because Robbie is now apparently a fugitive who has vanished without a trace. For the record, I think that going into hiding was a bit extreme. Or maybe I am being unfair - he did have a gun placed under his chin, and I am more used to weapons than Robbie. Guns freak him out - apparently.

When I came across Robbie’s post on this blog, it was the first I had heard of or from Robbie in over two months. Whatever he is doing, I hope that he feels that the coast is sufficiently clear for him to resurface soon. Its probably too late for Robbie and I to meet up again - I’ve moved on, am not longer in Guatemala and write this from the banks of the Amazon in Brazil. But it would still be good to know he’s alive. So Robbie, if you are reading this - come out, come out wherever you are. I’ve missed you! And, hey while you’re at it, maybe you can tell me what the hell happened!! :-)

This is my first time traveling on my own away from home – I’m from Bat Yam, on Israel’s Mediterranean coast – and Robbie was the first person who I met in Latin America that I really connected with. About four months ago I flew from Tel Aviv to New York, where I stayed a week with cousins, before arriving in Guatemala City via North Carolina. My plane touched down at one thirty in the afternoon on a Sunday and by three pm I was unpacking in my new room in Antigua. The host family I stayed with were really kind and looked after me like I was their own daughter. I lived in Colonia El Manchen on Antigua’s North side, which was pretty close by to my Spanish school and to most things in the city. The only downside was that it gets a bit spooky at night.

I spent my first week in Antigua trying to be a good student – though I was late for class twice - and getting to know the other students in my school. In addition to the four hours a day of Spanish lessons, I went on a few trips organised by my school. For the first few days, I did my homework with a group of my fellow students at Fernando’s cafe. But then one of the guys in the group starting weirding me out a bit, so I stopped with the homework club and started studying by myself in the Parque Central.

It was in the Parque Central that I met Robbie. I had noticed him for the two days prior to actually meeting – though I don’t think he noticed me. His mind was on other things. For the first two days we each sat on the same two benches, facing each other a few metres apart. Between us were the sirenas of the park’s famously naughty fountain - mermaids squeezing jets of liquid from their proudly displayed naked breasts.

Each afternoon I would go to do my homework on one park bench and watch as Robbie sketched in an art-pad. It was the sketching that made me notice Robbie in the first place.

One of the main things I felt when I finished my two years in the army recently was a need to be creative again. I don’t want to seem negative about my time as a soldier. I loved the army and am grateful for my time there. Although a lot of my girlfriends got placed in units where their main responsibilities seemed to be to sit on their asses and get fat and lazy, I was assigned to army intelligence. My army service was difficult, I learned a lot and I helped my country.

Even though I know I owe a lot to the army, I also feel that becoming a good soldier meant I sacrificed my creativity – I didn’t even meet or hang out with creative people anymore. In some ways I think that, for all my life, other people have been telling me what to do and what to think – my parents, teachers or hamefaked (army commander). I had begun to feel that every lungful of air I breathed had been exhaled just one second before by someone else. So that’s why I needed to leave Israel, why I chose not to travel with other Israelis and why Robbie and his sketch pad seemed so interesting to me.

On the third day I saw Robbie in the Parque, my regular seat was taken so I decided to sit in the free space beside Robbie on his bench. When he saw me approach, he looked at me, gave me a great smile and said “hey.” As both a greeting and a question, it totally slayed my plans for sitting down in silence to do my homework.

Robbie quickly proved to be really charming. He’s a big guy – about 185cm, in good shape and with broad shoulders and strong arms – but he’s also really sweet and funny. Even though Robbie is a pretty talented artist, he seemed a bit embarrassed when I asked to see what he had been drawing. Most of the recent sketches were of the topless mermaids of the fountain, artistic license applied to the size of their breasts and the violence of the liquid jets exploding from their nipples. Flicking further back in the sketch pad, I noticed a recurring theme of a young woman in various poses - lying on a bed wearing a baggy t-shirt, singing with a guitar or gazing mysteriously into the distance in profile.

Robbie told me that he had learned to draw two years ago as part of a night course he took in Melbourne. Drawing was something he had started in order to take his mind off work. “I am a bit of a worko!” he told me, though he looked so chill that I find it hard to imagine him as a stressed-out workaholic. He became comically evasive when I asked about the girl in his drawings, so of course I teased him about her until he ‘fessed up some details. “Actually, they are two totally different girls - but thanks so much for not noticing the difference. Gets rid of that Rembrant complex I was developing.”

He remained studiously vague about the identity of the first girl - this time I did not push him for details, even though I was really curious - but he was funny, relaxed and self-deprecating about the story of the second girl. “She’s someone I met a few months ago, knew for only eight hours and who totally re-arranged my life. Because of her, I am now unemployed, thousands of miles from home and without a baldy notion about what to do with myself! Any suggestions?”

Robbie made me laugh. Even though I was surprised to find he was really old - 33, twelve years older than me! - he was really easy to talk to and I quickly felt that he was a man I could trust and would want to spend time with.

One of the most difficult things about being away from Israel is that I am away from my boyfriend for the first time in 3 years (I miss you Yair!). Yair has one more year left in the Army and at first I really didn’t want to start traveling without him. But he was really supportive and said he felt I really needed to start traveling now. We both felt confident that our relationship is strong enough to survive six months apart - it may even be a healthy test.

Even in Latin America, Yair feels really close to me. But not having him physically here means I have to be more careful with the male friends I meet. What I liked about Robbie was I didn’t feel I had to even tell him about Yair – a defence tactic I use with guys to prevent them hitting on me. In fact I felt so comfortable with Robbie, I totally forgot to tell him about Yair at all for over a week. Looking back, I should have told him sooner.

Robbie told me that he had been coming to the Parque every afternoon after his Spanish classes since he arrived. As the Parque is the hub around which Antigua revolves, he felt that if Katherine – the second girl in his drawings, the one who had convinced him to quit his job and come to Guatemala – was in Antigua, she would walk through the Parque sooner or later.

Robbie told me he’d been coming to the Parque’s fountain for the last three weeks, each day keeping an eye out for Katherine. Normally, information like this would make me bolt as rapidly as possible to flee a potential weirdo. But, Robbie spoke in a really matter of fact, confident and open way about what he was doing. There was no shame, concealment or desperation in his tone or body-language.

I felt I got where he was coming from - he had met someone he connected with, was invited to travel with her and knew he had messed things up. Belatedly acting on his feelings, he was now being as methodical as possible to try and find her again. Robbie seemed to have reached a point of resignation and acceptance about the reality that he had simply arrived too late. Following up one of the replies to his first blog post, Robbie had found that Katherine performed in a bar near the centre of Antigua just before he had arrived. However, no-one there had seen her since nor knew where she was now. Once again she had disappeared.

“Y’know, the funny thing now is I’m not sure it matters whether I see her again or not. Of course, I’d like to, it felt really right when we met - in a way I hadn’t felt in soooo long. But, although I was an idiot for not acting quicker, I’m glad I eventually found the stones to do something. Leaving Australia feels like I’ve saved myself from drowning. Meeting her was like being thrown a life-ring.”

We changed topics and passed the next hour guessing the life stories of the people passing us in the park - “Korean, learning Spanish, utterly unaware of what a terrible salsa dancer she is” “French couple, have come here to adopt a Guatemalan child, he’s having an affair with his secretary, she only eats lettuce” “American, volunteer in a faith project, believes God planted dinosaur fossils just to mess with our heads.” “Guatemalan, school-girl, will be pregnant and married next year, wonders when these gringos will clear out of her city and go home.”

Our people watching was terminated by the arrival of a thin, forty-something Guatemalan guy who stood a few metres away from us. He opened a Bible and started a manic rant in Spanish - I’ve no idea what he was saying but Dios was the main theme - and generally made anyone within sight of him feel uncomfortable. Grabbing his sketch pad, Robbie stood up up suddenly. “Hey, I’ve an idea” he said, before flashing a mischievous grin. “Wanna come with?”

Its getting late and I have a big day jungle trekking tomorrow, so I will finish this another time. But, by saying “yes” to Robbie, I began my best week in Guatemala. I will write about what we did and how Robbie made an enemy of a local hitman in my next post.

Guest bloggers, Jacqueline Mascini & Pete Stonestreet recount some close encounters with road accidents and medical negligence in Sucre, Bolivia.

Sucre is a town as sweet as the name implies….. although the name has nothing do do with the word for sugar in Spanish and everything to do with Mariscal Antonio Jose de Sucre, who was one of several men who fought for independence from the Spanish. We stayed in Sucre for about a week, in the hope of acclimatising to altitude before heading upwards to Potosí.

There isn’t a huge amount to do in Sucre apart from enjoy the historical centre and eat great cheap food at the many foreign-run restaurants around the plaza. Sucre is about 2600m above sea level, high enough so that upon arrival you can feel a little puffed walking up the stairs or a small hill. We filled the first few days of our stay in Sucre with things like eating, checking out the museums and cathedrals and catching up on some reading and chilling out.

One of the highlights of Sucre, especially for two geologists, were the nearby dinosaur footprints. The local authorities have done an excellent job with preservation and the site is now awaiting approval as a world heritage site. It was discovered while they were mining for the adjacent cement plant, and mining continues while the site is preserved 1.2km away. Slowly however, layers of mudstone are peeling away, but palaeontologists aren’t too concerned because new sets of footprints are being revealed below. It definitely puts Lark Quarry in Queensland to shame!

The food we at in Sucre measured in at both ends of the scale. On our first day in Sucre, Pete was keen to save some cash and eat at the markets, where the locals do. It’s difficult to turn down a three-course meal (albeit simple) for about 80c. We ordered Picante de Pollo (spiced chicken) and as soon as I took a mouthful I knew I would regret it. Hygiene isn’t a strong point in Bolivia, and there are many reasons why I may have become violently ill: cutlery washed in cold dirty water, food served lukewarm, dirty glasses for the drinks, unwashed hands and tea-towels.. the list goes on. Suffice to say I didn’t really leave our room the next day. After that I refused to eat at the markets, no matter how cheap or expensive it was.

Some of the other meals in Sucre however were sensational. Early in our stay we discovered a fantastic German-run restaurant called El Germen, which served fantastic almuerzos (set lunches). We got to know the señora working in there during lunchtimes, and after eight or so good meals we were sad to say goodbye to such a great eatery. Other highlights included the Alliance Francaise-run restaurant, a Dutch-run trendy bar which served fantastic Indonesian satays and the wonderful breakfasts we ate at the cafés on the plaza.

We also visited an Indigenous Art Museum, which was excellent. I had never realised just how beautiful and intricate indigenous weaving could be, and I made another trip back to the museum to buy one for myself. All proceeds from the museum are directed back into programs for the indigenous artists and their families, so it was much more satisfying to purchase one from the museum than from a middle-man at the markets.

Most of the souvenirs and artwork for sale in Sucre was very touristy and at times a bit daggy - knitted llama patterns aren’t so cool on the streets of Brisbane, I imagine. The Tarabuco Indigenous markets were slightly better, and we made the hour-long trip out there on a Saturday and found some interesting characters, delightful photo opportunities, lukewarm overpriced tea and not much else. I suppose the rain didn’t help, but we were a little disappointed at the end of the day.

After about a week in Sucre we figured we had sufficiently acclimatised to altitude and were ready to head up to Potosí, at 4060m above sea level. We caught a bus up and found a great place to stay, strangely enough where Pete had stayed twelve years ago! He remembered having an argument with the owner but thought it best not to say too much. We had a pleasant vegetarian dinner with a beer each and went to bed relatively early, however neither of us slept much that night - Pete was in dreadful pain. He had a headache, a sore jaw, and burning in his chest. By the time dawn rolled around he could hardly stand up and I decided that we should get to the hospital quickly, as we both suspected altitude sickness. We waited around, paid 12 Bolivianos to see a doctor (about $1.80) and explained to the nurse what we thought was happening. She nodded and referred us to the doctor, a kindly but totally incompetent man who, after ten minutes of poking and prodding, told Pete that he had a cold, and was to take some antibiotics (strange..) and have a rest. Pete now jokes that if he had listened to that doctor he would be ‘taking a very long rest’. In fact he would probably be dead. We nodded, walked out of the hospital and were thankful that the ordeal had cost us less than $2. After some quick internet research, we decided that he definitely had accute mountain sickness and was probably on his way to a cerebral odaema.

It was a dreadful ordeal but it was only 8am and the day wasn’t over yet. We packed the bags and caught an express taxi back to Sucre since it was the only way we could get back to a lower altitude to prevent Pete from taking his ‘very long rest’. About half an hour into the trip, I noticed in the driver’s eyes were bloodshot and slowly closing: my heart skipped a beat. Not wanting to be paranoid, I kept watching, and noticed him start to fidget: winding down the window and closing it again, and continually adjusting the radio. I nudged Pete, who was barely conscious, and who was in the privileged position of being able to see the speedo. We caught the driver doing 135km/h around a tight corner and saw his eyes droop while he was cornering. That coupled with the dreadful wheel alignment (or lack of) was enough for us! Pete asked the driver if he was OK, and he assured us he was and started driving faster just to prove to us how alert he was. A few minutes later as we were passing a small village we asked him to stop. As he crossed the road to have a pee, we grabbed his keys from the ignition and took our bags our of the boot, to save any shenanigans he might have tried if we had asked him nicely. Luckily we did, because when we told him that we were getting out because he was driving dangerously, he tried all sorts of stunts. The first one was ‘it was your fault I was falling asleep because you weren’t talking to me to keep me awake’! That’s a tough one since I don’t speak Spanish and Pete was having trouble breathing, let alone feeling chatty. He then tried to justify his excessive speed by stating that we had hired an express taxi, not a regular one, and that he was driving fast because we had paid him to. Eventually after about half an hour of arguing, we paid him almost the full fare just to see the back of him. We both agreed that day that had we not stopped the car, he probably would have killed us.

We waited around on the side of the road trying to hitch a ride. Plenty of collectivos went by but they were all full. Eventually we found one that wasn’t and had some much more careful drivers behind the wheel. From what we could work out, the teenage son was learning to drive and he was doing his best to impress the older guys in the car with his newly-acquired skills. He did really well until we came to a steep downhill section when he cooked the brakes. He hadn’t learned to drive using the gears so after some more discussion amongst the male occupants of the car, we headed off again to Sucre with a different driver.

Upon arrival back in Sucre we checked back into the same hostel, and received a warm welcome from the ladies behind the reception desk. We then went to our favorite restaurant, The Germ, for lunch and received an even warmer welcome from the señora working there. It almost felt like we had arrived home! So ended a very scary day for us: all jokes aside, Pete looked death in the face twice.

More of Pete and Jacqueline’s adventures are available on their blog.

This Article Is Track 05 Of Travel Soundtrack

A man, a woman and music. A simple compound that, like gunpowder, has an explosive power for creativity and catastrophe alike.

A personal goal on arriving in Latin America was to progress beyond the inexpert fumblings in Salsa, Merengue, Bachata and Cha Cha Cha that I had previously managed in Dublin and Melbourne. I nursed an optimistic belief in the improbable theory of mojo osmosis. Living on this continent would surely imbue me with more body rhythm than is natural for a pure-bred Celt to possess....

While still in Ireland, I had developed a number of ready-made excuses as to why, despite two years of dance lessons, my dance-floor performances still oscillated between the ponderously robotic and wildly epileptic with no suave middle-ground. The real reasons for my inability to look smooth and to keep time were a lack of both confidence and real world practice outside of the security of a dance class. Yet, on arriving in Latin America, I also began to suspect another subtler reason for my lack of success - I had lost any sense of real connection or understanding of my own body. Career energy had been supplied by intellectual rather than physical reserves and I had largely forgotten myself as a biological being. It was high time to re-learn that a body is more than a vehicle for transporting one's brain.

On my fifth week in Guatemala, I began lessons in Salsa. Despite the fact that none of Salsa's numerous styles and influences - amongst them, Columbian, Cuban, Puerto-Rican, New Yorican and Los Angelina - owe any real debt to Guatemala, there is a large choice of Salsa schools in Antigua. Accepting the recommendation of a number of friends I began lessons with Gloria.

Gloria is a wonderful and striking presence both on and off the dancefloor. In a country of relatively short people, Gloria's tall and elegant frame is easy to spot, even from a distance. A personality that combines strength, fun and intelligence, Gloria is an excellent teacher. And when she dances, she is visual poetry embodied.

Despite her talent as a teacher, Gloria had her work cut out with me. Her advice that I needed to "feel it" with my body was alien to my tendency to "process it" with my mind. It took a number of weeks of daily one on one lessons with Gloria before my body felt liberated enough to find its own rhythm, without first asking permission from my frontal lobe.

Gloria's greatest gift to me during the 20 or more lessons we had together was to bitch-slap me into acting like a man - "con decision". Dancing with such a talented partner can give one a totally deluded sense of one's own level of skill. To bring me back to earth, Gloria would occasionally switch mode to the wayward and physically inept - invoking memories of many of my dance partners in Dublin - to test my ability to give a firm, clear and accurate lead.

Mid-way through my lessons with Gloria, I test-drove my new moves with Helene, a French journalist with an Irish accent who I had met at my Spanish school. We went to salsa night in Sin Ventura, near Antigua's Parque Central. Though charming company, Helene made a poor job at concealing her gleeful mirth at the rictus of panic and concentration she read on my face as my lips jabbered the mantra "quick, quick, slow, quick, quick, slow." Evidently, not the cool, calm and collected vibe I was going for - I still had plenty of work to do.

However, over the next few weeks, I absorbed Gloria's instruction and my movements became stronger, more confident and expressive. This was more than just a lot of fun. I felt I was beginning to articulate something important, that my body had previously lacked the vocabulary for. Dancing is a particularly profound form of communication between a man and a woman - enabling one to discover a mutual resonance that makes words superfluous.

Despite its evident sensuality, latin dancing can in some ways be a sex-free zone. "If he's doing it right the guy doesn't have time to think about sex" as Gloria informed me. Of course, that is not to say dance is without sexual politics. When still in Ireland, I noted that Irish women had real difficulty accepting a lead from a man. Perhaps that was just because Irish woman were as genetically unsuited to latin dancing as their male compatriots like me. But I also suspected it sprung from a deep philosophical objection to yielding dominance to any man who lacks the expertise to earn the privilege. Almost to confirm this thesis, Gloria noted that the western women she teaches appear much more free when dancing with a Lain male (who probably knows what he is doing) than with their gringo male counterparts.

Something else Gloria taught me was that the politics of latin dancing are more subtle than most give credit for. "To do it well, it is really 50/50 leading. The more the woman knows, the more comfortable the guy will be. The woman will be able to improvise and to cover up the guy's mistakes." In other words, women allow men the illusion that they are making the decisions. True on and off the dance-floor.

Play Music:
Hips Don`t Lie (Shakira feat. Wycleaf Jean)

This Weeks Places:
Antigua
Guatemala

This Weeks Sleeps:
Renting A Home

This Weeks Doings:
Coffee Farms
Dance
Learning Spanish

Spin Cycle is a piece of interactive travel fiction that is set in Latin America. Initially, it begins with the character of Robbie. Robbie arrives in Guatemala at a difficult time of his life in search of someone he met in Melbourne three months ago. From this starting point, the story will evolve in part in response to the comments and contributions of visitors to this website. As part of this story Robbie will travel throughout Latin America and experience more than his fair share of the magic, wonder and heartache of this fabulous continent.

Visitors to this site are invited to make comments and suggestions about the story in reply to this post.

People can also volunteer to enter the Spin Cycle narrative as characters or friends of characters by replying directly to the posts of characters in the Story section. Potential characters can be people who have met Robbie on his travels, have information to share about the people and events that characters write about or strangers who are some way drawn to commenting on characters’ posts. The only rules when entering the narrative are:

- you cannot enter the story as a character created by someone else (unless they have given you the permission to do so)
- contributions should not be inconsistent with what has happened previously in the story (though of course two different characters can have entirely different recollections of the same events)
- events can only occur in locations in Latin America that have posts relating to them in the Travel Guide section of Fuego y Agua. Currently, there are posts in the Travel Guide about locations in Guatemala, Honduras, Cuba, Brazil and Argentina. Therefore if you want to introduce a narrative strand in Managua, you’d have to also add a factual descriptive post about Nicaragua’s capital
- all contributions are subject to editorial decision by the overall story editor (that would be me - Matt Hamilton)

The story is told in the following chapters or posts:

Post 1 - Laundering Money And Soul In Guatemala
Post 2 - Flirting With Disaster (Part One)

This is the first post of Spin Cycle. The second post is available here.

Hi I’m Robbie, I’m from Melbourne and I arrived in Guatemala four weeks ago looking for an English girl called Katherine.

It may strike you as a bit extreme for someone to trade continents, hemispheres and languages in pursuit of someone they met only once and whose surname or contact details they have never been entrusted with. Friends have gently (or brutally) pointed out that what I am doing in trying to find Katherine sounds a lot like common stalking. I disagree – there is nothing common about it. I prefer to think of it as an Intercontinental Grand Final of stalks. So yes, I do know what I am doing and how it must appear. I’m cool with it - if you give me the chance to explain a little more, maybe you will be too. Some of you may even feel you want to help me in my search.

I arrived in Antigua, a beautiful Guatemalan town of colour, smoke and magic during what I’m told is its big week of the year - Semana Santa. I initially struggled to find my bearings in a town enveloped in the incense, flowers and billowy purple robes of the procesiones that had taken over its cobbled streets. Crowds of hundred of ceremonially clad men, women and children became a swaying, musical river of humanity that rhythmically wove is magic through and between a seemingly endless series of ruined and restored churches. Caught up in this human current and with many of Antigua’s streets blocked off, I often found myself unsure of how to get back to my hostel. As I had yet to begin learning Spanish, I also couldn’t find the words to ask for help. My head was spinning from the profoundest culture shock – just three days before I had been taking a leisurely farewell walk from Fed Square to my home just off Lygon Street in Melbourne. Now it seemed I had entered a different world. I was confused, disoriented and over-stimulated. But I felt excited and alive again – buzzing on a feeling that coming here had been the right decision.

However, the exuberance of Antigua during Semana Santa is at odds with the misery and suffering of the week’s central character. When I first saw one of the (far too numerous to count) representations of Jesus with his Cross that are carried on the shoulders of boys and men throughout Antigua, I felt my growing euphoria briefly fade as I remembered my reasons for coming to Latin America. I looked upon the forlorn, abandoned and soon to be crucified Christ and thought “I know how you feel mate. You poor bastard.”