Lago de Atitlain. It was going well enough. Filming on a lancha boat while crossing the lake at sunrise seemed like an excellent beginning to an adventurous day. A day I now refer to as the “Day of accidents” or the “Day in Guate” with zero affection. Little did we know that swinging through Guatemala city in our hired van on our way north would result in sitting in traffic for close to four hours sandwiched between black exhaust spewing trucks and buses. The result of multiple serious traffic accidents we covered about three blocks in three of those hours. Have I mentioned that it’s hot in Central America?

Finally freeing ourselves from the agony of Guate, we pressed on northward towards the small village of Lanquin in the Northern Highlands. Chicken buses pass on blind curves all the time in Central America, giving a honk and going for it. We were just discussing the insanity of this when about fifty feet ahead we witnessed a near head on chicken bus collision which was terrifying to say the least. Both buses almost rolled over as they slammed on the breaks and cut the wheels hard to avoid each other. I truly understood why there are so many horrible vehicle accidents in C.A.. As darkness fell we realized how far behind schedule we were and were a bit perturbed to find ourselves once again in a major accident induced traffic jam around 10:30pm. A pickup truck had slammed into an illegal lumber truck and the trunks of the trees had sheared the top half of the cab and likely its occupants clean off. As we rolled by a small crowd gathered in the darkness and we soon pushed on down a dirt road into Lanquin. (more…)

Oh, how much has happened since the last post!

Our arrival in Antigua, Guatemala was a welcome one after 48 hours of bus rides and an all-night dance party with the girls in San Salvador. A beautiful colonial city with cobblestone streets and a piece of history on every block, Antigua is the kind of place cameras were invented for. It also has excellent coffee which was needed after a week of drinking instant. Finding one of the tallest buildings in town (3 stories!) we made our way to the roof for some sunset city shots . The following morning we awoke ready to hit the town and after filming Amy and Marisol in the markets, we hired a pair of Tuk Tuks to take us on a wild race to a volunteer program on the outskirts of town. The nonprofit center was founded several years ago by a local lady to help the children of unwed mothers in the area learn about arts and horticulture and to give them a unique learning experience. Several travelers from around the world were volunteering there and shared with us the importance of volunteer work as a means of getting a true sense of local communities. The kids were a blast and the headmaster was very appreciative of our interest in her program and was thrilled to interview with us. (more…)

Hola from Guatemala! The Beckoning Road production team has been on location in Central America for one action-packed week now. The team consists of: Daniel Mode (yours truly), the director of this project; Michael Thomas, our Director of Photography and Operator; Allen Noonan our Sound man, Boom Op and Utility Infielder; and the lovely Valerie Rhodes, our Venezualen Translator, Transpo Coordinator and Spanish Language Interviewer. The team has been excellent to work with both as profesionals and great people.

Here’s a quick update on all that we’ve been up to:

Our adventure began in the sweltering heat of Granada, Nicaragua. Actually “sweltering” is a bit of an understatement. “Brutal” or “paralyzing” might be more appropriate. The city and people were spectacular, but after infiltrating the local traveler scene we soon realized that the vast majority we encountered were short-term vacationers in the area for a few weeks to see the sights, drink and surf. The hostals were dissapointingly flooded with these people which was not exactly what we were looking for. As we met more and more people though, the wheat really began to separate from the chaff and we eventually started singling folks out. Out of about two dozen people we talked to only about five were on a long haul trip of 5 months or more and only one good character was able to interview with us, an interesting young gent named Jeff from New York. He shared his unique experience with us and we decided we’d have to move on to find other travelers. (more…)

Elevation: 6215 feet

We arrived in the small hamlet of San Francisco de Sales in our second week on the road as the hot noon sun beat down on the roof of the old Blue Bird. Our old bus crawled into town, belching large clouds of black smoke at young children with bored and sullen faces sitting on the side of the road. In absurdly stark contrast to San Francisco, California, this San Francisco was an extremely poor dirt floor town at the base of Volcan de Pacaya where the most common accessories were guns and machetes.

A single vending stand with a bright orange CRUSH sign above it provided a lonely splash of color in a brown and grey town made entirely of concrete and corrugated metal. Perhaps this was their Golden Gate. Freeing myself from the short seats of the hot bus I B-lined it straight for this stand in the hopes of getting some ice cold aqua pura. My choices? Orange Crush Soda or Tecate beer. Crush it was. The sodas in Central America are made with sugar instead of corn syrup and are on an entirely different plane of deliciousness. One sip of the sugar-sweetened soda and I was hooked.

San Franciscan Rooftops

I was halfway through my second bottle when our guides called me over to gather with our group. Strapping on their appropriate complement of weapons and leading us past the armed men gathering at the Parque entrance to the trailhead, they explained how assaults and robberies have been a problem on the trails here since tourists started climbing the volcano in the 70’s. There were twelve of us including the guides. Some Europeans, a Japanese kid, a few Americans and us. A little local boy followed behind us on a small horse. Everyone separated quickly, as tends to happen, the youngest pushing ahead through the forest, the older and heftier falling behind. After close to an hour of trudging through the woods we came to a clearing where the cone of the volcano could be seen spitting smoke into the sky. (more…)

At 5:30 in the morning we arrive in Hanoi, the capital of Vietnam, on the night train from Sapa, a hill-station in the north of Vietnam. We step bleary-eyed out into the gray drizzle and into the swarm of taxi drivers. We find one who will use the meter, and have him take us to the old city. We speed through wet streets, empty of traffic save for a few motorbikes. Most of these are laden with cargo, on their way to the markets. I gape in horror and amazement as a man totes four recently slaughtered pigs on a motorbike. Their bodies are draped in front of him and bounce with each bump in the road, narrowly missing the pavement below. I gape again in horror as our taxi fare skyrockets; this guy must have his meter rigged so it increases by three times the normal rate! I say something about it to the driver, who suddenly becomes unable to speak English.

When we arrive in the old city, all of the hotels are closed; big garage-door-style gates are drawn in front of their doors. We knock on one, and after a minute, a young man groggily answers. “Do you have any rooms?” No room at the inn, as it turns out, not until the noon check-out at least. Not wanting to rouse more bellboys at the neighboring hotels, we walk to the posh Tamarind Cafe, the only place open at 6 am.

From my comfy seat, I watch the city wake up. Women walk down the street, balancing baskets wrapped in burlap. They pause at the opening of the cafe, offering their wares (baguettes). Old women cook noodle soup from miniature stands on the street. Their patrons, mostly chain-smoking men, sit on miniature stools and, holding their bowls inches from their mouths, sip their soup noisily. Women in cone hats carry fruit in two bamboo baskets balanced on the ends of a pole. (Either pineapples-and-bananas or apples-and-oranges, but for some reason never pineapples-and-oranges, or apples-and-bananas.) Kids in uniform cycle to school, usually two or three to a bike. More and more motorbikes begin to flood the streets. The toot-toot of their horns shifts from occasional to incessant.

Trademark laws are not enforced in Vietnam. I guess Duc Kim was successful enough to spawn an imitator?

Communism meets free enterprise head-on in the Old Quarter of Hanoi. Each street sells one thing in particular (this seems Communist to me); in fact the streets are named for each item. There is Silver Street, Shrine Street, Seamstress Supply Street, Silk Street, Fried Meat Street, Yarn Street, and Blacksmith Street, to name several. A quick glance inside the shops gives one no idea which store to patronize; they all appear to be selling the exact same thing! Many of them even have the same name in the same font on the outside of their store. New stores steal the name of an old favorite in hopes of gaining some business: there are about 15 “Sinh Tourist Cafe”s in a five-block radius.

Motorbikes block the sidewalk on, hmm, crepe-paper- decoration street?

A walk down the street is replete with obstacles. The sidewalk is not very useful, as it is mainly a motorbike parking lot. If there isn’t one parked where you are walking, there is probably someone pulling up onto the sidewalk in your path. In the narrow space between the motorbikes and the buildings, merchants crouch outside their shops, chopping a piece of wood or tuning up a bike or chatting with their friends. On Blacksmith Street, sparks fly as the smiths do their work right out in the street!

Fleeing the frenzy of the streets, we walk to the Temple of Literature. This place was once like the Oxford of Vietnam. Formerly a college for elite male students, it is now a series of shrines to educational greats of the East such as Confucius. From the quiet gardens, the sound of honking motorbikes is almost inaudible. The Chinese-style pagodas are beautifully constructed in red lacquer and dark wood.

On the way back to the hotel, we elect to take a cyclo. This odd contraption is like a backwards tricycle. The driver sits high atop the rear wheel and pedals the passengers, who sit down in the front in a padded seat. Our driver has a wide, toothy grin, and his seat is covered with a beach towel that says “Guadalupe” and has a huge parrot on it.

A man in his military helmet bicycles down the streets of Hanoi.

The driver begins pedaling on the opposite side of the street, right into the oncoming traffic. I bite my lip as the traffic surges around us. Once on the right side of the road, we join the fray. Schoolgirls in cone hats and long white ao-dai dresses pedal slowly along. Men in military helmets (the only kind of helmet most people can afford) whiz by on motorbikes. A huge city bus parts the sea of motorbikes as it heads to the curb to drop off passengers. And an old married couple - he’s pedaling, she’s riding sidesaddle on the rack in the back - amble on by us too.

The energy in Hanoi is so frenetic, it makes me feel oddly calm to witness it at the slow pace of the cyclo ride. Being in this craziness makes me appreciate anew the decorum with which we Westerners drive. Even angry Bostonians don’t honk this much!

In the evening, we stroll down by Hoan Kiem Lake, a gathering spot for both tourists and locals. They have closed one of the streets near the lake, and kids race their bicycles up and down the empty road. Later, as we walk back from a pub, the streets are quiet again, empty except for people who sit together on blankets, sharing food and chatting. In San Francisco, the only people sitting on blankets after dark would be homeless people; here, they seem to be friends having a late-night sidewalk picnic. At last, the city goes to sleep, and soon, so will we.