Trafford Publishing: An Odd Odyssey: California to Colombia by bus and boat, through Mexico and Central America

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An Odd Odyssey: California to Colombia by bus and boat, through Mexico and Central America

by Glen David Short

290 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #01-0004; ISBN 1-55212-602-1; US$21.90, C$25.19, EUR17.99, £12.59

This book is about the author's five and a half month journey through Mexico and Central America. It describes the places he visited, people he met, and his experiences through ten different countries while Hurricane Mitch struck the region.

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About the Book About the Author Reviews Table of Contents Excerpts Catalogue Information

About the Book

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to:
quit your well-paying job to backpack through Mexico and Central America...hike through the desert in search of pre-historic cave paintings in Baja California...be robbed twice in 24 hours...view the mortal remains of Mexico's greatest hero...come face-to-face with a giant crocodile...experience Hurricane Mitch...drink, dance and fly kites in a graveyard festival...climb an active volcano...see the world's most powerful woman...search for a pre-Columbian relic in the Costa Rican jungle...fall under the spell of a Nicaraguan model...explore Aztec and Mayan ruins...cross the Panama Canal...visit Paul Gauguin's house with a Playboy Bunny...spend New Year's Eve in a Caribbean disco...sail to Colombia in a yacht built by a retired bricklayer with a pet monkey for company...
Read An Odd Odyssey to find out! The author spent 5 1/2 months wandering around Mexico and Central America writing this descriptive compendium of history, geography and travel anecdotes.

About the Author

Glen David Short was born in Australia in 1962. He spent most of his life working underground as an industrial electrician in tunnels and mines, and was once part of a team that held a world record for coal extraction. He has also worked above ground as a dockyard supervisor, construction worker, and public event spruiker. He has travelled extensively in Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas. In 1987/88 he sailed from Mauritius to Sydney with the Australian Bicentennial First Fleet Re-Enactment Voyage, winning a berth on the Anna Kristina after entering an essay-writing competition. An Odd Odyssey is his first book. His interests include exploring old graveyards, collecting autographs and listening to recordings of obscure Australasian rock music. He taught English in the Republic of Colombia for 3 years, and currently lives in Sydney where he is working on a book about South America.

Reviews

A FIVE-STAR REVIEW

"THIS is the way to travel!"

"Some years past, a colleague suggested a year of travel instead of my intended return to school. It took thirty years to fulfill that suggestion. Glen Short didn't require any more prompting than a dull, dirty and dangerous job. His destination, prompted by a world-traveling grandfather, became Central America, specifically, the Panama Canal. The journey lasted just short of six months and resulted in this account of his adventures. A spirited read, An Odd Odyssey should inspire anyone of nearly any age to pull up stakes at least once in a lifetime and venture somewhere distant. Short's account shows how richly rewarding travel can be to those willing to make the effort.
There are two kinds of travel books - the "guidebook" with sights, prices, accommodation ideally suited for those seeking comfort instead of adventure. Glossy photos, usually portraying conditions found on movie sets, detailed maps, prices listed. The other type is the personal journal, which, properly done, imparts a far better sense of "being there" than does the guidebook. Short's chronicle is the second type, a vivid sharing of his thoughts, experiences, disasters, even love. The means of travel was by bus. Just finding one was fraught with hazards - timing, crowding or even just running. Once boarded, there was the issue of finding the proper seat: "Sit in the rear. Bandits will shoot through the front window." On a limited budget the "guidebook" hotels were out of the question for Short. Many havens he found for a night's rest became adventures in their own right. Weather, ever a primary topic for travellers, added its own quirks - a major Caribbean hurricane being the most spectacular.
These minor discomforts aside, Short's recital of his travels points up the many benefits of journeying solo. One of these is that you don't remain alone for long. Not every acquaintance is a welcome companion, but none are dull. They bring their lives into his view, and to ours. Short meets former convicts, travelers from Europe, Canada and Australia. Not limiting himself to fellow "gringos" he deals well with the local residents. Although a few are not as friendly as he - he's robbed twice and has the usual tangles with bureaucrats, cheating taxi drivers and sullen hoteliers. Still, he maintains his equanimity, exhibiting strength in adverse circumstances. In this modern age he can turn to internet cafes, at one point spending more on email and 'net surfing than on accommodation and food.
Short is a learner, eager to know the current and historical conditions of the lands he visits. Teotihuacan, Tikal and the world's largest stone sphere. His account leads you along with him in fine descriptive prose. He shares his learning without becoming pedantic or opinionated. His judgements are the result of thoughtful assessment and it's easy to agree with them. The book becomes not only the tale of his journey, but a guidebook without gloss or sham. By the end of it, we envy his adventures and his ability to relate them. It's hard not to embark on a similar jaunt with the aim of duplicating his effort for your chosen locale."
May 17, 2002
Reviewer: Stephen A. Haines
an Amazon.com top 500 reviewer
from Ottawa, Ontario, Canada

Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION      Sydney      page 5

Why go... there?

CHAPTER 1     Japan, Los Angeles, and Baja California      page 9
Tijuana and the Giant Tooth
Looking for pre-historic Cochimi rock paintings in the desert
Mulegé's Viking
Crossing the Sea of Cortez

CHAPTER 2      Mazatlan, Guadalajara, and Mexico City      page 26
Guadalajara and the transcendental tequila bar
The 'Fight of the Century'
Teotihuacán and the Avenue of the Dead
Robbed twice in 24 hours

CHAPTER 3      Mexico City     page 46
Ari, the love-struck would-be guerrilla
Kahlo and Cortés, Trotsky and Huitzilopochtli
A student protest that got out of hand

CHAPTER 4      Taxco and Ixcateopan      page 72
A marble marvel
The Eagle King and his guardian
A mysterious melancholy

CHAPTER 5      Oaxaca, San Cristóbal and Palenque     page 80
Hounded from the air in the ancient citadel
President's house invaded by African killers
The bizarre cult of the Tzotzil Indians
The Cañón de Sumidero and the plastic crocodile that wasn't
Exploring ancient Mayan ruins at Palenque and Bonompak
Up the Usumacinta River by motorized canoe

CHAPTER 6     Panajachel, Antigua and Guatemala City      page 105
Harassed by jungle pizotes in Tikal
The Temple of Maximon
Being speechless and ready to die
Spanish lessons and Guatemalan ghost stories
Experiencing Hurricane Mitch
Drinking, dancing and kite-flying in a Sacatepequez cemetery
Climbing an active volcano
Visiting a macadamia farm
A troubled Guatemalan speaks his mind
Friday the 13th and the madman
Seeing the most powerful woman in the world
Talking with the loneliest man in the world

CHAPTER 7      El Salvador      page 141
The perils of drinking with a Salvadoran artist
The strange monument to the motorcyclist
The Joya de Ceren, Pompeii of the Americas
San Salvador's British Club and Lipps
The caves of Corinto

CHAPTER 8      Nicaragua     page 163
The footprints of Acahualinca
My liaison with the Corn girl
Boat trip on Lake Nicaragua

CHAPTER 9      Costa Rica      page 173
A traditional remedy that worked
Under the spell of a beautiful trigueña
A difficult decision taken
Discovering a giant sphere in the Costa Rican jungle

CHAPTER 10      Panama and the Caribbean      page 184
Christmas Eve in the Land of Eternal Spring
Feathers fly in a fight to the death
Climbing Panama's highest peak to see the Pacific and Caribbean in one vista
Bocas del Toro and the bat-cave
New Year's Eve in a Caribbean disco
Doctor Kaled, an unlikely millionaire
Visiting Paul Gauguin's house with a Playboy Bunny and Penthouse Pet

CHAPTER 11      Panama     page 224
Drama while crossing the Panama Canal
Jar-heads, wide-mouths, beauty contestants and drunken surfers
El Valle's puzzling pre-Columbian petroglyphs
Colon and Coco Solo: dangerous places

CHAPTER 12     Panama and the Caribbean      page 244
Death and thievery on Isla Grande
Sailing and camping among friendly Kuna in the San Blas Archipelago
A crewmember excluded
Sarah the spider monkey
Our brush with disaster in a yacht built by a retired bricklayer
Landfall on the South American continent

EPILOGUE     Colombia      page 259
What happened to the others
Which world is real?
Map, photographs and Ernie's letter
Excerpts

Tues 3 Nov... EXPERIENCING HURRICANE MITCH
     At long last there were patches of sunshine appearing through the clouds. With sunshine comes optimism, but it was to be short lived. At mid-morning recess, the Spanish school's director, a gregarious man by the name of Juan Carlos assembled the students and asked me to translate his speech. He confirmed what we already knew: roads were cut, disease had broken out and looting has occurred in other parts of Guatemala. All the banks had suspended changing money, in anticipation of a currency crisis. Some teachers were absent he said, because their homes had been destroyed, and a bag was passed around for donations to help them get their houses in order.
     In class, Gloria told me another spooky story, in this one she was the witness. Her theatre group was performing the scene in Macbeth where Lady Macbeth invokes evil spirits, when a door flew open and a bat flew in, which promptly dropped dead on the stage! Intrigued by her ghost stories, I wanted to learn more. Gloria recommended I contact a woman by the name of Elizabeth Bell who has lived in Antigua for many years. Bell is an author of books on Antigua's history, and gives lectures in English every Tuesday; but when I found the venue for her speech, a man told me it had been cancelled, due to the tormentas (storms).
     Later I saw Jerome and Romain, they asked me to come over to their hotel for a room party, Romain was celebrating his birthday, and was leaving Antigua tomorrow. We bought crisps, rum and soft drinks, and were having a great time. Everyone was getting drunk and singing along to music on the radio. Through his open doorway, I saw three girls check in, they looked a bit tired, and didn't want to join in our free party.
"Why not?" asked Jerome.
"Because we've just spent three days on a truck trying to get here!"
     The three girls, two Canadians and one Australian, had a weary tone to their voices, their story was almost terrifying. They had been staying at a small village on the Caribbean coast of Guatemala, the area worst affected by the hurricane. The Army had advance warning that the storm was approaching, and evacuated the entire village just as the winds were starting to get strong. As panic spread, vehicles with spare seats for foreigners became scarce, but they were able to get on the last Army truck that left at midnight, after a door-to-door final appeal to the residents to leave the low-lying village. As the truck slowly made its way to higher ground, they were soaked by the rain all night and all day. They were bogged several times and rivers and streams had changed their courses, presenting tremendous obstacles. On the second night of their journey, they came to a bridge that looked very dangerous. The river was about to swamp it, and there was pile-up of logs and branches clogging it and putting more strain on it than it was ever designed to withstand.
"The driver drove slowly across, and, as we looked out the rear of the truck, we saw it give way and collapse!"
     One of the girls let out a soft whimper, "It was horrible, like a movie. We were with a Swiss girl who 'lost it' completely, becoming hysterical, crying that we're all about to die, until one of the soldiers came into the back of the truck and shook her hard and told her as long as we stayed on high ground, we would be all right."
     But the worst part of their story was still to come. The next bridge they came to had already been washed away, so there was no way forward and no way back, they had no alternative but to sit by the raging torrent and wait for the waters to recede.
"We heard people crying out for help, they were stranded in trees, and had seen our truck's head-lights. But it was still raining in buckets, and it was night time. Some of the people had tied their children's hands to the upper branches, because they knew that eventually they would tire and fall asleep, and fall into the water. All night we heard screams. The next day we saw a vehicle on the other side of the river, the army asked us to wade across, we had to dump unnecessary items to lighten our packs, the water was still over our heads in some places."
"I gave my camera to one of the soldiers" said one of the Canadian girls. "It was waterlogged anyway."
"When we eventually crossed in front of them, the soldiers said that we must not help the people in the trees or even acknowledge them, or they may panic and try and swim to us, which would spell disaster for everyone, because so many cannot swim and they might drag you and their children under with them. When I said 'but you can't leave them there', the soldiers said 'Why not?' They said that a person can live for a week or more with no food, and there was plenty of water. By then the waters would have receded completely. We could see the bodies of people and animals in the water."
     The girls' traumatic experience made us all stop and think about how lucky we were to have been in Antigua during the inundacíon.
     I heard on my shortwave through Voice of America that the death toll is now 7,000 and expected to rise further. Worse still, there was another hurricane, Hurricane Newton, forming off the Pacific coast and approaching Antigua from its unprotected eastern slopes. Great!

Sun 8 Nov... DRINKING, DANCING AND KITE-FLYING IN A SACATEPEQUEZ GRAVEYARD
     I waited at the station to catch a bus to Santiago de Sacatepequez, a little village an hour by bus from Antigua, hoping to see the Day of the Dead celebrations that had been postponed due to Hurricane Mitch. Following the milling crowd off the bus, we walked up a hill past a market, and then through the middle of town which contained a municipal tank where women were doing their laundry. At the top of the hill, an arch over a gate announced that we were entering the Cementerio. The gravestones reflected the varied wealth of their respective occupants: some were concrete vaults, others were merely mounds of dirt bereft of even a name. Most had been tidied up recently, with weeding being done, fresh plastic flowers and a coat of paint. A peculiar carnival atmosphere prevailed in the graveyard. People were wearing their best clothes; dance music was being amplified and broadcast by ten-foot high loudspeakers; ice-cream vendors wheeled their trolleys between the tombs. People were eating their picnic lunches atop great-grandma's grave in a mark of respect to demonstrate their ancestors have not been forgotten. Rum was flowing freely too, and as the day progressed dancing on the tombs became de rigueur.
     The graveyard was situated on the crest and slope of a hill, and afforded a beautiful view of a valley. In a field across the valley more kites were being readied for flight. On our side, little kids were racing around with small kites, while teams prepared the bigger ones which were more than 30 feet in diameter. The larger kites were colourful creations constructed with bamboo as thick as a man's thigh, the faces of the kites having gaudy designs and themes. Many had international flags atop them. The local women were wearing their traditional garb, adding further colour to the fair.
     At 2pm the competition began, a man with a microphone providing a running commentary. There was a lot of skill involved in getting the bigger ones up, many hands were required to keep them under control. Some kites took off effortlessly and went straight up, then crashed. Others were aloft for a short while then broke a spar and came crashing down; others became tangled in each other's lines. One large kite's line broke, and it fell to earth like a feather, slewing left and right, before landing flat on top a small boy, his head the only thing protruding through the tissue paper. Less than half of the kites became airborne and stayed up. Gloria had told me that the kites, called barriletas, were believed to frighten away spirits that try to return on the Day of the Dead. This year the kites had an added poignancy, due to the unknown number dead, their souls claimed by Hurricane Mitch.
     Jurgen, Jodie, Keith and I climbed atop a concrete vault and watched the festivities going on both in the air and on the ground. A couple of small boys who were selling peanuts asked me for a hand up onto the vault. Once I helped them up there they forgot about selling peanuts and set about flying a small plastic kite, yelling excitedly 'Mira mira mira!' (look look look!). A family behind us were also perched on a vault. The father was simultaneously flying his kite, smoking a cigarette, doing a jig to the music and sipping on a small bottle of rum. That's what I call getting into the 'spirit' of things!
     We heard English being spoken and turned to see a white woman of about 50 dressed in the native Maya costume. Her accent was North American, her voice the type that could be heard above a crowd. She was talking to a tourist about the grave-tidying custom. I don't know why, but the four of us took an instant dislike to her, saying "she shouldn't be wearing those clothes, she looks stupid, she's trying to be something she's not. She's being offensive to the Indians..." Later I recanted and thought, well, maybe that's for the Indians to decide, not us. I mentioned to Jodie that I had heard on the shortwave that Newt Gringrich had resigned, and she said:
"Oh good! I have personal reasons to despise that man."
"Like what?" I asked.
"I am a teacher, and a young girl in my class won a country-wide competition to turn on the lights to the National Christmas Tree. I had to accompany her to Washington all the way from Utah. When we arrived at the event, Newt showed up with his own two protegés, and gazumped us by letting them turn it on, without so much as an explanation or apology."
     Jodie let out a hoot and they laughed and danced to his downfall, then in true American style Keith broke out some peanut butter rolls. As the festivities wound down, I could feel that I had had too much sun, my face was already turning pink. The little boys asked me to help them untangle their kite from a large tree, but I was unable to free it. It joined about a dozen others already there, hanging in tatters, dangling in the wind. Some of them were left over from previous years, a kind of graveyard for kites, giving the tree a somewhat eerie appearance.
     Perhaps the most touching sight was when we were leaving, we saw an old woman busy around a very humble grave, it was nothing more than a mound of dirt covered with a thin cement veneer. The old woman was tidying it up and removing empty Coca-Cola cans and bottles of rum, and replacing the dead flowers with fresh ones.
     When we left to return to Antigua, there were so many people on the bus that the ticket collector had to crawl over the top of the seats to collect our money. The bus broke down about half way home, and we had to wait in some light rain to flag down another bus. In the main plaza in Antigua, a religious procession was in progress: men in white robes and Moses-like Arab head-dress were marching, while 50 or more pallbearers were carrying a giant bier at least 80 feet long. The float contained a wooden statue of Jesus, and several stone crosses that must have weighed tons, all backlit from hidden fluorescent lights. People were huddled in the doorways holding burning candles, watching, and singing, when the heavens suddenly opened and it started pouring. We all said hurried goodbyes and scurried off our separate ways.

Catalogue Information