Hand out

Mary Mungummory waits for her daily hand out at the kitchen door while inside Paloma the dog takes advantage of the distraction to search for scraps on the floor. But, in spite of this apparently homey scene at Monty's Surf Camp, Jiquilillo beach is no animal haven. There, as elsewhere in Centroamerica (and the world) injured, sick, starving, often homeless animals are not only systematically neglected, they are abused. As for the precocious Ms. Mungummory, I have no doubt that one day soon it will be her body roasting on the flame.

It is a bother to notice them. And it is an even bigger bother to actually do something to help one of them. Plus, everything excuses our indifference... poverty, religion, tradition... an indifference that is enshrined in the slag of specieism. But nothing makes it right.

Bird Park blues

Baby Woodstock, summer rescue
The first day of the new year still hangs in rear view mirror but soon it will fade from view like all the others. Today, outside my window, I watched a hawk capture a small bird and carry it off. The Bird Park used to be a refuge for the little guys but last summer was a tipping point and since then it's become a regular hunting ground for the scavengers. Even cats make the rounds. Life. Everyone's food for someone. Except for a few morning peanuts, I stopped putting out food for the big birds but, in the two weeks we've been home, it's clear the word is out.

Today, I feel like I'm on the downside of everything. I don't really like being back. I feel very isolated here but here we are. I know the mood will pass but the fact will not. Anyway, I've been adding a lot of photos to my Centroamerica album on flickr if you're interested.

New Year, 2009

Meet Sweet William, the newest member of the troupe. His origin is shrouded in mystery. All we know is that he crossed the snow-covered mountains of Montana and the vast desert region of the Great Basin to join us, a gift from my son and his lovely wife. No doubt about it. Sweet William is a charmer. Heartbreakingly sweet. Everyone loved him instantly, but tricky old Uncle Monkey had an apple up his sleeve and claimed the honors.

So...
here's to a saner, healthier,
more peaceful future for all
inhabitants of planet Earth
from all of us here at the
Language Barrier & Invisible Theatre.

Come on. Visualize Peace.

Quirky Christmas

Photos from the Petén region in Guatemala, gateway to the ruins of the great Mayan city of Tikal.

I was especially taken by the absurd beer tree perched on the highest point in Flores, the tiny island town where we stayed while visiting Tikal. This island was once the home of the Itza and the site one of the last independent Mayan kingdom, Tayasal. Naturally the Spanish eventually got around to destroying the place, along with the rest of the Mayan world, in the name of god and king. Then went broke.

Guatemalan snowman
where once the mighty Mayan Spaniard stood.

Winter Solstice

Winter solstice is one of my favorite times of year, a time to withdraw, review, recharge, and begin again. Wishing you a peaceful night and wonderful new beginnings on this, our longest night of the year. Cheers.

winter solstice poem poetry

The morning after

Yesterday at the LA airport when the US Customs Officer handed my passport back he smiled and said, "Welcome home". I very nearly shed a tear. If you know me, you know how rare that is unless I am watching a video about suffering animals or a smalchy dog food commercial. Not that I was desperate to get back. I wasn't. In fact, I'm really not even back yet. I am between worlds. Here and there. Last night I dreamt about Centroamerica, the people and places we came to know. The friends we made. The animals, the smoldering volcanoes, the Mayan world, ancient and today. The interesting, sometimes bizarre travelers sharing the road. The horrible (not)cobble stone streets of Antiqua and winchy sidewalks embellished with neck-breaking, jaw-crushing drop-offs and skull-bruising windows overhanging the narrow and wildy irregular passageways. Bar none, the sidewalks in Costa Rica take the tarta. They include sudden, unmarked holes deep enough that Mr. Lee, who is 6'3, could stand upright in some of them and disappear completely from view unless you happen to be standing right at the edge of one of these random and inexplicable gapes. I even miss them. They challenge my Attention Deficit Disorder by turning the simplest Sunday stroll into an adventure dangerous and thrilling enough to rival even the edgiest episode of Survivor. And the mossy, moldy, cracked and crumbling walls being ravaged by trees and sagging under creepers blooming up and over. I especially miss them and the lull of languages, like the language of birds, a welcome hiatus from too much information.

Already the conveniences and routines of life here are reclaiming me from that improvised, life-size, handmade reality that opens and closes like nocturnal flowers. Don't get me wrong. I am glad to be back. Certainly the good ol' EE. UU. (US en Español), is an amazing and wonderful place that I am fortunate to call home. And, yes, it is good to be back to my own language although, of course, we are both going to work on our Spanish every day because we are going back and anyway learning a new language is a good workout for the brain. Certainly traveling to and in Mesoamerica is a huge pain in the ass but the place has gotten in our blood. I don't want my world to be complete without all that chaos and mystery and color and, of course, the sweet empanadas we bought every Sunday from the nice woman who baked them then sold them out of the back of her station wagon while her family sat in the car and waited. And oh... those tasty pineapple tartelettes on special occasions. But this morning, in spite of the nostalgia, I managed to fill the feeders in the Bird Park. No one has discovered it yet but they will. Someone will do a fly-by and discover the payload. Oh yes.