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Guatemala--Lake Atitlan

dmstaton — Mon, 27 Mar 2017 11:34:00 GMT

I'm sitting on a huge boulder on the shore of Lake Atitlan, a high sitting lake in Guatemala surrounded by volcanic mountains. Its rim is dotted with a mix of both local and touristy Mayan towns. It's Sunday and I'm in San Pedro. Today seems to be a day of rest for the locals. As I journal in my notebook I periodically stop to watch the congregation of Mayan families on neighboring rocks chat and swim. The women are hunched over in the water delicately washing brightly colored textiles, briefly stopping to help their children scrub their small bodies down with soap. Men talk in circles with hair still wet from bathing, towels around their shoulders. The children make high pitched screams as they jump off rocks into the chilled lake while the mothers keep tabs with one eye, wringing out water from the wet clothes. Fog rolls in during the afternoon so there's a hazy sheen over the lake. A boat chugs by close to the shore blasting “Blow a Kiss, Fire a Gun” and a dozen or so young gringo girls drunkenly dance on the top floor, waving to the locals on the shore. I cringe. Birds shrill and coo on the branches of a huge 100 foot tall tree directly above me. Two hippies with dreadlocks smoke weed in the near distance.

Rumor has it Lake Atitlan has healing powers. That's what the voodoo hippies say. And to be honest, i might have guessed it too hadn't I been told previously. My time here in Guatemala has passed slowly and without much activity. And for some reason, I'm okay with it. I've been on the road since January- weeks and weeks of activity, fun, stress, loneliness, elation, and God knows how many more emotions. This place is a welcoming pit stop to veg out--and it feels okay because everyone around me is, too.

Today I woke up late, ate a hearty breakfast of poached eggs, avocado, toast and tomatoes with too much coffee. Socialized with some Swedes and said goodbye to a group of solo female travelers I'd been chumming and hiking with. I walked to the Frutería and bought a huge smoothie: pineapple, papaya and coconut, for one dollar fifty. After finishing, I walked through tight labyrinthian graffitied alleys and found Zoola, a hostel with blaring music, a bright blue pool and faux grass overlooking the lake. In the scorching sun I read for two hours, while listening to conversations in the background in a multitude of languages. I did some yoga. After meeting and chatting with a Canadian & Englishman, I learned about a big market in the local part of town. I decided to search for it, navigating around trash littered streets and smog chugging tuk tuks (Guatemalan taxis resembling exaggeratedly bright colored bumper cars). I reached the market square after a hefty hike up cobblestone streets only to find the ground scattered with wrappers and stray dogs desperately ripping apart trash bags for scraps of food. Small women wrapped up the remnants of their goods for sale in black trashbags. I spotted one lady packing up avocados and asked how much for one. She replied “15 quetzales,” and I instantly knew I was being ripped off. Gracias, I said and walked away. I navigated the empty stalls in the marketplace and found another lady still selling. I picked out two large carrots and a big avocado for 4 quetzales. Pleased with my learned street smarts, I left the market gnawing on a carrot and searched for another reading spot. A small dock seemed to do. I reclined in a lawn chair on the bobbing dock and read for another two hours- some awful romance novel I found in the hostel book exchange. It was afternoon and by this time, the fog rolling in on the lake was a pleasing relief for my skin. Thinking about food, I left and ate a chocolate covered banana for 10 cents. Back to the hostel, I met my friends for conversation and drinks.

And this is how most of my days have passed. Enjoying the cuisine, absorbing the Mayan culture, reading in excess, doing light yoga by the lake. For some reason I've allowed myself to slow down, to let the stress roll in and out of my body just as the fog rolls in and out like clockwork every afternoon. It's a peaceful place to be. I don't mind being alone most of the time (something I've struggled with in my prior months traveling). It seems as if I've learned enough on my travels to practice the wisdom here..and whether it has to do with Lake Atitlan’s “special energy” or not, I don't know. I think if I had to choose, I'd say yes. Because believing is more fun.

Tomorrow ends my free days as I hope to find a structured Spanish school to turn my passable Spanish into fluency. I'll stay with a Mayan family and volunteer with community organizations, taking lessons in the morning and studying/volunteering at night. Hopefully soon, I'll be able to confidently say I'm bilingual. With just under a month left in my trip, I think settling down and practicing the language sounds nice for the coming weeks.

Hasta luego chicos!

Peaks and Valleys--Dealing with Loneliness as a Solo Traveler

dmstaton — Sat, 4 Mar 2017 20:19:00 GMT

A lot of people ask me how my travels are going. They see my social media posts on Facebook and Instagram and can't help but assume that I am high on travel fumes and adrenaline twenty four hours, day in day out. This, I can assure you is not the case. Though I haven't chosen to share the lows of my trip on social media, they have been existent and actually vacillating with frequency. Not to say they aren't important, to the contrary actually.

The sharing of behind the scenes action on social media is something that intrigues me, and I myself have slightly dipped my toes in the water with posts describing my own experiences with eating disorder recovery, depression and anxiety. I really respect those who have delved into complete transparency online regarding important topics. (No, not you who posts what color you painted your toes while watching XYZ movie on Netflix last night…). Yes, I value my privacy, but how much? What am I not sharing that could possibly help someone in need of advice or support? I'm still figuring this out and have been for years.

So back to the question- how are my travels going? I'll try to answer that with some transparency, or at least more than I've expressed thus far...

Solo traveling through South America is quite possibly the most gutsy thing Ive chosen to do during my time in this body. Living out of a 55L pack, never knowing what the next 24 hours will bring is both exhilarating and at the same time, quite un-grounding. Honestly this is, emotionally, way harder than i anticipated. Worth it? Absolutely. But not without struggle.

What can I relate it to? Solo traveling is a lot like re-living the first day of high school at lunch time. At my old high school, there were different lunch periods and the absolute most important thing (next to if there would be fresh baked chocolate chip cookies for sale) was the small percentage of chance that myself and my best friends would all get placed in the same lunch period. At sixteen, not much else matters. Ok...let's be real, a LOT matters and every single thing that goes wrong means the world is lit on fire…but anyways, more often than not, this would happen:

Lunch A= everyone and their second removed cousin. Even that weird uncle that collects pez dispensers or handkerchiefs.

Lunch B...*walks into cafeteria with stupefied look, sees groups of already functioning cliques and acquaintance faces, sighs and curses under breath* ...

Getting used to never being placed in Lunch A and pushing beyond my natural comfort zone is taxing as an introvert. But I absolutely crave connection, want to meet new friends and explore things unseen on this trip. AKA the introvert conundrum.

Some days, I don't want to be social. Making friends for me is a process as a true INFP. (Introverted, intuitive, feeling and perceiving person). I value deep and meaningful connections rooted over time. I hate small talk. It's terribly uncomfortable for me. But when I'm charged up, other days I am very extroverted and constantly seeking out voices I hear down the hall with enthusiasm. This is quite an annoying facet of my personality that, honestly, I wish were a little more steadfast in one way or the other.

So the first day at a new hostel is a little tricky. The vibe of the hostel is very important and can make or break the likelihood of meeting a good group of friends as well. A lot of people have pre-established groups speaking in different languages. (Do I really want to be the gringo that forces the group to speak in English? Eh...sometimes :) Lots of variables at play. Commence the lunch room experience!

It's not so much of a stressor now as it was at the beginning of my time alone. Within a day, I always end up meeting new people from all over the world. We share travel adventures for 1 day, 2 days, maybe even 3 or 4, which is are absolutely beautiful experiences. I find that my definition of human connection (can it even be defined?) is rapidly changing as the weeks pass, as dozens of new interactions come and go like weightless petals in the wind.

Im realizing human connection doesn't need to be as deep and existential as my aforementioned INFPey description. It can be small and surface, and that's okay. It can be cavernously deep, too. The prerequisite to calling someone a friend could mean sharing a drink over some awful blaring hostel music, meeting and spending fifteen minutes chatting in the park, or sharing a short taxi ride knowing you'll most likely never see each other again. It's a different kind of connection that I am learning to appreciate with each new city and worldly face in passing.

Learning to accept my alone time is an ever winding road, too. Accepting that “okay, today I've got just myself. What do I want to do? Go explore? Go try to meet new friends? Eat ice cream in bed and watch Netflix? Cry in the shower? How about go explore, then get ice cream, and then cry in the shower?” Ok, cool, it's a plan.

It's a concept that I think a lot of solo travelers struggle with- feeling lonely- but it's rarely talked about. One minute you could be fine, and the next, it hits you like a dozen bricks. You miss your family, your friends back home, and all the travelers you met and departed from in previous cities, all at the same time. A huge cloud of “shit, what next” looms when you realize the human embrace of those you love really are so far away.

But like clouds do, the feelings pass. You meet people. They distract you. You go find fun shit to do. The beauty and vulnerability and transience of life is again apparent. Loneliness sets in. You try to love the things around you to counteract the ache in your heart. New people distract you. More fun shit. You learn about others, about the history of the places you're in. And then you hop on a crowded bus to some new crowded city, and try to soak it all in as the changing scenery whirs by. Complete awe and wonder. Loneliness. Anxiety. You chat on the phone when good wifi presents itself. You walk in the city trying to find a way to love where you're at just a bit more. A big bubble of gratitude fills your heart recalling all the blessings you are so lucky enough to miss. More people. More fun shit. You feel like you're flying. You feel like crying. Repeat.

It's emotional and it's unpredictable. It's simple and raw and beautiful.

Well- There's my vulnerability cupcake for everyone. Let me know what you think- maybe I could bake up some more feels for the blog in due time.

A bit of an actual update: im in Latacunga, Ecuador. Going to hike the top of a volcano tomorrow to a very special lake. Next stop, Banos!

Adios amigos. (can't say Parceros--it's a Colombian word and I'm in Ecuador now!)

Xo D

How I'm Traveling for Free in Colombia, and How you can, too

dmstaton — Thu, 23 Feb 2017 05:54:00 GMT

Hola all!

I'm still traveling in the Zona Cafeteria in Colombia and it has treated me well. I expected to be in, or close to entering, Ecuador by now... But nope, not yet- the green has got me. I have found the coffee landscaped mountain views align with Colombia’s marketable slogan “the only risk is wanting to stay.” I have indeed fell victim to that risk.

Why here? Firstly, I enjoy the variations on weather- now currently staying in the elevated mountains just north of Manizales. The air is crisp and slightly chilly in the morning. Frequent bursts of rain during the day remind me of living in Hilo- a place that holds an aching fondness in my heart. During the day it is hot and the sun beats down with intensity. These variable weather patterns bode well for the millions of coffee plants, who thrive in warm climates but need lots of reliable water. Where coffee isn't planted, cows inhabit, and they have made the best out of a steep & undesirable location by naturally terracing the mountainsides. From far away, the terracing looks man made--like ancient green carpeted steps covering hundreds of acres. It is quite fairytale-like.

Finding myself in a hammock watching the sun rise and set over the steamy, hazy Manizales mountains with a cup of Colombian coffee in hand is something I keep wanting to re-live, so...I do. I'm now coming up on my third week here and have incredibly found a way to stay for free! The secret?........It's quite simple and I must admit, i was quite skeptical, but the truth is, if you can speak English and have two working hands, you can travel for free in South America. Many doors for shoestring travel opportunities are wide open if you so seek them.

About two weeks ago, I sent out dozens of emails to farms, hostels and families on a site called workaway.info, that which caters to travelers seeking volunteer positions across the globe. I was in Salento and knew I wanted to stay in the Zona Cafeteria for a longer time, so I chose to send emails to places accepting volunteers in cities like Pereira, Manizales, and Armenia.

I had been sending emails on workaway as early as one month before my arrival to Colombia. The response rate for these emails is generally not impressive. Maybe 1 in 10 will respond- which is why I sent out copious amounts stating my desire to volunteer, primarily wishing to teach English. Luckily and thankfully, while traveling I received an email from a lady named Johanna who lived 20 minutes away from the location I was at in Manizales.

At that time, I was staying with a local couple, Caro and Tony, whom I met through a dear friend while hiking in Salento. Meet Taylor: a seasoned traveler at 26 years old--a couch surfing Minnesotan who speaks Icelandic, and has a knack for navigating off the beaten path towns like no other. We immediately hit it off while hiking in (for me, the second time) Corcora Valley in Salento. It felt nice to meet someone who could understand the small nostalgic details of home--of growing up in not only America, but the Midwest. (I hadn't met an American on the road in some time. Surprisingly, it's been my experience that American travelers aren't so common in Colombia. I think the past tense stereotype of drugs and danger still rings louder here than in other countries? The majority I meet are from Europe, Australia, Canada or South America). Taylor & I laughed a lot, hiked a lot, and trotted from small Zona Cafeteria city to city together for the next few days.

When we met, Taylor had already pre-planned to stay with Caro and Tony for the following week. He asked permission for me to tag along and stay too. I was given the go-ahead. I couldn't believe how graciously they invited me to stay in their mystical, wifi-less, open-aired bungalow in the tucked away mountains of San Peregrino- and for free! To feed me, to entertain me and introduce me to their friends was a blessing I'll never forget. Taylor and I were able to cut travel costs, and in return, we cooked, cleaned and bought beers for our hosts. We were also invited to participate in a Tamazcal Sweat Lodge ceremony with a Shaman and 20 locals near the Sierra Nevada Mountain range-- but that is a story with too much bulk, intensity, emotion, and I could write an entire novel about that experience...

During my time (off the grid) in San Peregrino, I made a point to travel to Manizales city to find wifi to solidify my work exchange opportunity. Johana and I kept in contact, set a date, and before I knew it, I was parting ways with Taylor, Caro & Tony (quite sad!) and en route to the coffee farm where I'd be volunteering.

Right now Im living with Johana and her husband on a primo coffee bean farm teaching English for 1 hour a day and helping with coffee tours. In return, I get to stay for free, eat for free and enjoy all the mountain sunrises and sunsets I can manage. There's no immediate access to grocery stores, bars or restaurants here which means ZERO dollars a day! To say I'm grateful would be an understatement. I hope to stay here for maybe 1-2 weeks with Ecuador soon on the horizon.

To travel for free is doable, it just takes some searching. In this day and age, the internet is a traveler’s best friend. Sites like workaway, helpX, and Couchsurfing are brilliant resources--it's just about mustering the courage to try it. (Hell yes I was wary, hesitant, and scared before trying) but trust me when I say this: South America is much safer than it's reputation if you're a smart, intuitive, and aware traveler.

Already, I have local families who I plan to stay with in Ecuador who have hosted some of my friends I have met on the road. I'm only writing this with hopes of inspiring others to believe that traveling with little money IS possible. Just go. Just do it. Seek, my friends, and you will find.

So that's about it for now. Until I make it to Ecuador, Hasta luego.

My thoughts on Medellin, Colombia & la Zona Cafeteria

dmstaton — Sat, 11 Feb 2017 13:36:00 GMT

Now outside of Medellin, Colombia...what can I say about Medellin, Colombia?

I've thought about it for a while, trying to formulate an opinion of the city. Complex, industrial, and the most modern of all Colombian cities--now growing fresh atop memories of drug/guerrilla violence and oppression. It was the city I was most curious about before leaving the US, having heard so many rave reviews about its current progress and state. Needless to say, I was expecting a lot. And that's where my downfall may have come from--as with expectation almost always comes disappointment. I’m sorry to say I didn't enjoy Medellin and wished for an out almost instantly upon my arrival.

First of all, I stayed in Poblado. The safest most backpackery area, also the most westernized and touristic. Literally, outside my hostel window was a KFC next to a Dominos. Lining the streets were restaurantes, tiendas and droguerías all overpriced. Fair enough. I can imagine as a Colombian trying to make a modest living I too would take advantage of the oversaturation of backstreetboys on tour. And when I say this, I mean it. There were SO many men. Everywhere. I've never felt so outnumbered as a female. It made me feel pretty uncomfortable at times.

From the small window of time spent in the city, I perceived that partying for the traveler is a main priority. Doing cocaine and drinking until wee hours of the morning is also a priority. For me, it wasn't. And this is a reason why the city, or to be fair, why Poblado didn't impress me. Might it have been different if I had stayed at a quieter hostel? I don't know. I just know my experience.

I actually got mad witnessing what I did. Mad that what seemed to be a city recovering from an awful drug reputation was being shit on by gringos who (knowing or unknowingly) were re-opening the wounds that the country is striving to heal. You see, coming to Colombia for sex, prostitutes, and partying is like being invited over to someone's house and taking a huge shit on their floor. It's reversing the country's progress. It's fucked up that one Colombian boy, who couldn't have been over age 14, came up to me on the street and offered me cocaine like it was a Hershey's candy bar. My only response to him was a confused “cuantos años tienes?” (How old are you?). He simply smiled with a grin and asked again. My heart almost broke in half. And it kept breaking each time it happened, which was maybe 4 times a day.

But hey, it wasn't all bad. I met some amazing humans in Medellin! I spent a few days with a stunningly beautiful Brazilian solo female traveler,(follow her travel blog--tripbyvan), two awesome Delta employees from the US who made me feel at ease during a really hard day (also their total bromance was friendship goals), and met up with some Australians & Canadians whom I met in Taganga.

If i could recommend anything to do in Medellin, the free walking tour is it. Just do it. It is worth every “free” penny. Learning about the history of the city is incredibly interesting- and what's more- learning it from a theatrical Paisa (an Antioquia naive) makes it even more special.

So, after 5 days of inhaling smog and riding the crowded metro, I decided to peace out and take a nauseating & both breathtaking 8 hour bus ride in the winding mountains to Salento- aka Zona Cafeteria. Without any doubts, the right choice.

This region is lush, fruitful, and of course, has some of the most magnificent coffee production on the planet. I however have not had ONE good cup of coffee here--all the good stuff is exported or too expensive for my penny pinching budget. Why have a smooth 6,000 COP cup from a touristy cafe when there's access to an unending fountain of face twistingly bitter hostel coffee por GRATIS? I’m waiting to bite the bullet and splurge when I soon tour “Don Eduardo's coffee finca” ten miles outside of Salento. This is where the primo beans are grown, picked and harvested. I am excited to taste & learn about the coffee culture here, which has industrialized and emblazoned so much of Antioquia.

Also among the pros of Salento: a more relaxed pool of people for the “coffee bean picking.” I've met a wonderful group of friends here from Norway, England and the US. We've spent the past few days hiking in lush Corcora valley, making short spaghetti western films (coming to a theatre near you) and trekking to far out waterfalls in Boquía. Today we all dispersed. Some went to Santa Rosa de Cabal, some to Medellin, and I stayed put. Such is the beauty of traveling- learning to let friendships be in the moment without preconceived notions.

I think I may spend more time in Zona Cafeteria than anticipated--(ok, I really haven't anticipated much). All I know is that the nature is putting me at ease after a stressful week in the hustle bustle of Medellin. Hopefully I can find some sort of work exchange to cut travel costs and “disfruta Salento.” But for now, I'm taking it day by day. Not sure what city I will end up in next-- you and I will just have to wait and see.

Adios,

5 Things I Didn't Expect Before Traveling to Colombia

dmstaton — Fri, 3 Feb 2017 13:27:00 GMT

Here, a few things I've learned in my several weeks traveling in Colombia...

1. In Colombia, locals will be patient with you, but generally do not cater to English speakers

In my naive gringo head, everyone speaks at least a bit of English, no? Even when I traveled to Ghana, it seemed like more people knew English than not. Certainly if they speak English in Africa, they'd speak English in Colombia…? Here, Spanish is spoken, and if you don't, well fucking try. Hand gestures and a confused puppy dog “que?” let locals know to repeat the words slower or with more direction. It's absolutely necessary to memorize the essentials: days, numbers and basic directions, before coming. Luckily my Spanish is beyond essential basics. I think if it weren't, i would have freaked out, peed my pants and hailed the nearest plane out of the sky to turn around and take me back home. Ok-- an exaggeration, but there's nothing worse than not understanding money negotiations during your travels--especially if you're on a tight budget like me.

2. Simply traveling to a Spanish speaking country does not mean you'll pick up the language

You hear it all the time: “oh! You’ve been in Costa Rica for four months? Your Spanish must be really good by now! Are you fluent yet?”
Just because I'm traveling in a Spanish speaking country does not mean it's an immersive experience. In fact, it can be difficult to disappear into the culture simply because of all the European, Australian and American backpackers. And these people are addictively fun to know...

On the other hand, everyone tells me that in order to learn the language, one must forget English speaking people as a species altogether. They are but skeletons of people walking, talking, laughing, etc. just don't befriend them.

Sigh. Learning Spanish in the USA is hard. But I didn't expect learning Spanish to be just as hard here. All I can do is be kind to myself and accept that i'll pick up fluency when the time is right, and that everything is happening just as it should be. No stress.

3. You can walk in peace in Colombia, generally, as a white female

I haven't been accosted, cat called, or creepily approached for being a white female in excess--in fact hardly at all. My expectations and estimations for this happening were way higher than what has been my experience. It's really, really nice. I can walk down the streets here without fear of being followed or touched. I met a friend here from Switzerland who had been traveling through Costa Rica, Nicaragua and Panama three months prior to her arrival who said, even in Central America, the feeling of being hella creeped-on was way worse. She couldn't believe how normal she felt walking down the streets compared to just a few countries away.

4. You'll need others

I set out to travel with the goal of attaining a greater sense of independence. And what better place to try that in a third world country?? (Actually feels mom’s wincing face across the world).

Independence? Yeah, I'm working on it. But what I didn't expect before leaving? I absolutely need others. I need to rely on other people, be it backpackers or locals on the street for advice. To keep the loneliness at bay. To cut costs. To process stories, facts, and ideas. I will come out of this with an understanding that you can still be independent while needing others. For people to want to help you is okay. And to be a helping hand for others when they need it feels good. But most of all, learning that the damn good mates in the world (been hanging out with too many Australians) heavily outweigh the bad ones.

5. Despite what you see on social media, traveling shoestring style is extremely uncomfortable

Ok i admit it: I miss my creature comforts-already. (I thought it would take longer for all this to set in…) The people I love, I think of often. I miss hot showers and coffee the way I like it--scalding hot, organic, with xylitol or a bit of honey. I miss working out and drinking almond butter green smoothies with kale kale and more kale. I miss my white girl hippie shit, yo. But none of this comes from a place of pain. Indeed, the opposite. It comes from a place of deep fondness and an appreciation for the many blessings I have back home.

Also, please don't let social media fool you. Traveling has its high highs and low lows, and everything inbetween. When the going is good, the going is incredibly, mind bendingly good. But getting to the good is where the discomfort lies. Figuring out transport, food, and planning (or not planning) for unexpected events all in a different language, city, and currency is stressful at first. Not knowing what is safe vs. what will get you guerrilla kidnapped (joking,Ma) takes a lot of asking around. Constantly looking over your shoulder at ATMs or walking down sidewalks is draining. And having to ask the travelers most frequented question: should I really take a chance on this street food??

But hey, all that sweating the small stuff (or practicing not to), & all that learning to cope while traveling is 100 million trillion times over worth the energy. It's how we grow individually. It's how we inspire others to try it, too. I sure as hell wouldn't be here without the wise old owl words of a friend who stated "just fucking go, D!" Thank you for that :)

You see, even though I can't have my green smoothie with too many hippy witch doctor supplements in it, I can still have my hippie-ass personality to get me through the discomfort & bliss that is unfolding quite as it should be, if you ask me, in this new place I have yet to fully know

Adiós, parceros.

Photos: Colombia

dmstaton — Sun, 29 Jan 2017 08:53:00 GMT

Tayrona & beyond

dmstaton — Fri, 27 Jan 2017 14:08:00 GMT

It all happened pretty quickly. One minute, my friend and I were hiking- about an hours walk into the jungle of Tayrona National Park, the next- a man is dead on the ground next to us.

Yeah- pretty crazy. But to be an asshole and back track a bit…

Brian and I woke at daybreak with hopes of advancing our travels to Tayrona National Park. It took us about an hour by bus from Santa Marta for 7,000 pesos. Upon arrival, we were faced with a large line and an entrance fee of 42,000 pesos--pretty steep if you ask me. We nonetheless paid the fee and entered--beginning our journey to Cabo San Juan Beach. Lest we knew, we would get more than we (didn't) bargain for in the subsequent 24 hours.

The trails were crowded. It bothered me a bit simply because I would classify myself as a hypnotic hiker. Mothers with small kids, elderly persons and a huge influx of shall I assume Argentines blocked up the sometimes narrow trails like big ole wads of hair in a shower drain. You see, once I get in the hiking zone, rarely will I stop for anyone or anything (except food). So to have to stop for minutes at a time was not what I was expecting.

However, the crowds did give us a chance to slow down and admire the trail’s natural beauty. It reminded me a lot of the naturaleza de Hawaii, with more wildlife. Within minutes on the trail we caught glimpses of and heard the violent screams of monkeys, watched exotic birds preen themselves, and followed thick lines of termites carrying leaves many times their size to engorged nests.

After traversing through the shaded jungle, the trail bled out to the shore. Local indigenous tribes who still live inside the park had set up a coconut stand. Three or four of them, wearing nothing but tattered white linen cloths tied over one shoulder, used machetes to cut open the coconuts and lined them up for hikers to buy. Brian and I stopped and pondered buying one. Suddenly, the man standing right in front of us fainted, as if in slow motion, and crashed to the ground.

“Dan! Dan! Someone help!!” his poor wife cried.

She seemed to be from Europe, and later on we found out the couple was indeed from Switzerland.

The man’s eyes rolled back into his head. His body tightened, and with force, his body began seizing. Brian immediately jumped in along with three or four others to help. They checked his pulse. He wasn't breathing.

“Begin CPR!” Brian yelled.

He pressed his lips to the mans foam covered mouth and blew. Once parted, another hiker performed chest compressions. By divine intervention, another hiker stepped in who just so happened to be a doctor.

I'll spare the gruesome details because they are in fact, gruesome. For what seemed like decades (realistically more like 30 minutes) a group of hikers and Brian took turns performing CPR on what I, and everyone else ultimately knew, was a dead body. The ordeal was traumatizing for everyone, but mostly for Dan’s poor wife, who had to watch helplessly while knowing no medical intervention would be possible that deep into the jungle. It was assumed by the doctor that Dan most likely had a heart attack or a stroke.

Brian and I left the scene and walked silently, our heads low and our hearts shaken. We discussed the transience of life and our goals for making the most of it.

We eventually made it to Cabo San Juan beach and hesitantly enjoyed yet another amazing beach saturated with 95% Spanish speakers. The image of Dan’s seizing body still replayed in my head. I needed space and time to process what had happened. The beach was too crowded for my taste, so we traversed beyond to a smaller beach-- less populated and with people wearing less (or no) clothing. Possibly one of the most beautiful beaches I've stepped foot on in my entire life, i thought. An hour prior sunset, we packed up our gear and backtracked. After being turned away by multiple camping sites for having our own hammocks (instead of renting them), we found a place to set up camp for 10,000 pesos. “Hola gringos! Hola!” The site owner kept excitedly yelling.

We watched the sun set on the beach and again debriefed about the days trauma, which intrigued deep conversations about our past, present and future (what else to do during an absolutely beautiful sunset?) It became cold with the sun behind the mountains so we regressed back to our hammock-ville. Hundreds of tents and hammocks were set up. Music blasting. Food sizzling. Spanish words flying around the campsite like a million golden snitches I couldn't catch. I snuggled in my hammock and fell asleep to the sounds of five young girls gossiping in Spanish, drinking mate. How similar we all are, I thought. I imagined them as my sister and her best friends, in another country, in another language.

We woke in the morning. As Brian slept, i ventured to the beach and did some gentle yoga. The palm trees shook in the wind just like those of Hawaii. It felt so similar- like I was waking in a place familiar- though I'd never been.

I made my way back to camp and found out that Brian's money had been stolen, either during the night or at Cabo (too much money...perhaps a colombianos full year salary worth…) which was a shame. Instead of spending another day on the beach, we decided to take off so he could cancel his credit cards.

On the hike back- I tripped on a boardwalk and fell to the side. My foot disappeared under my ankle like a scared cat who heard a loud sound. It hurt. It hurt a lot. My first thought...simply...FUCK. Fuck fuck fuck. Stupid me! Stupid me for hiking in Chacos! I rocked back and forth in shock.

Heres one of life’s lessons that I KEEP HAVING TO LEARN over and over- it only takes once. I justified hiking in my athletic sandals by the many other times I have and come back without issues - once fifteen miles by myself on the North Country trail. I cursed myself for leaving my hiking boots behind. It only takes once, Deanna...I heard my moms stern voice in my head. But dwelling on it wasn't going to help. The only thing I could do was acknowledge my faults and forgive myself after processing the pain.

Lucky for me I was only half an hour away from the trailhead. I hobbled with a pained and focused smile back to civilization, occasionally trying to crack a joke to lighten the mood. Brian knocked a branch in half and made me a walking stick. For 15,000 pesos each, we took a taxi back to taganga city center and i, again, hobbled like a broken gringo back to my hostel.

If anything can be said- what a place to be injured! The views at Casa Moringa are incredible. I have a group of hostel friends taking care of me- cooking for me, fetching ice for my poor swollen limb. I'm thankful it didn't happen in the deep jungle...like Dan. And I'm thankful it was but a sprain, and not worse.

Im going a bit stir crazy having to sit and watch my friends traverse to new beaches and enjoy the loud music & sensations of Taganga city center while I bob up and down in the rooftop pool and listen to Spanish podcast after Spanish podcast. (Ok, i have no reason to complain, really). My hope is that I can heal in a few days, because I'm realistically supposed to be in Medellin by now. But it seems the universe is telling me: “tranquila, D, tranquila…”

Pues, tendré a ser tranquila. Porque estoy en paraíso. No hay nada razón a ser preocupa.

Hasta pronto, parceros! Medellín is soon calling my name.

Cartagena to Taganga

dmstaton — Tue, 24 Jan 2017 11:12:00 GMT

I'm on a diet.

No, no, it's not what you're thinking. To the contrary, actually. In fact, the food in Colombia is mostly fried, crunchy, and not without some kind of meat. What's more, I ate my first street food today-- an Arepa. These steaming cheese cakes can be found on most city street corner, the vendors flipping them over hot coals while casually calling out “arepas, arepas!” in advertisement. Though I'm not exactly sure what I ate (it was stuffed with meats and sauces beyond my Americanized pallate), after the first steaming hot bite, I fell in cheesy, meaty, wander-love.

But yes, back to the “diet.”

Since arriving in Colombia over a week ago, my brain has split in half. I can only exaggeratedly describe and diagnose my mental state as that of a “language diet.” So...If English is the decadent sixteen tiered quinceañera chocolate cake with a cherry on top...speaking Spanish is the kale sandwich with kale stuffing...dressed with kale purée.

I came to South America with the intention of building on the beginner/intermediate Spanish conversationalist level I held. And like many other travelers I've met, I thought I knew A LOT more than I actually did before leaving. When I arrived to Cartagena i was immediately humbled by the fact that hardly anyone spoke English. I met one person in four days that spoke English- and that first bite of hearing my own language across the room was so delicious I wanted to cry. Though it's instantly gratifying, what I really want is to be humbled by the leafy green language that is español .

Right now I'm staying in a Swedish owned hostel in the mountains of Taganga- a small coastal city on the northern Caribbean shore hugged by brown cactus dotted mountains. Though the city is quite Colombian, there's no lack of English in this hostel. Heck, right now I'm sitting on the balcony overlooking the bay with “Lady in Red” playing behind the bar. This hostel is chocked full of Swedes, Australians and Americans. For reference as to how English speaking this joint is---last night everyone got really drunk and listened to everything from Bruce Springsteen, to Metallica, to Nickelback. I winced at the garb while i did yoga on the patio.

It feels nice to indulge in my own language after five days of miscommunication, exasperation and whipping out the google translate app. As comfortable as it feels, I'm excited to begin creeping hard on local conversations and occasionally butting in with my nasally American accent once I move along from this place. One thing I have going for me? I don't have fear to ask questions...even though my Spanish is mas o menos. The locals have been nothing but amazing. Very kind, patient, and overly willing to use hand gestures and repeat words I don't understand. Many times I do understand. And I walk away grinning like a freshly opened flower after these encounters, the scent of success enveloping me for hours.

For a short recap of my intinerary thus far...We (my Nebraskan friend Brian and I) started out in Cartagena de Indias. We spent five days in the bustling & upscale walled city exploring the brilliant architecture, food and beaches with Argentine friends. (There are so many here! & in my opinion, defy the stereotype that Colombians are the most beautiful in the world). What's most memorable about Cartagena was the 2 day trip to the white sand beaches of Isla baru.

We left for Baru with our Argentine friends in the morning, hailed a cab and smooshed like peas in a pod in the back. On the bumpy hour long ride, I sweated like a piglet while gazing at large petroleum fields, the natural gas ablaze atop towers. Not a very pretty sight. Falling apart towns stood on their cracked concrete foundations looking pekid but nonetheless colorful. Outside the city reminded me a lot of Africa- small concrete (could you call them houses?!)... houses with rusted out roofs dusted In dirt kicked up by shuffling feet in alleyways.

We arrived (not without difficulty-the small taxi overheated and couldn't make the voyage so we switched out at a gas station) and were greeted by locals peddling tents and trinkets.

Similar to a beach in Hawaii I remembered, the brilliant blue contrasted by brilliant white was breathtaking… and how warm the water! My midwest accustomed skin fried under the Caribbean sun as I took turns between the tent, the water, and yoga In the shade.

After the sunset disappeared, Brian and I went on a plankton bioluminescent tour, for both of us, 25,000 pesos. I met someone named David from Argentina and we spoke with difficulty on the 30 minute choppy ride (el ascento de Argentina es difícil a entender). Arriving to the spot under the stars and jumping in the bioluminescent water was an experience that overwhelmed everyone's language barriers. Everything sparkled- our skin, our hair. Though none of the 12 people on the boat spoke English besides Brian and I , I said “soy Harry Potter!” While swishing the glowing water, and it became our ongoing joke.

After staying the night in hammocks on the beach, we spent another day on the beach before parting with our Argentine buddies en route to Taganga. We took the Marasol shuttle from Cartagena to Taganga with zero problems which comforted me.

Now in taganga, still I've been frying my skin and dipping my toes into new worlds of cuisine, conversation and codes of conduct. Early this morning, Brian and I went scuba diving for 200,000 pesos each (so cheap!). Due to an awful case of claustrophobia, i began crying once I put on the wetsuit. But after some deep breaths and repeating “confianza” over and over, I jumped in the water and faced my fears- AND multiple five foot long green & spotted eels!

Tomorrow we are headed to Tayrona National Park for its hiking and crystal blue waters with the intention of staying one or two nights. I can only hope that the rest of my trip will unfold as uncomfortably and beautifully as it has thus far.

Until next post, Adios, Parceros!

THIS is Why You Should Trust in the Universe

dmstaton — Tue, 17 Jan 2017 09:25:00 GMT

It was approximately 2pm. I sat adjacent my mother at the bar in a cozy & quaint café in downtown Lansing--The Soup Spoon Café--it’s always been a favorite of ours, especially on dreary Michigan winter days. The rather accentuated face biting wind and ballbusting cold (and a hunger commesurate to a starving dog in both our stomachs) lured us into the place. We waited for a table tucked away at the bar watching the localvore plaid shirt and glasses wearing beardos hurriedly whiz by, casually taking time to stop and tuck their long hair behind their ears and roll up their sleeves, revealing colorful arrays of fresh ink. (S/O to Fish Ladder…)

My mother and I chatted while we waited, but the “less-than-24-hour departure to South America roundabout” seemed to continually intercept our conversations. Like any hyperconcerned invested parent, my safety keeps my mother up all night. When she first found out I made the choice to travel to Colombia last December, she threw up for days. Not kidding—like, middle of the night run to the bathroom and upchuck last night’s pork chops and applesauce kind of sick. And to this day, it’s the thing that causes me the most guilt about my thirst for an Esmerelda lifestyle—causing my parents accentuated stress and concern.

Yes, I feel guilty. But I have my prefrontal cortex and avoidant personality to blame for being somewhat immature about how I react. I’m only 24 right?…I’m not fully formed yet! I still have ONE WHOLE YEAR to get my act together, right?? Come on, brain....Anyway, on that day in the café, I just did not want to talk about it. As much as I tried to circumvent the heavy topic during our last meal together, the steering wheel always jolted left towards an impending doomsday.

Mother: “So……….*long silence*………….wha..what….what about, you know…rape? Does that happen down there?”

Me: “Yes, mom. It happens anywhere, and everywhere.”

Long silence.

Mother: “…how often do people get robbed down there? Like what is the percentage? Where did it happen to your friends?”

Me: “Mooooooooom.”

Long silence.

And so on. Though I can’t fault her for caring, I didn’t feel like spending my last moments together talking about rape prevention. Unless one could find a way to flavor their food with pepper spray, I can’t think of a way that conversation could build an appetite.

Soon enough, a squeaky waitress called out a mispronounced “DYE-YANNA!” and guided us to a table in the corner back room. The walls, mustard yellow, were decorated with dried plants and the air smelled of tattooed beardos. Ok, fine, it smelled like delicious omelets and tall stacks of pancakes…but I do swear that beardos have a distinct smell. Might it be the oil they use to tame those facial beasts?

It was a bit chilly from the outdoor air blustering in through the doors. Customers ate still bundled in scarves, hats and puffy jackets. The ceiling tall windows melted with condensation just enough for us to catch glimpses of passing-by cars spraying brown snow onto the bordering sidewalk. A small drizzle coated the parked cars, the windshields glazed in ice.

We sat down and a very kind and gentle beardo took our order. Not ironically, my mom and I asked for the exact same thing—a Greek Omelet with sourdough toast, potatoes and seared lamb. We sipped coffee and took turns warming up our icy fingers on the warm ceramic mug. Conversation dwindled as our patience shortened for the food we watched other tables enjoy. Suddenly, I perked up as I heard something across the way:

“Si, soy Colombiano, pero my ascento es mas differente que…”

Eyebrows perked, I scooted up to the edge of my seat. It was like I became a dog who had sniffed out an underground bone. My Spanish wasn’t good enough to completely follow the conversation, but I was able to pick up enough to know that the three people sitting and eating next to us were, indeed, Colombianos.

Indeed, I was taken aback. In less than 24 hours, I would be getting on a plane to begin my South American adventures in Colombia. Now here I was in the most whitey hipster beardo early-afternoon-red-wine-drinking-establishment I could think of, and three native Colombians sat discussing Colombian culture and current events right across from me. I couldn’t help but tuck my ear out from behind my hat and begin a-creepin. Excitedly, I whispered to my mom that the people next to us were Colombiano.

“Let’s talk to them!” she exclaimed

“NO!” I expediently remarked. (I was afraid she would start asking them about the incessant safety questions).

“Why!!…” she responded.

I argued with her. And I also wanted to keep creeping.

“Okay.” She complied.

We received our steaming omelets and ate in quiet. The check came and went. I stared at her, as if saying, “don’t do it…do…not…do…it”—a throwback to some ten years ago when behavior like such was common practice.

My mom smirked and whipped her body around:

“Hey, are you guys from Colombia!?”

The two women and one man turned to face us. My face went bright red. Please don’t ask about rape, murder, or kidnapping, please, please please, I reiterated in my head.

The male spoke up—

“Yes! I am from Medellin, born and raised. My friends here are from Cali and Bogota.”

I intercepted my mom to take over the conversation.

“Wow! Actually, tomorrow I will be flying in with hopes of staying for an extended time.”

And so the conversation began. We learned that both of the Colombian women were studying at Michigan State University, and the male, a professor of Mechanical Engineering at MSU. All three spoke of the country with such fondness as if remembering in their mind’s eye a deceased friend. They missed the country a lot, which comforted me.

“My brother lives in Medellin, and he owns a hostel. I can give you his contact information and he can show you around the city—to keep you safe.”

“Wow, that would be amazing! Thank you so much. Se lo agradezco mucho! Gracias.”

After a few city recommendations and the comedic relief of watching the three of them argue over which city is “el mejor,” we thanked each other and parted ways. With Colombian contact info in hand, I reached the parking lot and just had to stop for a moment and smile…

I leaned against the iced over car window and thought tenderly about what had just happened.

This is not a coincidence, Deanna.

For years now, I have chosen to indulge in the Universe’s short one liners, its leftover Easter eggs, its sarcastic or too-coincidental succession of events. Some are small. Say, someone texted me at the exact moment I thought about them. Or, perhaps I just happened to meet someone who completely turned my world and all of its contents upside down when I needed it most. Or maybe I simply manifested a parking spot by praying for one.

But this, my friends, was so blatant. It was in no way enigmatic. This was as clear concise as a newborn’s smile, and it happened for a reason. Though not outwardly religious, I can sense and feel God in these moments, and that feels pretty damn good.

Basically, what I retrieved from this encounter was that:

HEY, EVERYTHING IS, AND IS GOING TO BE OKAY.

Might these sort of things happened to Bob Marley when he sang

Every little thing

Is gonna be alright??

Maybe so...

Xo D

ahora que?

dmstaton — Wed, 11 Jan 2017 21:11:00 GMT

Hola!

Hello family. Hello friends & acquaintances. Hello random surfer internet dude who anticipated watching “cute kittens in overalls spooning,” but somehow ended up on this page…hello!

I will first start out by explaining the intention and purpose of this travel blog. I will admit that I have had reservations about creating a travel blog to share my swashbuckling adventures, as sometimes these things are more effort than they’re worth. But having a space to describe, in detail, my experiences that of which are unique to my own person (oh the potentialities…D gets in an argument with a non-English speaking sweaty bad attitude cab driver, or…. D barters with an elderly Afro-Caribbean lady selling dust collecting trinkets…I like it already) is not only beneficial for my own growth, but might provide another adventure seeker valuable insight before departing on a similar trip.

The problem isn’t a hesitation for sharing, but the upkeep. I do admit I have a problem with maintaining contact with those who aren’t resting at the tip of my nose. And I certainly believe that I was sick, or missed the school bus during the “HEY KIDS, LET’S LEARN ABOUT INTERPERSONAL AWARENESS” day. (That being a cornerstone to effective and long lasting social and emotional relationships…still whiteknuckling it at age 24…) Yep, I’m the first to admit I’m just plain bad at it. But, following this new year’s common thread which seems to be “moving beyond fear,” I will create this page and try my best to update it accordingly. However a public service announcement and pre-apology to those who might *gasp* enjoy my content musings and *gasp* anticipate more—I apologize for a potential & rather likely unforecasted cease in material. Spoiler alert—I’m out there having fun.

Getting down to it.

In no time, I will depart from my freezing, albeit increasingly comfortable home town in Michigan with a carry on size Kelty backpack strapped to my waist and (hopefully) a sense of optimism for the following months to come. (Fingers crossed the buoyant feeling can be felt in conjunction with a nauseated stomach and/or small stream of pee cascading down my legs…). To answer the question: Hey D, are you afraid of traveling to South America ALONE as a blonde hair, blue eyed gringa? Aren’t you afraid the bad guys are going to kidnap and hold you for ransom? Aren’t you afraid all your life’s posessions will be robbed of you and your life with forever be ruined? The answer is YES. Claro que si. Yes, I have fear regarding all of those things, however dramatic they may be, all of those scenarios have not weighed on my mind lightly. (So unless you’re my petrified mother, please do not approach me with such considerations. *cough cough* guy working behind the gun counter at Gander Mountain **cough** <-- that is acutally a pretty hilarious story for future telling).

I'm excited to visit a country distinctly known for its "phoenix rises from the ashes" story. Once known for its “narco traficante” culture, Colombia is successfully disassembling its old stereotype of violence by building strong ties with tourism and budding infrastructure. Like many Central and South American countries, the locals are accommodating and friendly. I've heard on many accounts that Colombians seem to be the friendliest of all…and their interactions seem to be the most genuine. (Not an excuse to let my guard down, chill, mom.) While threats do still exist from guerrilla groups and drug trafficking, the Colombian government has classified many cities as safe for tourists throughout the country.

I will begin in Cartegena—a hot & humid port town nested on the northern Caribbean shore of Colombia. After meeting up with a travel companion and spending roughly two weeks together, a soft schedule will guide me down into cooler regions near the Coffee Triangle, Armenia, Pereira, Salento, through the country’s Capital, Bogota, with eventual means of departing back to los Estados from Peru. Such is the next three months of my life—vagabonding on a shoestring from hostel to hostel, striving for fluency by devouring every rapid Spanish sentence that whirs by, squeezing it dry to the pulp in reverie.

Now. What better way than, instead of crappily ending this inaugural post with a cheesy “I’m making my dreams come true!” saga, what better way than allowing the blissed out dream mystic Jack Kerouac to inject his starry sailor eyed perspective into my last paragraph? I think he is a hell of a lot more qualified. What’s more, he’s the one that helped me on when I felt trapped, when I never believed I’d see what I wanted to see, or be what I wanted to be.

Was it not the great Jack who taught me the importance of doing, of seeing, or trying when he said:

“The best teacher is experience and not through someone's distorted point of view.”

Yes, it’s all distorted. We’re all distorted. And it’s complicated until it’s not. And it’s only not when you are taught.

“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”

Through my travels, I hope to know this.

-D