Living in Cyprus requires layovers any time I try to cross the Atlantic which makes sense, since demand for transatlantic voyages sufficient to fill a plane regularly is an impossible task for an island of approximately 1 million people. It has become customary for me to travel great distances to get to my university in Newfoundland and back to Cyprus. The odyssey to Guatemala, however, necesitates its own separate post.
Part of the problem was my booking a flight to Costa Rica early, to try to secure a lower price and a flight that avoids transit in the USA, which would require numerous expense traveling to Halifax for an interview to the US consulate. In retrospect there are few other convenient countries to connect through and it is tricky to reach Guatemala while bypassing the states. I had also only booked my flight to Cyprus via Italy at the last possible moment, meaning that there was an extended layover after my arrival in both Rome and Toronto. Hence my flight sechedule was this: Larnaca-Rome-Toronto-San Jose-Guatemala City.
Flying in to Rome was fairly standard with no surprises. However I was suffering from a very bad full body sunburn and it became virtually impossible to sleep for long periods of time in the Fiumicino Airport since they the chairs they had in their lounges were metal with rigid armrests separating the chairs. It was no possilbe to lie on several chairs at once and I did not want to sleep on the floor. This required me to explore the full flexibility of my upper body while simultaneously finding inventive ways to rest without applying too much pressure on my sun-burnt body. The most I could sleep for at a time was 10 minutes and due to me arriving late and leaving early, all the cafes and restaurants were closed, leaving me with only some chocolate bars for dinner. The airplane food from Cyprus Airways was also having disagreements with my intestinal system, leaving me with nausea but no medicine to help me. Nonetheless, having a lot of free time on my hands, usually results in me thinking a lot about different stuff. Throughout my extended layovers I experienced a mix of joy, bewilderment, excitement, sadness, either at the same time or alternately. Despite reading many positive reviews of both IVHQ and Maximo Nivel, I was feeling apprehensive and sceptical. How could I be sure that was doing the right thing, that I would like my fellow volunteers, that I would fit in a construction site?
However knowing that I was going to be able to rest in Toronto, since I had booked a hostel, gave me hope that things were only going to improve from here on. However I was proved wrong as soon as descended into the jet bridge. A queue was already forming, which in my experience had only occurred right before immigration controls. Wanting to investigate why, I walked along the jet bridge to see that CBSA agents were interviewing passengers shortly after the jet bridge ended. Satisfied, I was about to head back to the end of the line as an older gentleman decided to take out his fatigue and frustration on me, by ranting about the futility of cutting in line, chastising me on doing so and proclaiming Canada to be a "country of queues". Despite me feeling offended over the characterisation of the country I had selected to spend over a decade of my life in and wanting to explain that I was not in fact cutting in line, I simply acknowledged the man's frustration and refused to pursue the matter any further.
My brief stay in Toronto culminated in me catching bed bugs from my hostel and the private room that I was staying in. Thinking back I was not surprised, since the room screamed spartan, utilitarianian, bare minimum at me. In other words I had a bed, a chair, table, window, television and an outlet. No paint, no decorations, nothing if not at all necessary. The television could be described as a luxury but I would have rather preferred a bed-bug free room. I did have a feast in a South Korean restaurant where I did not come close to finishing my meal, all for 10 dollars, while watching lots of K-Pop songs. Lots of colour, dancing but no actual auditory substance.
My even briefer stay in San Jose Santamaria, the main airport in Costa Rica, was no less adventurous. Due to me not having a Costa Rican visa, both Air Canada and the immigration official in the airport experienced doubts before allowing me to board and enter the country respectively. Another factor was my incorrect filing of the arrival form, which the official spent some time ticking and correcting as she saw fit, then preparing herself to stamp my passport and then suddenly feeling the need to ask her superior if it was ok to let me in the country. Even though the situation was not as straightforward as she might like, I was entitled entry on the basis of Canadian visa, which based on Costa Rican immigration law entitled me to a 30 day stay, much more than a 6 hour transit. I had spent time confirming this, and I generaly keep in track of any changes in terms of visa requirements for Russian citizens. She was however extremely polite, and the delay was not because she treated as a treat, but because she was unwilling to get into trouble and was just double checking to be absolutely sure.
That obstacle too was overcome and I was left facing my imminent arrival in Guatemala. My flight was the last scheduled to depart that day and had suffered some slight delays. I was so uncertain of what was to come that I had wished that I could stay in this state of limbo, where I am so close but still not quite there, waiting for my flight to depart. But of course, time does not stand still and I was off to a new adventure, leaving my comfort zone, similar to when I started my university life in Newfoundland 10 months ago. It was no easier then and as I exited La Aurora Airport, having passed immigration, customs, dogs sniff my luggage while held on a leash by a modern day Rambo, I wondered what now?
It was quite simple really. I was picked up by the driver as expected and as I had done several times in Moscow, looked and absorbed the night colours of Guatemala City. Antigua itself was fairly dark and arrived at my residence, my home for 3 months, at 11pm. A volunteer, who I found out the next day was called Jake, was asleep on the couch in front of the TV as a movie was playing. I intorduced myself to Alfredo, the night watchman, and through hand gestures and my limited Spanish I received a tour of the house and an explanation. Really needing a shower I proceded to do so in a bathroom with pink walls, and then I collapsed in my room, thinking of absolutely nothing as sleep gained hold of my mind.
