I think I just vomited

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/04/29/national-id-card-included_n_557721.html

Personally Responsible for Society

I heard two interesting arguments today. Both were proffered to rebut the assertion that illegal immigration is good for the country because illegal immigrants take the jobs that Americans refuse to work.

The first argument was that illegal immigrants occupy the jobs that people on welfare would be forced to take if the government did not pay their bills.

The second argument caught my attention not as an argument for more stringent (I would say fascist) immigration laws, but as a commentary on the state of American society.

The second argument goes like this. Teenagers no longer work menial jobs. Rather than spend their summers washing dishes or cars or working in a field, kids are finding other things to occupy their time. The down time formerly reserved for work is now spent on activities such as video games or drugs. And that time is increasingly spent on drugs. If kids were working menial jobs there would be none for illegal immigrants. Plus, kids would develop the kinds of habits that translate into a productive adult life.

I like the second argument. Not for what it offers to the immigration debate (nothing) but for what it says about our youth (my generation included) and the toll that unaware economic prosperity can have on a society. There has to be an awareness of the responsibility that comes with prosperity. It is incumbent on families to understand that kids need balance. There is always a temptation to shield your kids from the uncomfortable parts of your youth. This is a positive impulse when it regards a childhood of abuse or neglect or even a lack of sufficient affection; however, the same impulse can have a detrimental effect when it is employed to shield a child from the discomfort or annoyance of working a menial job.

Carmelita

The road to Carmelita- our point of embarkation for the hike- is not paved. The scenery is poor, decrepit, full of squalor. But, the people seem happy. Everyone was laughing and waving. Kids were being kids. Our driver, Oscar, is also a tour guide and he provided a ton of commentary along the way. His English, the last we would hear for a couple of days, was pretty good.

Senora Rosa and her family prepared our food and loaded the donkeys for our trip. Usually, when travelling with a language barrier, both parties make an effort to be demonstrative and patient. Rosa and her family did not grasp this norm. They spoke quickly and in enormous sentences. My limited Spanish requires the native speaker to adhere to a word count. In a typical lost in translation moment, I thought Rosa's daughter was asking whether I spoke Italian. She was asking whether I liked pasta. An hour later, pasta in tow, we met Jose and followed him into the jungle.

Day 1, Part 2

Our ride to Guatemala was a mini van (collectivo) that cost about U.S. $12. Not a bad deal for five hours of travel. The only other guy in the van was a British Forces member who was stationed in Belize City. His next career move was to build a hostel in Guatemala near the El Salvador border. I pieced together through inference and admission that he saw no job opportunities in the U.K., had fallen in love with a Guatemalan girl, and preferred the climate of Central America to that of his homeland. His two years in Belize, friendly nature, and native language made him a valuable resource for us.

The trip to Flores took longer than we expected. A freaky Dutch tour group took about a year to get through the border. Other than that, my first border crossing on foot was uneventful. Or, so I thought. More on that in a later post.

The whole process took about an hour because the Dutch regaled the Belizeans with bad jokes and we had to wait on our bus driver to transact various business.

The booze from Herman's hut took its toll on me briefly just before we got to Flores. Fortunately I was still on vacation high because Travis got grumpy as soon as we rudely woke him from his nap. Dude can sleep ANYWHERE. He'll just put his head against a window or neighboring passenger and pass out. It's amazing and fills me with envy. While I endure hangovers and stinky seat mates, Travis recharges for the next adventure.

Our driver stopped to pick up his buddy and allow us to change our Belizean dollars for Guatemalan Quetzales. His buddy, like all driver's buddies, was a tour guide and all around nice fella. Despite being an expert on all things Flores, he would provide his services at absolutely no charge to us. He knew a guy who could do anything we wanted. Hiking? No problem. Lodging? That place you read about in your guidebook is no good but driver's friend knows just the place. We politely declined and found our way to the funkiest hostel I have ever seen. World music played as we entered the jungle canopied common area. No joke, jungle canopied, open air common area. It was beyond cool. The place is called, Los Amigos and is run by a Dutchman. The vibe was similar to Via Via, the Belgian run place we stayed at in Nicaragua in 2009. Dozens of people were drinking, talking, flirting, eating, and surfing the web.

It struck me that hostels in Europe are very different from those in Central America. The Central American variety is more charming. Also, European hostels usually offer just the basics (bed, food, internet, tv) while their Central American counterparts will set you up with adventure trips, tours, and a library.

Los Amigos did not have any beds available but the Dutchman set us up with a guide for El Mirador who also happened to have a bare bones room for rent for U.S. $5.50 per person. No hot water and the whole room flooded when you took a shower but we did not have far to go for breakfast and our departure in the morning.

To Central America- 3/25/10

It was time. Neither Travis nor I had been out of the country in a year. I had only been out of the state once during that same period of time. After some discussion, we agreed to hike in Guatemala and end the vacation with some relaxation in Belize.

We flew Central American airline Taca Air from Orlando with a connection in El Salvador and an ultimate destination of Belize City. The Belize City airport was nothing like I expected. I anticipated Managua, Nicaragua, a bustling mess of hussle and poverty. Instead we easily strolled through immigration and customs, effortlessly changed our money, and immediately found a cab.

We got to the bus station at 10:30, just missing the bus to Flores, Guatemala. The next bus was scheduled for 2:30 so we settled in for some quick emails home. About the time we got logged on to the computers, a series of pops went of outside the station. Travis looked at me and asked, "were those gun shots?" A crowd gathered at the door much like would happen during a high school fight. Yep, those were gun shots. We grabbed our bags and cautiously made our way outside. Some Aussies (I think) informed us that a jewelry store robbery was thwarted by the ever vigilant Belizean police. As the culprit attempted to escape on his bicycle, several officers shot him to death.

We were a bit spooked after the shooting and decided to lay low for the rest of the morning. We quickly stumbled on a shack run by an amiable Belizean man named, Herman. Herman sold beer and not much else out of his little hut. Stories about his days as a police officer were free and mandatory. He had no posted prices. Your fee depended on your country of origin and how much Herman liked you. We paid about $1.50 while the Austrians forked out about twice as much.

Herman once shot a man in the forehead. In self defense of course. Besides, the "bastard should have known not to fuck with" Herman. He carried guns on either shoulder so all the world would know not to mess with him.

After a few local brews (Belikin), fifteen or so Herman stories, and mixed impressions of Belize, we headed to the bus station and took off for Guatemala.