Job Delusions of Grandeur

“They” say that to channel success, you need to visualize—and more importantly, visualize yourself in that confident and beaming moment, right down to what you might be wearing in said moment. I fancied myself in a somewhat neatly-pressed many-pocketed safari suit, perhaps donning a pith helmet if the job so required.

I would have sweat on my brow and return home redolent of baboon or maybe elephant dung.
My recent dream job fixation was The African Lion Safari, a game park in Cambridge, Ontario with all the makings of a real live safari (3D cheetahs, rhinos, giraffes!) in real live Africa. Six months ago it was the donkey sanctuary in Guelph. The sanctuary is still ranked in the dream category, but, due to geography and a leggy commute, it’s not feasible and would be income neutral. Which means, they only have volunteer positions which are indeed priceless, but, banks like you to pay a mortgage with money, not smiles and pictures of a happy time spent with donkeys.

I applied to the Lion Safari with grandiose amounts of anticipation in December. I outlined my experience making breakfast for 26 chimps, my ability and desire to shovel any type of manure and emphasized my unswerving attraction to any position they might have in animal care. The game park was advertising positions as a direct animal keeper (YES!!!), in the petting zoo filling pellet machines and corralling wayward children attempting to ride goats (I could still live out my donkey fantasy) and, facilitators for the Birds of Prey show. I thought I was a bird shoo-in with my Intro to Falconry course under my belt and my skill in identifying a sharp-shinned from a rufous-sided raptor at 50 paces.

I easily visualized myself with a falcon alight on my wrist. Whistling for its return as it swooped around the audience (first learning curve here: learning how to whistle). I imagined brushing out donkey tails and throwing prime rib to the pacing lions.

So, when Human Resources called, I practically pounced across the phone line. Yes, I was interested, in absolutely anything that they could offer me! Minimum wage? Why be greedy? Besides, if I was having the time of my life, no price could be put on that. Though, I’d have to buy a vehicle of some sort to get me to the Lion Safari, or, ride one of the donkeys home due to the 26 km roundtrip.
However, in my heart-palpitating excitement, I almost didn’t hear the voice on the other end say, “all our animal care positions have been filled—but, we think you’d be more suited for the Tour Operator position.”

Sure, I could operate tours. I could crack corny jokes and tell off-colour stories about terrible park visitors. I could withstand screaming, probably crying children pawing at me, covering my legs in candy floss and dripping ice cream cone hands.

But, this is when my dream job turned into a nightmare. I felt like I was suddenly eavesdropping in on a horror story. My horror! Now, I was visualizing a walking tour I guess, not a tour on a 50-passenger COACH BUS that I would have to learn how to drive! What terrible job description was this? Not only would I be responsible for learning how to commandeer a bus, but, as a tour operator, I’d also have to man the pontoon boat for 10-minute tours on the faux lake and operate the train to boot! I don’t even like driving a car, let alone something as big as my house!

Again, as the kindly woman explained the gory details, I tried to visualize myself in the above-mentioned safari suit, now seated behind the wheel of a bus (which I would have four to ten days to learn how to drive. And then pass an exam to make it official.

I shuddered, I began to sweat in sauna proportions. My excited heart palpitations turned into stroke symptoms.

Did I still want to come in for an interview? Had I been scared off?

No! I wasn’t scared off! This was my dream job! I couldn’t wait for the interview!
We scheduled it for March 2nd.

I immediately canvassed my friends and polled family members because my girlfriend wasn’t home. Kim is definitely my voice of reason at all times. I love her rational brain, but, I also get swept away in fantasy jobs and wanted to have a diverse collective group answer.

I invited hilarity, caution, advice and cheerleading. Of course, I received all of what I encouraged, in equal amounts. There was no definitive answer. My mother held her breath and said nothing (she visualized me driving the bus into the watering hole and killing a herd of zebra en route). Heidi thought the pontoon boat had serious potential for fun and would negate the bus droning. My brother shot back a rapid fire email: “You’re competing with Kiley now.” This was in direct reference to our sister’s oddball resume of jobs which have included everything from fly-fishing instructor to cookie baker to delivering sermons on Disney Cruise Lines.

Close friends weighed in with carefully crafted thoughts/support and OMG’s—did I really want to drone into a microphone over and over again to a bunch of screechy kids hopped out on sugar and wildlife? My dad thought it might be the catalyst to getting to the core of my dream job—in the lion cage.

When my Voice of Reason did get home, I barely had to finish relaying the conversation I had with the Lion Safari.

“Babe, you don’t want to drive a bus.”

See? Voice of Reason. I don’t. And, yes, it’s important to listen to your instant gut reaction but, it’s better when you can get someone to second that motion. I didn’t want to be all defeatist right off the bat, or unwilling to chomp at a new learning curve.

I’m now in the process of refining my dream job terms. What I have learned from this is that I’m still okay with multi-pocketed khaki wear…but the reality may be that I just want to GO on safari again, not necessarily work at one.

So, now I’ve set my sights on a career in baking buttertarts, “a logical transistion” as my dear friend Kay would attest.

Cuba 10×10: 10 days. 10 Pics.

Just south of the Tropic of Cancer, rum pulses in the veins of the Caribbean’s largest island, Cuba. The cocktail menus are often more extensive than the food options, and for good reason. They have the rum part down pat and it seems to marry well with everything and everyone.

But, Cuba is so much more than a booze-tastic all-inclusive destination. Yes, the water is cerulean. Yes, the sand is like padding around in sugar. But, it’s also an island of constant surprise, contrast and intrigue. The arts scene is vibrant, salsa music pumps out of every open window, bar and resto—and even on the beach. You will be guaranteed a soulful serenade at some point during your stay.

Many of Cuba’s cities are designated as World Heritage Sites, and the aging facades of the colonial buildings and cobblestone roads are like stepping into a time capsule. The parade of vintage Fords and buffed up Bel Airs are a strange reminder of decades gone by.

In August I spent 10 days in Cuba courtesy of  a partnership between The Adventure Center and The Matador Network. In 2011-2012, The Adventure Center sent eight Matador U students and alumni on adrenalin-kicked trips. My cub reporter duties took me from Havana to Holguin to Trinidad, being chased by Tropical Storm Isaac. Trusty notepad and pork rinds in hand, Canon trained on the sensory assault, this was my Cuba, 10×10. A pleasurable balm to the -12 (“feels like -19″) temps in Toronto tonight.

Okay, that was 12 pics, but…

The Best Places We Slept in 2012

Yes, we’ve been sleeping around again. In 2011 we ventured into unexpected extremes: from the -3 temps of the Ice Hotel in Quebec City to the +300 clime of the Siwa Oasis in Egypt. We slept on a bed of ice, in a 13^th century Shali fortress and in the sand dunes of Lake Erie. This year seat sales took us to the cerulean waters of Belize, the moody grey wool skies of Prince Edward Island, rum-submerged Cuba and the gentle giant, Edmonton. Come October, after narrowing our list to St. Lucia, Newfoundland or Turks & Caicos, we ended up packing our bags and belt buckles for Texas.

These were our favourites of 2012:

1. The Belize Zoo, Belize

When my sister suggested we detour from Caye Caulker and book a night at the zoo, I was worried that it might be too schmaltzy. The website promised a riveting night in a jungle hut situated on a croc-filled pond. Would it be too Disney? I envisioned a mash-up of the Rainforest Cafe, zoo employees in faux-fur mascot outfits and neon jungle juice for breakfast. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The Belize Zoo appears to have more animals living outside its cages than in. We awoke to a total riot of bird sound: hyped-up green parrots, trogans and horny chachalacas getting it on before sun up. Indeed, there were crocs (not mechanical) that ominously slid about the pond, slipping beneath the boardwalk we precariously used to reach our cabin.

The cabin was just rustic enough—but with the pleasures of a beer fridge, toilet (with seat) and shower with surprisingly hot water. Our screened-in porch offered a spoiled view of the pond sans mosquitoes. Howler monkeys carried on in the canopies nearby—making for a truly authentic jungle stay. Best yet? At 7pm we met with a zookeeper who led us around the zoo on a private, up close and personal “safari” of the zoo’s nightlife. Enticing the animals and birds of prey with raw chicken, we had the child-like thrill of close encounters with jaguars, tapirs, owls and the wild peccary. Note: Skip the peccaries. They are wild pigs that look like they are wearing high heels—spindly legs carrying typical pig bodies. But, the stench! My grandfather was  a pig farmer, so I’m not averse to pig shit. The wild peccaries emit a ghastly odour as a protective mechanism that just about threatens to collapse your lungs.

2.  Carless and Careless Caye Caulker, Belize

We combed “cheap beach huts in Belize” for so many nights in a row to no avail. February was booked solid, everywhere—and we were starting to question the good fortune of finding return fares for $425. Great, cheap ticket, but, we have no accommodations. On the cusp of our departure, we fielded a response from a Canadian expat who was able to offer our last choice. Near to the beach, but not on the beach proper, behind another beach hut, with an obscured ocean view (which could be gained by bending in half and angling your head just so…). It turned out to be a gem. To boot, it came with free PeeWee Herman-esque bikes. The expat’s husband (never seen in shoes, or flip flops, ever) warned us about the screaming lizards (true story: come 3am they shrill, squeak and peep like New Year’s Eve horns from the dollar store) and asked if we’d like him to deliver some beer to us. Yes, beer fairies live in Belize. He delivered a case of Belikin the next morning, on his bike.

The beach hut was a great crash pad after our gin-tastic Panty Ripper-laced afternoons at the Lazy Lizard. Post sunset-viewing (the only beacon in our day), we’d retire to our hut for catnaps. We were minutes (on foot) from the best fried chicken, fire-breathing shrimp curries and Cheez Whiz waffles. Situated off the main strip of vibrating bars and tipsy patrons, our Crazy Canuck hut offered the solitude of a private beach and dock access where we shared space with only long-legged egrets and kingfishers.

3. Queen’s Landing, Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario

Sometimes you just have to do it grand, without waiting for an occasion or anniversary. Kim had always wanted to stay at Queen’s Landing, and rightly so. The vintage hotel is opulent, indulgent and offers a 400-thread-count sheet-sleep.

It was April, a miserable Monday of pelting rain. The normally charming town was void of pedestrians. We abandoned thoughts of popping in and out of the galleries and boutique shops to take full advantage of our posh room. That is, after we opted instead to take a free shuttle to the nearest winery, Peller Estates.  Happy for visitors, the staff swarmed us and poured for us. We found a bottle to drink that night (baco noir) and a cab merlot for home. We had a soft mango-ginger cheese and a gouda to fill the gap between dusk and dinner at the haunted Angel’s Inn Pub. While we waited for our shuttle to return, a version of my mother (all genuine smiles and generosity) poured us full glasses of a cuvee to enjoy while we sat by the fire. Top marks to Peller!

Back at the hotel, we laughed at the enormity of our bed. We could sleep in any direction. We had upgraded to the honeymoon suite because, hey, why not do it right? The jet tub was like sitting inside a convertible—massive and so over-the-top.

If you want to feel a big dose of excessive and appreciated elegance, reserve a night here for red carpet treatment, robes more plush than polar bears and, by god, a turn-down service with a single rose.

4. The Norfolk Guest House, Guelph, Ontario

When Kim and I were narrowing our house search to Guelph, we wanted to get a full snapshot of the downtown core and what living there might be like. We stopped in at the Wellington Brewery (an effective way to assess the city) to buy a 6-pack of bitters, found a place serving up killer peameal bacon sandwiches and house-made kettle chips(delivered in a cast iron frypan) and later, went with our agent to check out a house on Powell that we were completely smitten with online.

The bed and breakfast was smack dab in the neighbourhood we wanted to live in. We chose the Turkish Suite in the 1867 mansion. The website promised it was “fit for a sultan.” It had a double hydro massage whirpool tub, sexy glass multi-jetted shower, heated tile floors, and again, a bed that was of fairy tale proportions.

Breakfast the following day was obscenely good with all the homey fry-up fixings and relaxed conversation over the morning paper and punchy hot coffee.  Janet was the perfect Guelph ambassador and convinced us that Guelph, indeed, had to be our new hometown. (Editor’s note: our new hometown will be West Galt, near to Guelph, allowing us the pleasure to stay at the Norfolk Guest House again).

5. Captain’s Quarters, Kemah, Texas

Insert sigh and inject ultimate relaxation and pampering here. After a week in Surfside Beach in Galveston, Kim and I were reluctant to pack up for the weekend. We’d had the lazy luxury of a three bedroom house on the ocean for five days. “Our” house was reserved for the weekend, so, we were forced to move on. Thunderstorms were projected for the next few days, the aftermath of hurricane activity in the Gulf. We hoped we could beat the storm front by staying ahead of it and moving north along the coast to Kemah.

We’d never heard of Kemah before, but we had two nights before our flight out of Houston and were game for more sun and beach. Our initial poking around Kemah revealed that every B&B was sold out or, asking for $300 a night.

The Captain’s Quarters B&B close to the boardwalk was hardly a last resort. It was more along the lines of—should we? There were cheaper places. We could push on to Houston. We asked for keys to check the place out before we committed.  The 5^th floor widow’s walk sucked us in. The gulf side balcony with rockers pulled us in even further. A basket of fresh pastries would be delivered to our room in the morning. What did we think?

We were minutes away from the famed boardwalk which painted the night sky in a colourful eruption of lights. The amusement rides zoomed and whirled in the soundless distance. All we could hear was the breeze whipping off the bay. Hello romance!

I was all over the fresh pastries. I was already seated upstairs in the widow’s walk with Kim, a bottle of blackberry-heavy Tempranillo from Haak Winery  and our nearly-finished beach books. I was even drinking coffee the next day in one of the rockers, scanning for dolphins.

It was the perfect compromise for uprooting from our private house on Surfside Beach.

And now, 2013…where will we sleep next?

St. Lucia? Iceland? The Phillipines? That cool treehouse orb in Qualicum Beach in BC? Memphis?

Stay tuned. And, in the meantime, check out the best places we slept in 2011.

Deep Fried Texas

It started off with an innocent appetizer upon our arrival. Feeling the Texas heat seep into our bones, chugging pints of the local craft brews and then…somehow our trip transformed into an eight day pilgrimage of deep-fried crab, avocado, pickles, pulled pork and bacon-wrapped this and that. While Virginia may be for lovers (as their license plates dictate), Texas is for eaters.

If you didn’t get the memo–on the 8th day, God made deep-fried jalapeno balls stuffed with pulled pork and called them something fancy: Armadillo Eggs. And they were good. So good they came with directions to the emergency room 2.5 miles away from the cholesterol crime scene.

T-Bone Tom’s Steakhouse is the deep-fried go-to in Kemah, Texas. Guy Fieri of The Food Network’s Diners, Drive-ins and Dives (DDD) gave his coveted approval to the Armadillo and Shark Eggs (jalapenos stuffed with crab, shrimp and cheese) and DDD ear-marked T-bone Tom’s Sausage Sandwich. Kim and I could barely eat our balls (four ostrich-sized “eggs”) and packed up the monster sandwich for a shared brunch the next day. Have you checked out the interactive site for DDD? The Food Network On The Road allows you to search a city and find out where Guy has been and burped.

Our original intention was to find some surf and turf at Stingarees on Bolivar Island. We took the free car ferry from Galveston with crab legs and salty tequila-punched margs on our mind. However, Stingarees was closed until 6pm but the marina also housed the more casual Down Under pub where we joined day-drinkers and birder-types heading home from the tidal flats and burrowing owl stomping grounds. It was a tough decision between the fried fare: crab patty burgers, po’boys, boudin balls (deep-fried pork and rice balls) and fish tacos. Kim opted for the greenest choice–deep fried pickles with a dilly mayo. I ordered the fried shrimp po’boy on a buttered and fried bun. Hypertension level: soaring to a record high.

It gets worse (but better really, from a totally non-health conscious point of view). At the Fisherman’s Wharf we ordered a round of Saint Arnold’s Elissa IPA and the Galveston Trio. This platter is exactly what you would demand before the electric chair: Gulf shrimp stuffed with jack cheese and wrapped in bacon, deep-fried panko-rolled crab-stuffed jalapenos on a bed of fried matchstick onions and, stop the presses–a rich crab and queso (cheese) dip with a pile of tortilla chips for dunking.

Analysis so far? Texans love their deep-fried balls. At Landry’s Seafood House in Kemah we uncovered the ball show-stopper: crab-stuffed avocado “lightly” fried with a heavy-duty chipotle ranch dip and fire-breather side salsa.

Feeling rather sluggish on my morning runs along the jetty of Surfside Beach, we thought chicken sandwiches at Sharkey’s would be a smart departure from the steady feed of stuffed balls. My vision of 12 grain bread with thick slices of beefsteak tomato, some greens and non-deep-fried chicken was squashed. The white bread Texas Toast was saturated with butter–enough to allow me to skip lip balm application for three days. And, there was more mayo than chicken on the sucker.

Of course, to round out our Texas experience, we had to do a taqueria. They lined the freeway in between every Cracker Barrel, Denny’s, IHOP, Whataburger, Jack-in-the-Box, Chick-a-fil and Fudrucker’s. At El Pike Regio we packed back Pirata Regios–tortillas loaded with beef and guacamole and a thin hot-as-hell salsa. For $10 bucks we had tacos, a gallon of agua de Jamaica (hibiscus juice) and a smoky bean and jalapeno soup. Olé. Plus, we could watch the latest Spanish soaps at full-blast on three flatscreen televisions.

And just as we had sworn to a salad-only existence once we returned to Toronto, we discovered these at the convenience store. Margarita beer chips with that perfect kettle-cooked crunch. Paired with a Landshark lager and a lampshade, these chips took my Best Ever award, ousting my fall back Terra Sweets and Blues.

 

Editor’s note: I’m happy to announce that after eight hoggy days of pig-outs, sleep-ins, extended happy hours and being relative beach butts, we are actually gout-free. And, kind of longing for those Texan deep-fried balls.

Dear Lynn Crawford: A Cuban SOS

 

Dear Lynn Crawford, steely Iron Chef competitor, former executive chef of Four Seasons New York and Toronto, top dog at Rubywatchco and firecracker host of the Food Network’s Pitchin’ In–

CC: The Barefoot Contessa, Nigella Lawson, Jamie Oliver, Anthony Bourdain

S.O.S! Cuba needs your knives and spice racks!

Ten years ago my partner and I went to Holguin, Cuba. The water was just like the glossy brochure: like 7-up, like Perrier, like all those things that are promised.  The sand is tumbled diamonds, as soft as walking through flour.

But, the Cuban food. Insert groan here. Welcome to the all-inclusive buffet, more commonly referred to as the “barfet.” There has to be a PhD thesis in here somewhere—about the hysteria created in normal citizens over an all-you-can-eat buffet. It’s as though we believe that our stomachs are sudden bomb shelters. We must take stock! Eat as much as we can! Quick! More!

But we couldn’t. Even if we wanted to, we were appalled at how the entire barfet offering was deep-fried. All the fresh fruit was submerged in cloyingly sweet syrup.  The sodium content of normally healthy vegetables made my aorta take on the pace of Morgan Spurlock’s Super Size Me documentary heart.

The fish was so salty it tasted like it was sweating on my plate. I was retaining more water than information. Although, that might have had some correlation to rum intake. In this vein, Cuba took top marks. The daiquiris and pina coladas were boozy, frothy textbook perfect rum shakes. They became our meal replacements because we couldn’t bear another agonizing walk along the buffet line.

Scroll forward ten years, back to Cuba. Back to Holguin even—but without the cushy, sanitized all-inclusive experience.

I had earned the Willy Wonka golden ticket–a travel writing scholarship awarded by the Adventure Centre, that had me hopping on 10 day Geckos Viva Cuba tour as a participant. I had the opportunity to eat, imbibe and delve into textures and terrains of Cuba that were amiss in my not-so-cultural visit in 2002. And write all about it for the Matador Network.

So, Lynn Crawford, I knew eating was going to be a daily challenge. And I’m no fusspot! I’ll eat testicles, insects, that green glop on the lobster’s head, hot sauce made from fire ants, piranha, tripe soup even!

I knew that Cuba had one reliable fall back in its pizza, so I wasn’t totally alarmed about returning to the island for two weeks. Which makes me feel like a fussy teenager, unwilling to try anything that might have the likes of curry or cilantro in it.

Cuban pizza is a godsend though. In Trinidad, 20 minutes from the south coast’s best beach (Playa Ancon) I found solace AND the best mango and pineapple pizza on the terrace of Restaurante Trinidad Colonial. For 10 bucks I had a pizza as big as a bicycle wheel and two cold beers, oblivious to the sheets of rain blamed on the aftermath of Tropical Storm Isaac.

I know what you’re thinking. Surely, on a tropical island there has to be some enterprising chef taking advantage of the local produce veta madre (mother lode).  There has to be something more amazing than pizza to eat!

I’ll take a pass on the guavas. Those suckers have lethal pits for anyone with dental work. Clarification: guava pits are dangerous for anyone with teeth, in general. They are as hard as peppercorns!

I applaud the Cuban pineapple though. The watermelon is a little anemic, its flesh was a consistent cat tongue colour, and not as sweet as the Californian cannonballs we import. Cuban bananas are often freckled more than an Irish kid and ready for banana bread, but the plantain…it makes for such addictive chips—I’d even take a pass on Tostitos for the dense and starchy crunch of plantain.

So, Lynn, here’s my beef. Cuba has avocadoes as big as footballs and they refuse to make guacamole. When I returned to Toronto I immediately pulled up the menu of Julie’s Cuban Cafe on Dovercourt. HA! Guacamole. Our Geckos guide Leo sneered at me when I said he could make a mint if he opened a tortilla chip and guacamole stand. “That is Mexican. We are Cuban.” So! I balked, “I’m Canadian, I make guacamole!”  He wouldn’t budge on his stance. The Cuban avocado is like green butter, as rich as a handful of macadamia nuts. It’s often served on a side plate with sliced beets, green beans and wimpy carrots. Boo.

I want guacamole.

Leo teases me with talk of the Christmas avocado, three times bigger than the ones we’ve seen for sale along the Obispo in Havana. Shame. I bet a Christmas avocado would feed 40.

Cuba needs a Christmas avocado guacamole intervention.

And how about some hot sauce? I thought every island had their own fiery concoction. I am at the rationing stage of my Marie Sharp’s grapefruit hot sauce, procured on a February trip to Belize. In fact, I’ve hoarded two extra bottles that were intended as gifts. It’s citrusy with a surreptitious drop-kick. Surely Cuba could whip up its own blazing counterpart?

The only condiments that grace a Cuban table are (50% of the time) white vinegar and oil. Slim pickings. Some of the hotels we stay at have ornate displays of HP, A-1, ketchup and mustard—showcased like they are fine wines.

One hundred percent of the time, mayo makes an appearance. It’s the Cuban cure-all. Mid-trip we take shelter from the rain at ZinZin in Santiago de Cuba. Between serenades from the Cuban playing showtunes on his Flamenco guitar, our server delivers fresh bread and an accompaniment to our table.

Tipsy from afternoon mojito intake, we all greedily grab at the bread. It’s so fresh and pliable! I slather on more butter than I normally would, slightly starved from a slim ham and cheese toastie lunch by the pool.

“This isn’t butter,” Jacqueline remarks.

I agree.  “What is it?” I struggle to place the taste.

“Mayo!”

We are eating not “bread” per se, but sliced hot dog buns with mayo. And we think it’s the best thing ever.

I entered the danger zone that night.

Lynn, the baguettes in Cuba could be used in a cricket game as bats. I am embarrassed to be so complimentary of white hot dog buns!

Could you run a workshop on 12 grain bread baking? Even 7 grains would do. Any grains? The bread that is served with breakfast is already in a crouton state. Is it pre-toasted?

I wouldn’t even feed most of the bread I eat in Havana to birds. They would never fly away again with its weight. Every endemic Cuban bird would become a flightless turkey.

Am I simply missing North American preservatives? Food dye #5?

I am a big cheerleader of eating local and I KNOW that Cuba has very local mangoes, sugarcane and coffee. The island outside of city centres is verdant and pastoral. The red dirt pulls me back to Prince Edward Island in a flash.

All the essential elements of an awesomely stocked kitchen grow in Cuba: sweet potato, lychee, okra, peanuts, coconut, plantain. Pork. Beef. Chicken (often joked about in trip guides as being “born fried”). Lobster, red snapper, mahi mahi and shrimp are on every menu. But, they get overcooked to the point of the fish doubling as a shoe insole.

And the stew. Not a stew at all. I had a rabbit stew at El Nardo and it was actually a rabbit leg in OXO cube gravy. At El Barracon in Santiago de Cuba I have the lamb stew, and it’s just lamb in gravy. The kind of gravy I loved in high school on a $2 plate of fries. Not stew. But the gravy is better at El Barracon.

So, why? Why the OXO cube gravy? Why all the mayo? WHY all the lacklustre stale white bread-cheese-ham sandwiches?

I am barely surprised when I place my order at Plaza Vieja Factoria and am told that they are “out of Cuban sandwiches.” How can Cuba be out of Cuban sandwiches? It’s like Manhattan being sold out of Manhattan martinis.

I do find passable snacks like Pelly pork rinds. Cubans are mad about their “aerated chips.” All of them are of the cheezie family consistency—more air than substance, and called chicarrons.  Even the chicarrons would be better with guacamole.

Don’t even get me started on the coffee. Most mornings I can’t figure out if I’m drinking coffee or tea. The UHF shelf milk (long lasting milk that doesn’t require refrigeration) adds floaty bits that make the cofftea more mud puddle than breakfast beverage.

I come to realize (and in the end, even our Cuban guide agrees) that Cuba prides itself more on quantity than quality. Dinners are like Italian weddings with seven courses. I would never normally eat a plate of watermelon and pineapple followed by black bean soup, some polenta, then a plate of soggy green beans, avocado and boiled beets and another dish with a chicken breast and three cups of rice. PLUS, one of three typical desserts: ice cream, bread pudding or sponge cake. With espresso. Ugh.

Creme de Menthe on bread pudding. If a Christmas tree barfed, this is what it would taste like.

Lynn, can you help? I know the premise of your Pitchin’ In show. The whole island needs your kitchen brains and pizzazz. I know you’ve already set the menu: snapper flambéed in dark rum, grilled espresso-rubbed pork and plantain on sugarcane skewers, mango cobbler with avocado gelato…

SOS.

Cuba needs you Lynn Crawford.

(But, we need you too, in Toronto.)

Signed,

I-ate-pizza-for-10-days-Jules

Viva Cuba?

I’ve unpacked my bag long enough to launder my favourite tees and jeans, only to put them back in the same bag versus drawers.

Last week: Edmonton, Alberta and the fever pitch of the folk festival. This week? Viva Cuba. Scroll back just a month ago to an email from Joshua Johnson, Dean of Education at Matador U. Josh suggested I apply for an upcoming travel scholarship with the Adventure Centre.  My writerly pal Keph Senett had taken the Olympic travel writing gold the previous year and landed a travel writing gig with them in Turkey.

Unaware of where I might be flung if I was a lucky recipient, I sacrificed sleep to post “The Genesis of a Traveler” while prepping  for a camping get-away the very next day in the dunes of Lake Huron.

We eventually returned from the wi-fi free woods (with resistance), campfire smoke still permeating from our clothes, desensitized to stress and far-removed from any type of routine other than basic human instincts of eating and sleeping. My inbox was percolating. Life had continued on and moved forward as we toasted marshmallows and communed with fireflies.

After deleting 50+ tripadvisor, expedia and Flight Centre HOT DEALS adverts, I was about to have my Sally Field moment of “I can’t deny the fact you like me right now. You like me!”  I had been shortlisted for the scholarship! (Insert internal jumping up and down here). Josh wondered how I felt about jetting off to Central or South America for two weeks, and getting to write and blog all about it for Matador.  He asked me to pick from a slew of dates in July and August as my mind raced all over the map from the Bolivian salt flats to Antofagasta, Chile. Maybe Big Corn Island, Nicaragua?

It was the best lottery I had ever played. The odds were tremendously good. I chose the latest dates in August, only because I had already jumped on the Edmonton folk fest press trip at the beginning of the month and thought I should work a few days in between trips to fluff the feathers of my holiday-generous boss (thank you Sara DeRuiter!).

Disclaimer: I do have a day job which finances my writing habit that I am exceedingly grateful for. And now, having acknowledged this on a social media platform, I probably owe my boss tequila shots or something to that effect for yet another work sabbatical granted. But, I digress.

I returned from the woods just as Josh left to go on his own camping trip in upstate NY. We were playing offline tag. When he returned he said, “How do you feel about Cuba?” And, more importantly, if I felt like he thought I was gonna feel about a writing gig + trip somewhere fab, he suggested I “get those shifts covered.”

I will leave for Havana on Monday still scratching Edmonton mosquito bites on my ankles. Between massages at my day job at Body Blitz I am doing a Cuba crash-course.  Of course, I don’t imagine I’ll pull up much Spanish from the dark recesses of my 1994 brain. Prior to my volunteer work with Youth Challenge International (94-95)) in Costa Rica, I enrolled in a three month Spanish course at the local college.  All was lost when my placement was in Alto Cuen, a village where the locals spoke Cabecar, not Spanish. However, I still remember these all important phrases:

“El gato es negro.” (The cat is black)

“Nunca comer más de lo que puede levantar.” (“Never eat more than you can lift.” ~Miss Piggy)

My meagre Spanish barely revived when Kim and I went to Holguin, Cuba in 2002. In my spirograph life of circles, it only makes sense that I return. Our time in Holguin was largely awash in rum (aka: The Original Rum Diaries made more famous by Johnny Depp). Our goal then? Tanning to a respectable shade of mahogany. We did nothing but lie prone and have a ball. A rum ball. Cuba libres, mojitos, daiquiris. It was your typical all-inclusive, culturally-exclusive resort. But it was February and we were from warmth-starved Canada. We had a homing instinct for the beach, and found exactly that. The ocean was as clear as Perrier and I swear you could see all the way to Florida underwater. We gave top marks to the sun and a boo to the menu. We renamed the hotel buffet the “barfet” and survived on nothing more than poolside pizza and pieces of gum. We were like boa constrictors, feeding ourselves once a day, basking and then shedding.

It’s time for a re-visit.

Pressed for time, I will have to cheat on my info uploading by renting Che from Queen Video (about Marxist revolutionary Ernesto “Che” Guevara). Probably putting sleep on hold until my flight Monday morning, I’ll try and watch The Motorcycle Diaries again too, with hunky Gael Garcia Bernal portraying the young Che on his 1952 South American expedition/transformation.

I think I’ve got rum research down pat from our time in Belize earlier this year. And, I have a Hemingway novel under my belt (The Green Hills of Africa), which will lend to my appreciation of the Museo Hemingway. In 1939, Ernest Hemingway rented a villa at San Francisco de Paula, 15km southeast of Havana. He bought the house a year later and lived there until 1960. Lonely Planet urges a stroll through his garden to see his sentimental dog cemetery, his old fishing boat El Pilar and the pool where Ava Gardner swam naked.

On the bird front: the world’s smallest bird, the zunzun, lives here (Gran Parque Natural Montemar). The bee hummingbird is only 6.5cm long (think toothpick). Ivory-billed woodpeckers were last spotted in the early 80s in Parque Nacional Alejandro de Humboldt. Reading more about the flora and fauna I have learned that there is a “friendly” edible rodent (4kg)—the jutia. And, one of only two clear-winged butterflies in the world lives in Cuba (the mariposa de cristal). Oooh, and whale sharks frequent the Maria la Gorda area on the eastern tip from August to November.

Other miscellaneous Cuban highlights:

1. Responsible diving means minimizing your disturbance of marine animals. Lonely Planet says, “Never ride on the backs of turtles.”

In Luxor, Egypt, turtles are still allowed to ride on turtles.

2.”Most Cubans drink their rum straight up and, on more informal occasions, straight from the bottle.” ~Lonely Planet

3. Ron a granel (rum from the barrel) is also known as “drop her drawers” and “train sparks”

4. “Local chickens are born fried” and SPAM is alive and well.

5. There are over 200 cinemas in Havana.

6. Gyms in Havana and Holguin welcome foreigners for ‘friendly’ boxing training.

I’ve packed my pre-requisite Clif Bars and trail mix in lieu of SPAM and I think I’ll take the one-two punch of a Papa Hemingway Special (daiquiri made with grapefruit juice) at El Floridita versus a sinewy Cuban in satin shorts. Although, legend has it that Ernest pounded back 13 doubles in one sitting. Maybe a round in the ring is a better idea.

Stay tuned for updates August 20—September 1^st as I hop on the Geckos Viva Cuba trip from Havana to Santiago de Cuba to Camaguey to Trinidad to Santa Clara to Havana!

Cheese Whiz Waffles and Panty Rippers

Reina's hangover helpers --Cheese Whiz and ham waffles

Our sense of smell is a remarkable gateway to our past. There are scents that transport us to a time and place with the inertia of memory on auto-pilot. Zest soap: my great-grandmother’s bathroom. Tiny Tom donuts: the CNE fairgrounds, Labour Day weekend. Gasoline on a still and frozen winter morning: snowmobiling with my grandfather. Alone, they are generic smells, but they take us to individual and treasured parts of our being. I could type out a list of words and I bet five bucks you have a story or person attached to it. Pot roast. Drakkar Noir. Those grade school purple-inked ditto machines that we all got high on before a pop quiz. Wet dog. Sulphur. Mothballs. Root cellars. Lilacs. Tequila. Espresso. See?

When I leave Body Blitz at day’s end, I distinctly smell like spa. If I’ve been to Jimmy’s coffee shop on my break, then I smell like a hybrid: Americano meets spa. Both accessible and instant escapes. Mid- January, a sexy Italian fusion joint opened beside our spa. As I exit the spa’s back door now, I am spirited away by the best smell I know. Fire. The kitchen’s Tuscan wood fire grill cuts out the King West neighbourhood I stand in and throws me headlong into Africa. I’m taken to the Tuesday night markets in Entebbe where vendors beg for your business, motorbike taxis insist on their services, skeletal dogs pick at open garbage heaps and wood smoke clouds the air.

Coconut snapper at Iris Sunnyside, Hopkins Village

The smell of fire takes me a lot of places around the world, and as I walk towards home, away from Gusto and their Tuscan grill, I find myself back in Belize.

Lonely Planet had warned that Belizean food wasn’t remarkable enough to rave about, but not terrible enough to complain about. Arriving with few expectations we readied ourselves for a solid three week feed of starchy rice and beans, wimpy chicken and dismissable warm beer. Kim and I quickly found ourselves with not enough hours to eat all that we wanted.

Mayhem and marvel at Wish Willy's

Caye Caulker, a car-less island 45 minutes from Belize City, was the most satisfying eating safari I’ve been on. Mobile vendors presented a carousel of inviting snacks in the form of warm, spice-hopped corn and chicken tamiltos. We bought jugs of just-blended melon, mango, orange and banana juices (to help balance the local paint-thinner vodka). A sinewy boy sold us iPhone-sized squares of his mother’s prized coconut fudge at the Split for less than a dollar. We had thick and dense banana bread and impromptu pillowy brownies at Wish Willy’s. We didn’t order the brownies, it was merely part of the Wish Willy experience that night. Maurice, a giant chef with a giant personality,  made his way to each table, regardless of whether customers had been served or were midway through dinner, to offer them a generous wedge of his signature brownies, straight from the pan they were just baked in.

By far, our experience at Wish Willy’s was the most comical. We could tell by the number of Belikin beer bottles on each table that “rush” or “fast” was not on the menu (and adherent to the Belizean motto of “Go Slow”). In fact, there was no set menu. A few entrees scratched out on a blackboard offered suggestions, but nothing that was advertised was available. I asked for conch skewers and was served spicy shrimp. Kim requested the curried pork but was convinced to try the snapper. Maurice later insisted she had chops because he ran out of snapper, but a beer later he asked Kim how the snapper was.

Step aside Colonel Sanders

Syd’s Fried Chicken took my Top Swoon Meal award. For $4.50 US we had a chicken leg and breast that was the equivalent of a wayward Thanksgiving turkey. A small army of vocal cats joined us in the garden area for dinner, expressing their mutual love of Syd’s chicken. It was like a Belizean take on Shake n’ Bake served with enough rice to throw at three weddings. With a petting zoo underfoot.

Reina’s Bakery was a carb-load sanctuary after a night of rum-heavy panty-rippers at the Thirsty Lizard. For $2.50US we had Bon Appetit magazine-perfect waffles with ham and (say it isn’t so!) Cheese Whiz. Kim was reduced to moaning over that brunch (mostly due to the Cheese Whiz and ham fusion, somewhat due to the panty-rippers). The syrup was dark and heavy and the punchy coffee helped realign our rum-logged heads.

Sometimes Things to Eat For Less Than a Dollar proved to be not-so-great gastro-intestinal ideas in Belize. This was discovered after buying grapefruit juice (to finish off the rocket fuel One Barrel rum we’d been nursing) and tablate from a singing Rastafarian on the bus. He hopped on as we idled at the Dangriga station with a cookie tray and a song and sold us a coaster-sized tablate for 50 cents. It was definitely a member of the fudge family, heavy on the sugar, butter and coconut frontier. Probably made with a little E.coli in less than sanitary kitchen conditions. But, c’mon, for 50 cents? It became our version of a cheap and instant cleanse when paired with the river juice probably made with ditch water.

The buses in Belize offered a convenient assortment of local ’fast-food’ options. Vendors randomly jumped on the buses at unmarked stops along the Hummingbird Highway to hawk massive cinnamon buns, hot tamales and durosa. The durosa was another under-a-buck option that was questionable. Wrapped in a corn husk it was enticingly described as shredded plantain in a sweet coconut milk-tamale stuffing. It was more like wet barf in a corn husk. Kim wouldn’t let me finish it.

Belizean Seaweed Shake--they promise to "Bring out the man in you"

Better finds were the Irish Moss seaweed shakes at The Shak in Placencia (also available pre-made at convenience stores in plastic bottles). The shakes had an egg nog consistency and a subtle-not-sickly sweet custard taste with a good hit of nutmeg. The peanut shake was too much like Kraft peanut butter blended with table cream. Whipped a little thicker, it could have been served on a bed of noodles with cilantro as a Thai dish, not as a sweltering afternoon thirst-quencher.

Cheap eats were easily found near the beach in Caulker, allowing us to ditch our Pee-wee Herman one-speed bikes in the sand and kick off our flip flops while our order made its way to the grill. Budget Man and Fran’s pumped out hefty coconut curries and slaw (Budget Man by day, Fran by night) that were full of heat and authentic Belizean kick. Fran’s communal picnic table was never empty. Her blackboard seafood specials varied and when she sold-out, she went home.

In Hopkins Village we made dusty and dark treks to  IRIS Sunnyside cafe for golden coconut-crusted grouper and collards. (Since our return home I’ve given the coconut-crust treatment to shrimp and chicken). We subjected ourselves to the wind-whipped patio of The Barracuda Bar and Grill at Beaches & Dreams Resort (warm and boozed by the 2 for 1 sunset drinks) where we had blackened Cajun barracuda bites that we still rave about. Alaskan expats and chefs Tony and Angela Marsico also impress with killer flatbread pizzas, high octane cocktails and spoiled resort views.

Bravoo Over Proof -- bottled headache!

And the ceviche! Electric lime and generous amounts of conch and shrimp…we had it everyday.  I couldn’t get enough of the soursop juice, Marie Sharp’s grapefruit hot sauce, The Shak’s banana pancakes, mango-coconut shakes and salty plantain chips. Kate’s Bakery baseball-sized pumpkin muffins in Hopkins set the bar too high for anything I might find in Toronto. And the street hotdogs in Placencia with embarassing amounts of mayo, chopped onion and jalapenos? The jerk snapper and Dog House coconut water and rum sundowners? Unmatched.

Yeah, big sigh.

Best pit stop on the Hummingbird Highway

I drift back to Placencia and our most expensive beers of the trip ($15US) which we downed sitting all fancy and rich-like at Francis Ford Coppola’s Turtle Inn. On the flip side, I smile bigger at a flashback of our last Belikin beers which we had in plastic cups with (more!) of the infamous Belize steamie dogs at Jet’s Bar in the Belize City airport (on AOL’s Top 10 Airport Bars in the World list). I think of the charming simplicity of Mrs. Bertha’s tamale stand. The mmmm-inducing lobster and baked breadfruit at Rose’s in Caulker. The greasy and dangerously good fry-jacks (deep-fried dough) in Cahal Pech, immersed in a cacophony of tropical bird sound.

All this because I smelled a fire.

We can travel to places so easily. The best part is we can bring them back with us too.

In Lieu of Maternity Leave: Leaving the Country

When you are a massage therapist, you are bestowed with a lot of contemplative time (unfortunately accompanied by a pan flute soundtrack). Most often I have five to six hours of uninterrupted reflection a day as my hands navigate chronically irritated muscles, scar tissue, non-turning necks and stubborn low backs. In between hypertonic hamstrings and quads (and pan flute solos), my  mental auto-pilot finds comfortable cruising altitude in rehashing bits of the books I’m reading. Currently, I’m jumping between chapters of Ewan McGregor’s Long Way Round and the Frommer’s Iceland guide.

Long Way Round is the bromance McGregor wrote with fellow actor and road trip enthusiast, Charley Boorman. The motorbike fanciers took a dude trip on the backs of souped up BMW bikes from London to New York (part of a Bravo doc series in 2003). Yes, you can actually do this. It’s a mere short cut across Kazakhstan and Mongolia. Disclaimer: I’m not scheming a similar adventure (although if I did,  I would choose a BMX versus a BMW to retrace their route), but, I’m always hungry for sweaty and dusty travel memoirs. From my chaise lounge outpost in Belize I finished  Julie and Colin Angus’ Rowed Trip which chronicled the just-engaged couple’s macho and ambitious row and bike from Scotland to Syria, visiting their ancestral grounds. Before that I was flea-bitten and a little lonesome with Britta Das in Mongar, Bhutan in Buttertea at Sunrise, practically sipping the salty tea with my eyes trained on her ominous Himalayan backdrop. A few weeks ago I was hanging on to Thomas Kohnstaam’s backpack as he tromped and boozed his way through Brazil on assignment for Lonely Planet in Do Travel Writers Go To Hell?

Whether writers are sculling the edges of the Black Sea, detailing servo-booster brake and beefy Boxer engine performance off-road, emotionally excavating the isolation of monsoon season or staring at the weeping ceilings of some shit hostel with a crush of strung-out Aussies, I am there. Five pages into the Frommer’s guide,  I’m already in Iceland too (fast forward to September 2012). I make note of the Museum of Small Exhibits in Upper Eyjafjordur that exhibits master carpenter (and dare we say, hoarder?) Sverrir Hermannsson’s collections of cocktail napkins, tacks, fake teeth, hair elastics, waffle irons and (wait for it…) “pencil shavings in unbroken spirals.” There’s also a Museum of Sorcery and Witchcraft, Skogar Folk Museum (carved headboard and makeshift mousetrap artifacts) and of course, the Museum of the Phallus which must make every man so immensely proud of his member. There are 276 specimens on display, including last year’s donation from a 95-year-old Icelandic man, Pall Arason, whose legacy will remain erect.

I already have Kim signed up to try Icelandic classics like putrefied shark, sheep’s head jelly, cod chins and Brennivin (‘Black Death’)–a potent fermented potato mash and caraway seed hooch. Afternoons escape me as I read about the likes of the Vogafjos Cowshed Cafe in Bjarnarflag. The cafe looks directly into a milking shed (milking times are 7:30 am and 5:30pm). Warm milk is passed around and homemade mozza and feta is on the menu. “Bedrooms in old Icelandic turf farms were often placed directly over the cow stables for sharing body heat. Cow intimacy carries on at this cafe.” How great is that?

And this is how it happens. I’m massaging and traveling in my head and scheming about our next trip. The pan flute concerto is replaced by the hum of a bright and shiny revelation. The Employment Standards Act and Maternity Leave! I have zero interest in having a baby, but I like the 52 weeks off deal. In lieu of the baby part, I would like to take a baby trip. I’ve worked 600 insurable hours in 52 weeks and contribute to Employment Insurance. So, how can I sign up? I’d like 15 weeks of paid mat leave, and then would be more than happy to do the 35 week parental leave benefits. Even though it would be 55% of my average earning, it would still make for a nice weekly travel paycheque.

Better yet, I might be able to convince my employer for a “top-up” to 75% of my average pay with a guarantee that I’ll return to my job in a year. Selling points to Best Boss Ever: No future concern about needing random nights off for parent-teacher interviews, the school’s Christmas assembly, the spring performance of Macbeth or last minute can’t-come-in-today-due-to snotty noses, high fevers and snow days.

Disclaimer: I have nothing against spring performances of Macbeth, or smiley preggo moms. However, there must be some fairness here, to those who would like to skip maternity leave and leave the country instead. Because, if you do the math like me (and I skipped a few classes in my day), the average mother gets A LOT of holiday time. Generous companies that allow employees to accrue vacation time without a cap still rarely dish out more than 10 weeks holidays for 25+ years of service. Which means, a mother of one child is earning the vacation equivalent of someone who has worked at a company for, practically a lifetime. Said mother could work one year and qualify for 52 weeks off which would take the average non-mother entitled to the average 2 weeks vacation a year, a whopping 26 years of work. Two years of mat leave is 104 weeks off which equals 80 dog years and probably 230 years working for the same company (with no gold service pen).

Again, I do love mothers, but, I believe they are hogging vacay time with their womb staycations.

*Editor’s Note: By no means is this to be misconstrued as a desire for me to see firsthand the workload of the modern mother. I get it. It’s not the 52 week holiday package I would choose. And, this is also not a cry out for babysitting offers. I traded in my biological clock for a travel alarm clock long ago.

Central American Correspondent: Guest Blogger & My Kid Sister–Kiley Torti!

Kiley with a King penguin colony in Tierra Del Fuego, Chile

Oh, how I love to razz my sister about her angst-filled teenagehood. The days when she was so cross-armed miserable if there wasn’t a souvenir shop or outlet mall scheduled into our day. She HATED nature. Loathed it. Rolled her eyes at my mom’s carefully researched itinerary of everglades, whale-watching, breeding grounds and biosphere reserves. Often, Kiley and my dad shared company, generally on a park bench with a soft-serve ice cream cone. Licking each other’s wounds. The two of them would find non-nature activities while my brother Dax and I took enormous delight in tromping through the woods and swamps with Mom.

Mark at Sorcerer Lodge (Golden, BC) being very fancy

Mid-January of this year, Kiley and her partner, Mark, began their intrepid four month trek across Central America. To clarify, Kiley now LOVES nature and practically resides in the belly of it, on Sulphur Mountain in Banff, Alberta. She has climbed countless peaks, traversed slush, snow and muck from Nepal to Argentina via trusty hiking boots, telemark skis, dogsled, yak (I think) and donkey (I think). She’s also submerged herself in surreal reefs from the Gold Coast in Australia to Maui and most recently, Utila, Honduras.

When she sent her latest colourful mass email from a Nicarguan outpost, I was so impressed by her writing chops that I insisted she be my guest blogger. Flattered, she only made me promise to severe spellchecking (Spanish keyboards aside). Here it is, with no editorial mark-up. (With full acceptance of the fact that now my dad will want a guest spot as well).

Hola Amigos,

Well, this is my 3rd attempt at sending a grand message. Spanish keyboards continue to be my enemy & I managed to delete the last draft a week ago – ugh. So it´s been over a month since my first email and oh the places we have been. We started our trip in the Bay Islands of Honduras. After diving in Roatan, we took a catamaran & sailed over to the smaller islands of Utila on the hunt for whale sharks. We were unsuccessful but swimming with wild dophins and a friendly sea turtle was a decent consolation prize!

Sea turtle drive-by

After more diving & beach time in Utila, we took a ferry to the mainland of Honduras & took a luxury overland bus to Copan Ruinas. Seriously – Greyhound Bus lines could learn some lessons. In addtion to the movies & meals, the 1st class section offered extra wide seats (only 3 across) with foot rests & the option to fully recline. It makes a 7-hr bus trip go by quickly.

Copan Ruinas is only 12km from the Guatemala border and is a colonial city complete with cobblestone streets and ballsy little tuk-tuks navigating the streets. It has UNESCO world heritage status as its claim to fame is the nearby ruins known as the ‘Paris of the Mayan civilization.’ Copan Ruinas is also home to a flock of wild scarlet macaws. We stopped here for a couple of days to explore the temples as well as to visit Macaw Mountain – a bird refuge. The highlight of the tour was being ¨accessorized¨ by 3 parrots, one in each hand and one on my shoulder singing in my ear! The toucans were a little more shy & there were lots of owls who made the tropical area home.

Our next bus leg was supposed to be 6 hours but it turned into a 9-hour epìc joourney due to road construction & an ill-advised passage through Guatemala City at night. We passed the border without problems but arrived at our next destination in the dark without a reservation (not recommended). Antigua, Guatemala is another colonial town and UNESCO world heritage site. It sits in the shadow of two massive volcanoes that have terrorized the population over the centuries with eruptions, landslides & earthquakes.

Most of the architecture here was built by the Spanish conquistadors in the 16th & 17th century. Few of the original structures have survived the onslaught of natural disasters but the ruins of the grand churches and courtyards have their own distinct beauty. The facades of the buildings are a brilliant array of colour – canteloupe orange, sunflower yellow, watermelon pink, a rich burgundy & azul blue. Sprays of pink and purple bougainvillea spill over the Spanish tile rooftops and almost every house, restaurant & cafe open up into a beautiful courtyard or rooftop terrace with water fountains, lush greenery and countless flowers blooming. It has the history and sophistication of many European towns & it’s a foodie’s delight! Fresh roasted coffee, exotic fruit smoothies (mango, passionfruit, pineapple) and organic salads -  Mark & I ate ourselves around the city. We ended up spending almost two weeks in Antigua mostly with a local family – part of a homestay  program with the language school. We had 8 days of morning lessons & are pretty pleased with our Spanglesh. Mark has been an enthusiastic student & wished me a ¨Happy Anus¨on my birthday & got bonus marks on his final presentation on exotic fruit by concluding with the statement ¨I like little boys.”  So we have a few things to work on….

We spent a Sunday watching the local pro soccer team crush the competition 4-0. The win meant lots of fireworks but this is an everyday occurence in Antigua. Any excuse for fireworks is used – birthdays, religious ceremonies, you name it. There also seems to be no rules on the time of day – early morning, midday, evening – it´s quite entertaining. We´ve also been enjoying the local mercados and the abundance of fresh produce. Brought down from the highlands in pick-up trucks and chicken buses, the produce is straight from the local farms. The flower vendors are also a sight to see – orchids, cala lilies, roses – the abundance & variety is astounding. Add the mountain people with their colourful dress & dark skin -  the country feels like one giant box of Crayolas.

We toured an organic macadamia nut farm where we indulged in sublime macadamia nut pancakes slathered in nut butter and travelled to the largest market in Central America – Chichicastenango. The market is an overload for your senses -  colors, sounds and smells. Artisans hawk their wares next to chickens, produce, shoe shine boys, second hand clothing, dried beans, roasted coffee and chocolate-covered bananas (for the equivalent of only 12 cents each – Mark bought 3 that day). We left with full bellies, heavy shopping bags and a slim wallet. In between Spanish lessons & touring the city, we took a 3-day side trip to the northern region of Peten – home of the Guatemala jungle & the legendary ruins of Tikal. Our jungle hut was visited by coatimundis by day & monkeys at night.

We climbed Temple IV at sunrise & watched the mists lift to reveal the tops of nearby temples and listened to the jungle explode with the sound of howler monkeys. At night we returned to watch sunset from the top of the Acropolis & had a fly-by of a pair of green parrots about 1m from our heads. The evening bat flight is another story.

Our last stop in Guatemala was 5 days in Lago Atitlan – a gorgeous lake created by the surrounding volcanoes and a number of Mayan villages sprinkling the shorelines. In addition to Spanish, there are over 24 dialects of the Mayan language so the charades continued as we interacted with the locals. There are roads that make their way through the steep mounatins but the main mode of transportation is water taxi. We stayed in a funky town called San Marcos that is linked mainly by narrow walking paths between gardens, stonewalls & tiny guesthouses. Again, we were thrilled to find some outstanding restaurants serving up organic food and live music. Our accommodations were magic – we stayed at a cool art hotel and then moved to another village to stay at the fabled Casa del Mundo, perched high on a cliff overlooking the lake. The water was perfect for swimming and kayaking.

We spent a morning walking to a nearby village known in the area for its extreme poverty. They don´t see many visitors & tourism dollars are non-existent. We donated a soccer ball that we brought from Canada to a local school & were almost attacked in appreciation by a sea of happy boys with toothy white grins. Kids here grow up playing on dirt fields full of rocks and devoid of grass. Slide tackles are sure to bring blood. A reminder that grass stains are a blessing! Balls are often well worn bladders stuffed with filling & wrapped with duct tape & twine. Despite such challenging conditions, the kids are way more skilled at age 8 than many of the adult players I know.

Vicarious shipwreck diving for non-divers

From Guatemala we caught a short hopper flight into Nicaragua and immediately took a shuttle from the capital city of Managua to the smaller colonial city of Granada (the oldest in Central America with established roots going back to 1524). We climbed the nearby Mombacho Volcano heckled by howler monekys along the way. We spent a day swimming in the volcanic cater lake of Laguna Apoyo and sampled mojitos on the lakeside of Lago Nicaragua – the largest lake in Central America and home to the world´s only freshwater sharks. We then travelled south and took a sketchy ferry boat  to spend a magical 5 days in Ometepe – an island formed by an land isthmus of two volcanoes in the middle of the lake. Some fellow travellers had recommended accommodation at an organic farm where we ended up with our own cabin in the jungle.

Nightime visitors included a very large tarantula and leafcutter ants that made piles of flower petals just inside our door. By day all the windows on our cabin opened fully to the great outdoors so we could watch the hummingbirds and butterflies. In the evenings, the bats took flight as we watched the sunset on the volcano from our front porch. The owners make their own bread & yogurt, gather fresh eggs from their chickens, roast their own coffee and grow their own fruit & veggies. Breakfast was a 3-course meal every day: whole wheat pancakes with bananas, tropical juice hand-squeezed that morning, pineapple & lime crepes, omeletes & gallo pinto (black beans and rice)- the list goes on. Tourism here is still quite new so infrastructure is a bit raw. We toured the waterfalls, beaches & freshwater swimming holes on bikes that required six tire patches & a brand new tire due to a blow-out on the rough roads.

Beneath the volcanoes the farmers grow coffee, bananas & tobacco. On the roadsides Brahman cows graze with their floppy ears, horses freely roam the beach and the pigs and chicken mingle with the monkeys and parrots. Truly a wild landscape.

After our fairy tale stay in Ometepe, we made our way to San Juan Del Sur, a legendary surf spot that was put on the map by the movie Endless Summer.  We have spent our last few days enjoying the beaches around town, playing in the surf and eating fish tacos & lobster. We are almost at the two month mark and are soon headed to Costa Rica to continue our forays into the jungle & on the beach. The adventure continues!

Ciao!

~ Kiley

Channeling Our Inner Cavewoman: Actun Tunichil Muknal Cave, Belize

My spelunking career aspirations were squashed early on, after an unexpected and very harrowing moment for my 11-year-old self. I was midway through the fox hole of a cave in Rockwood Conservation Area, ignoring a rapid heartbeat and clammy hands in pursuit of raw adventure. After emerging from the fox hole we were promised the awe of a chamber that would allow us to all sit semi-upright and experience the void that is the 1000% darkness of a cave.

We were slick with muck, jittery from anxiousness, knees and elbows soggy from contorting through the narrow passages. The fox hole required us to crawl on our bellies through an opening that would surely make me hyperventilate today.

My age 11 whippet-thin body was not naive to my summer camp BFF’s discomfort that day. She was a husky girl, and clearly, husky foxes did not exist in these parts. Husky foxes did not use fox holes of this size. Crawling behind me with an increasingly heavy wheeze, Cheryl came to a dead stop in the middle of the fox hole. She was stuck. Ahead of her, shivery in the silent, wet depths, I was now stuck as well. The only way out was where Cheryl lie prone, psychologically paralyzed. I imagined a hundred long and dark deaths in the cave with Greg, our semi-fearless leader, and Cheryl, stuck in the fox hole.

It was immensely terrifying and in no way enlightening. It was simply a terrible thing that I still can’t fathom when I imagine myself in Cheryl’s skin. It seemed like days that she was immobile, heaving with tears, wailing with worry. I’m not sure what I did besides breathe equally as heavy and contemplate my own sorry fate.

Of course, as you may have surmised from this post, we got the hell out of that cave with the lubricant of confidence and Greg talking Cheryl off the ledge, so to speak.

In my hurry to be upright and feel sunlight on my shoulders again, and get out of the cave that I almost perished in, I split my head open on the top of the cave in my scramble out. The dull thud of skull on rock vibrated in each of my 206 bones. Everything felt thick and in soupy slow motion. Greg kept asking me who the prime minister was (which isn’t really a fair question to ask a kid. In fact, it’s not even the best question to ask me nowadays either).

The camp counsellors plied me with charred marshmallows by the fire, and pestered with quiz-like questions all night, fully aware that I may have conked myself into a concussion. I ate the marshmallows and rolled my eyes at all the political talk and was apparently fine. Fine enough to still be excited by the allure of caves and to poke around bigger ones (with standing room only) in Tennessee and Kentucky when I was a teenager.

As Kim and I read intensively about Belize pre-departure, clearly, caves were a dynamic draw for Central American travellers. We had already booked a recreationally lazy tube ride through the Caves Branch system (stalactites taken in at the comfortable speed of a gentle river’s slow flow). We asked other travelers about the Actun Tunichil Muknal (ATM) cave with more trepidation. Kim was keen on the challenge after our tube time while I was experiencing minor Cheryl-stuck-in-the-fox-hole flashbacks.

This WikiTravel ATM cave description made me sweat and pace a little: “The cave can be exited through a tight squeeze ending in a giant sink hole collapse in the jungle.” The main cave system at ATM is three miles long. Tight squeeze. Three miles seemed like a dreadfully long time to be in the dark. Again, tight squeeze.

Lonely Planet touted ATM as “undoubtedly one of the most incredible and adventurous tours you can take in Belize.” I thought our kamikaze boat ride to the Blue Hole and Lighthouse Reef to see the red-footed boobies was, but…Kim and I have a relationship that thrives on balance. She was a willing and enthusiastic participant in a back-breaking wave-smacking two hour trip to see birds with red feet. Surely I could suck up some old and dusty latent fears and poke around this cave at the edge of the Tapir Mountain Nature Reserve.

The part that made me scull back Belikin beer more quickly than usual? “Follow your guide into the cave starting with a frosty plunge into a 20-foot deep pool.”

We knew we’d have wet feet all day (with three river crossings en route to the cave opening), but to be completely wet up to my bangs—and frosty—for maybe three miles inside the cave? Insert groan and goosebumps here.

The 45-minute hike in was painless. The jungle was flat and moist. Bird shrills pulled our attention in all directions, massive morpho butterflies the size of Frisbees glided past, leaf-cutter ants led processions wherever they pleased. We paused to eat some live termites with encouragement from our guide who insisted they were minty. Indeed, they were. The African variety I had eaten in previous years had more of a scrambled egg aftertaste. The second jungle snack he introduced us to was a leaf with anti-venom properties that tasted like mouse shit, Vegemite, Buckley’s and death. Which meant, right before entering the cave, I felt like barfing from the bitter film of anti-venom leaf on my tongue with not a stupid venomy snake in sight.

Fast forward. We get the cave primer from our sturdy and sinewy guide and the plunge is totally frosty as promised. We have to swim 20 glacial meters to the cave shore and I already feel like I’ve entered an igloo.

But, wow. We are surrounded by a world that hums with the spirit of the Mayan people. Stalactites reach towards phallic stalagmites, thousands of years from ever meeting. The calcium-carbonate glistens as though the entire belly of the cave has been massaged with oil. We train our headlamps on the ceiling of the chamber to see massive jellyfish-like bodies of rock and shimmery chandeliers.

We become well acquainted with the river that winds through the cave. Sometimes we are knee-deep, at other times (more frequently), up to our collarbones with rocks pressing into our ribcages and unsuspecting knee caps. We scramble, heave, wade and swim deeper into the belly, in gentle pursuit of the Crystal Maiden.

Actun Tunichil Muknal translates into “Cave of the Stone Sepulcher,” and among the shards and intact pottery vessels that dot the chamber, we are on a strategic route to the calcite-encrusted remains of the Crystal Maiden. She keeps company with fourteen others that are visible. I begin to believe that more than 14 ancestral eyes are watching us.

In 1993, National Geographic filmed scenes in the ATM cave for a series entitled ‘Journey to the Underworld.’ ATM was also featured in the magazine’s July/August 2001 edition which boosted curiousity and foot traffic in the cave that only opened to the public in 1998. A Belizean archaeologist named Jaime Awe began exhaustive research into the ATM caves in the early nineties, and, to protect the area’s fragility, Awe personally trained two tour operators from Pacz Tours and Mayawalk Tours (six guides). To this day, only licensed operators are allowed to lead visitors inside the caves. The route is rigorous and a high level of fitness is paramount. You are sopping wet the entire time and in order to see the Crystal Maiden nearly half a mile inside the cave, you must remove your footwear and scramble up slick boulders and eventually mount a ladder to reach the uppermost chamber, in socks.

There is an eerie silence and historical pulse in that dry chamber. The depth of the darkness is liquid, calming and, if your mind permits, a bit anxiety-inducing. You are sharing breathing space with skeletons and troubling echoes of sacrificial cries.

Did I mention the squeeze where you have to angle your head and neck just-so? Yeah, with water up to your collarbones? That passage, tinier than a mouse fart, is a game changer. With walls like a vice grip, barely shoulder-wide, one must turn sideways, slide through the narrow neck allowance and heave up and out of the well. (Enter five pages of self-talk and mild cursing and palpitations here).

The guides spend around three hours inside the cave. The Crystal Maiden and the sacrificial grounds are the dramatic end point (where you can temporarily pull on a dry shirt from dry-sacs provided). Disclaimer: You must retrace your calculated steps back the same route and take that same frosty plunge to exit the cave.

National Geographic Society deems it one of the Top 10 Caves in the World for formidable reasons. The red-footed boobies are still awarded my Best Belize Moment, but if you want to wildly shake up your adrenalin stores into champagne fizz, submerge yourself into the world of 300 A.D. The ATM is taxing, exhausting and exhilarating. Our quad muscles groaned the next day from precarious toe-holds and careful foot placements in the riverbed.

When you click through photos that capture the heavy-breathing, chill and wonder, the reward is palpable. And the swallowed fear and hesitation is appreciated ten-fold weeks later in the safety of my Toronto apartment with a glass of wine and dry clothes.

 

The Nitty Gritty Insider Tips:

Most tour operators depart from San Ignacio (one hour to site, 20 minutes of which is spine-crunching bumpy). It’s a relatively easy 45 minute hike/amble to the mouth of the cave with periodic stops to learn about local flora & fauna and to enjoy termite pick-me-ups. It’s three shiver-inducing hours inside the cave, mostly submerged, but not completely. Lunch is provided by tour operators (a satisfying fix of grilled chicken, rice, curried squash and zucchini, grapefruit and granola bars).

There is a crude outhouse before the cave entrance where a pit stop is made for last minute nerve emissions and some carb-fueling for others. Helmets and headlamps are provided (they are Black Diamonds with fully charged batteries, not dim budget variety). You must be able to dog paddle at least 20 meters and be agreeable with water up to your chest in a few spots, be able to climb a 15-foot ladder and be comfortable in not-so-comfortable spaces. The tightest squish is the one displayed in the photo stream above. No flip flops or sandals are allowed, for good reason. The riverbed is rocky, silty and the the cave surface is often slick. Underwater cameras are best, although the guide carries several dry packs for cameras, money and dry shirts. Your feet will be wet the entire day and socks are essential for the dry chamber area. There is a small and primitive changeroom/washroom facility where you can change into dry clothing at the end. Bring your flip flops for the ride back to San Ignacio so you can slip out of everything that is soggy and be able to enjoy a cold Belikin or rummy drink in the downtown upon your return.

$85 US each, cash preferred. Half-payment on Visa allowed.