I walked twenty minutes from the Greyhound station to a hotel in the historic downtown of Los Angeles. I was stuck there for a night. Continue reading Los Angeles to Chicago to New York
The bus to Mexico City was a quick six hours. Arid mountain scrubland passed outside the window. I dozed on and off.I was 80 days into my trip, and the constant travel and planning had caught up with me long before. Travel isn’t as much a vacation as it is a job you take on, for which you are not paid. There was only one way to get back, and that was to keep going. This isn’t a complaint. But when people think about leaving their jobs and running away, I’m not sure they realize how much drudgery is involved, and boredom.
The bus ride to Belize City was uneventful. The bus never got overcrowded, and it was hot but not unbearable. It wasn’t raining, so the windows could be kept open allowing for a breeze, and since it was direct, there wasn’t much stopping and starting along the way.
We walked the ten minutes to the water taxi terminal, bought our tickets, and waiting the hour till the taxi left.
I didn’t need a reminder that I am thirty-nine years old, but spending the previous day on buses gave me one anyways. I woke up, and my hips were sore, my back was sore. My head and stomach were sore from midnight hotdogs and aquardiente. I was mentally and physically drained. I did some half-assed yoga to try and get my body going, and got out the door at 10am. I found a market with cans of Diet Coke and bought two. I’m a coffee drinker, and addicted to soda, but I haven’t had much of either in the last eight weeks. Most of my hotels, if they had coffee at all, served Nescafe with heaps of sugar, and it was difficult to find diet soda. I don’t know if it was the caffiene, or the carbonated beverage, but it woke me up and lifted my mood.
The 6:30am bus from El Tunco to Sonsonate, where I would connect for Juayua (Why-OOH-ah) was the first time I was separated from my bag. The ayudante took it from me as I boarded through the rear emergency exit and placed it behind the last row of seats. I took a seat several rows up in the opposite row and spent the next hour straining my neck turning around as people boarded and exited through the same door. Men were going to work, machetes slung over their shoulders, sheathed or wrapped in paper. Children in uniform were on their way to school. Women tranported large tubs of things to sell.
It was like riding the subway. Continue reading Juayua, El Salvador
Suchitoto was boring. It was a nice enough colonial town that apparently came to life on weekends with art galleries, a place that San Salvadorans escaped to from the heat and madness of the city. But I was there on a Monday, and it was dead. It felt like a smaller Granada without all the tourists.