24 hours till departure

“Be at dis bus stop at 8 o’clock. Don’t loose da ticket!” I swear to God that I was looking the real live “Pedro” from Napoleon Dynamite. I seriously almost begged him for his autograph but instead I inquired “Is this a real ticket? Because you just wrote that guy a ticket for a tour of Tikal and those tickets look mighty similar. If this ticket isn’t real…I will find you and I will cut your throat.” I didn’t say that, but I thought it. He smirked at me. Then he started jabbering to me very rapidly which is what they do. The local guides feel that if they can catch you in the moment; that if they can make you feel like your only choice is to buy and buy right then and there, they can sell you anything. They use phrases like “we’re the only ones in town with this price” and “we only have 2 seats left”. Those lines will send the average tourist into a temporary, unneeded panic which results in a premature purchase.

Somewhere, lost in his spitfire of words, he explained to me that the ticket had a phone number on it so it had to be real. I inserted an eye roll. We exchanged a few more reassuring words to each other and I left. I strolled around the cobblestone streets a bit, window-shopping stores that lacked glass in their window frames. The air smelt of salt with an occasional whiff of armpit. It could have been mine. But I didn’t investigate. The sun was bright but not warm. The unleveled street made it hard for walking; so I did a lot of “pretending like” I didn’t just trip.

I breezed by the hostel and said my good-byes. Our flights were at different times so the group’s journey together was ending by default. Our farewells were short and 100 percent sincere. You form a bit of a bond with somebody when your week has been spent entirely together; participating in adventures together, doing life’s essential things such as finding food and water, and of course; shitting. Finding a place to crap together will bring you closer to someone than you can ever imagine.

It was my time to find my bus stop. I inquired from a local business man how long it would take me to walk to the stop. He told me 20 minutes. I left at 7:30 pm to give me that extra 10 minutes of getting lost time. I arrived at my destination at 7:33 pm. Hmmmm.

I shared seat number 9 with a creepy but smiley guy. He had a mustache. I immediately stereotyped him as the man with 4 kids locked in his basement. I gave him a courtesy smile and began my attempt at getting comfortable in my seat. I used to hate being short. I couldn’t spike the ball when I was captain of the volleyball team; I had to stand on something to kiss my high school friend boy; and long legs just looked sexy. Now, I have come to complete terms with my shortness. I’m travel size. You can find me in the aisle at target where they sell all the mini soaps and tiny shampoos. They may be small, but they are a lot more freaking comfortable on chicken bus rides, car rides, shuttle, airplanes, small boats, tents and even small beds. Yep, I’m travel size for a reason.

The bus ride is ten and a half hours. No, you didn’t just misread that. Mustache man kept falling on my shoulder and I kept pushing him off. They played awesome Sylvester Stallone movies from the 80’s in Spanish subtitles. There was a not-so-awesome slumber party going on behind me that involved 10 French teenagers with their burger king bags and constant exaggerated giggling. Once I fell asleep about the same time the bus hit a bump in the road. My head hit the glass window with a loud bang. The French kids thought that was hysterical. I secretly wished that their skinny jeans would cut off the circulation to their brains. Just for the bus ride.

We arrived in Guatemala City at sunrise. I muscled my way through the herd of taxi drivers with only one thing on my mind; THE BATHROOM! I didn’t care if there was a line. I didn’t care if it was a unisex bathroom. I didn’t care if there weren’t any spray or fans to numb the smell. I didn’t even care that the door didn’t shut all the way or that the seat cover was an odd shade of grey. I needed to take a crap. And fast.

After the best crap of my life, I found my way to the markets. They weren’t alive till 8 am. So I decided to take a tour of McDonald’s extensive coffee menu to kill an hour. I bought coffee. I found the best table for people watching. I sat down. Then it hit me again. I had to take another crap. The security guard was standing by the bathrooms; guarding the toilets with his big gun and tiny hands. So I took out a book and tried to wish away the afflictions in my lower stomach. Wishing did no good. So I crept to the bathroom. You had to get your toilet paper before you entered the stalls because there was no paper once you closed that door. I grabbed more than a hand full; while I ignored the stares of the cleaning lady. I squeezed in the stall that was obviously made for “sitting room only”. I just kind of turned in a circle while trying to figure out what to do with my backpack that held all my belongings. I looked like a dog chasing its tail. Finally I gave up. I opened the stall and put my backpack outside of it because I was not about to hold it while taking a deuce. That’s just weird. About 20 minutes later I did the walk of shame out of the bathroom, past the security guard. The hairs around the top of my forehead were damp with water. After that dump, I just felt the need to wash my face. I was 15 lbs lighter. And I could even breathe better for some reason.




I walked past the awaking markets. Everybody sold the same things; all with a “buen precio for you”. But I was still sucked into every stand, looking at it as if it were the first. I walked through the park. I stared at the gorgeous fountain in the middle that didn’t have any water in it. There were more pigeons than taxis. I scaled the steps to a church, digging in my pockets along the way so I could have change for the homeless people that sat outside waiting. The pegged me from a distance. Their cries became louder when they saw me, getting their point across. The amusing part is that I knew I had to save some change for when I exited the building, because they would ask for more; which I would gladly give them.

I entered an old catholic church and the 100 foot ceilings grabbed my focus. It was morning mass. My back pack and I stayed near the back so that I wouldn’t disturb the prayers. “En el nombre del padre, su hijo, y espiritu santo…..” The priest was doing his thing. There were pictures of newborn baby Jesus up and there were pictures of his death. It smelt like cold concrete. There was a silence. That silence could have either been uncomfortable or peaceful. I stared at a woman in a teal green scarf that circled her head. She was kneeling. Her lips were moving, but just barely. Her eyebrows were thick and mushed together because her eyes were closed so tight. Maybe she was praying for comfort. Maybe out of habit. Maybe to ask God for enough money to feed her kids or to send them to school. With my age, comes compassion. I looked at her, not with pity, but with a strain in my brow. I also closed my eyes. Maybe because that’s how I was taught how to pray. Maybe it’s because it allowed me to focus without distraction. But whatever the reason, I prayed that the lady in the teal scarf, that her prayers would be answered.

Sometimes I trap myself in this illusion that the “things” in life really matter. I will tell myself that I do need to make a name for myself, I do have to make a lot of money, and I do need an office with my name in all capitals on the door. And even though it’s healthy and needed in life to have goals and plans and dreams and aspirations…..I can’t forget the seemingly small yet ever so important things!! I can’t forget how important it is to be an amazing mother because I am shaping and molding another human life. I can’t forget to make time for my family or my best friends because those are the people who have molded and shaped my life. I can’t forget to love and let myself be loved because what good are my accomplishments if I have to come home to a house where the only person to congratulate me is my reflection? And I can’t forget to stand in the back of a church, holding sweaty change in my hand, and be filled with compassion for another human life. That is what life is all about.

I grabbed a taxi and headed for the airport. My time was up. The driver was nice. He had a bunch of dangly things swinging from his rear view. He spoke very clear Spanish which is always a rush of adrenaline for me because I could understand every word that he spoke. He charged me 5 dollars too much. Normally I would voice my disapproval until I got my way, but not today. I was calm. I was tranquila. I was exhausted. And I was reflecting on my trip. This trip reminded me of why I travel. Of course I travel just to travel. I travel for the stories. I travel for the perspectives that I couldn’t gain elsewhere. I travel so that I can traverse lands with no rules. I travel so that I can accept the consequences and rewards of getting lost. Because when I am lost, new faces are introduced, new places are always found and eventually you find what you were looking for—or did you? Travel brings me out of my comfort zone and into a new one.

Six of us sit at the picnic style tables outside the kitchen of the hostel. The smell of guacamole and tortillas fills the air as we discuss our plans for the day. Large plates of brightly colored fruits and perfectly wrapped burritos are placed in front of us. The room becomes filled with the sound of forks scrapping across plates and a faint sound of music in the background. A complaint of unsweetened juice escapes a young girl‘s mouth and cuts through the contentment. An attitude opposite of gratitude lines the air. I question it, silently, wondering if she failed to remember that the breakfast is free.





We proceed, finishing the meal and never allowing the complaint to cross our minds again. With full bellies, we begin the walk.
We walk in a wolf-pack formation headed up by Starla and Daniel. Two of us girls share the burden of an oversized duffle bag possessing children’s clothing, books, and school supplies. Shaun trails behind with the large red suitcase packed full of similar contents being wheeled down the cobblestone streets. Upon entering the large yellow church, we are greeted with the lonely, hurt eyes of each and every ill individual patiently awaiting a doctor as they sit in the church lobby turned make shift hospital. People appear to be piled on top of more people. Everyone somber, yet patient as if to say they have no where else to be.
The eye contact is painful. It comes with overwhelming wonder if the large and mysterious bags we carry are somehow meant for each of the faces staring at our own.
Continuing down the hallway, toward the sunlight that makes itself known through a courtyard-like opening in the ceiling. Just through the gate, we find ourselves in front of a large life-size bible scene. I look around only to find more scenes… and a life-size, but very short, Jesus. We continue straight through the courtyard and into a dark, dreary room. A sudden stench of milk and tears enters my nostrils. No noise. High Ceilings. White walls decorated by two paintings - one on each end of the room. The gym-sized room is lined with metal cribs so close to each other, I wonder if they are potentially all connected.



Only three of the cold metal cribs contain children. Others are found in two lines of wheelchairs. Like a train. Some of the children are so still and lifeless, they have no choice but to be covered with netting to keep the bugs off their skin. They await.. there, in their lines, to be taken and wheeled outside. They are waiting to be shown some kind of attention.




Looking into their eyes, I wonder if they can see through my fake smile and withheld tears. Can they see my fear? I wonder if there is any cognitive though - if they even know my eyes are not the same ones they last met with their own. My heart breaks and I ask myself if any of it really matters. Do the few smiles I offer these special children make any difference in their day? Or perhaps their lives?
I can give them attention. I can push their wheelchair out into the sunshine. I can sit and blow bubbles with them . I can even hold them and offer a loving touch. But, is it really enough?
They know nothing more than simplicity in smiles. They deserve to have bubbles float around them every minute of their lives. They deserve to pick flowers and have never ending wheelchair races. They deserve to never know the feeling of a lost smile. Regardless of what they deserve, they wont get it.
These children know no wrong. They cant comprehend the world outside their orphanage where people don’t constantly give to others, where human kind is an oxymoron. These lucky children see human nature as good. I am not convinced they are missing out on anything. In fact, maybe they have it right. There is no hatred inside the orphanage walls. No bitterness. No hurt. And best of all, no complaints.
As we walked out of the church I found my mind wrapped around the complaint I had heard that morning. I asked myself if those deserving children would have complained? If the complainer deserved anything better than the unsweetened juice.



-Tasha Cortesi

A GOOD STORY

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” –Mark Twain






As I sipped my hot tea in a room full of duct tape and dial-up internet, I chatted with a close friend of mine about the importance of “a good story”. “A good story” is what I have assembled my life around up until this point; and I make no apologies for that fact. Adventure, meeting new people, trying new things, failing at new things and stepping out of your element into what could potentially become your element; those are the things that make a good story.

I will never judge a person’s character based on their likes and dislikes because I don’t ever want anyone judging me on the fact that I adore half-off Mondays at the thrift store or that I gag at the smell of tuna fish. We are all different and we should be proud of all the small quirks that make us just that. But I do find myself silently judging people at times as I wonder, “What story will they have to tell after they sleep their morning away? Why do people listen to their ipod on their entire train ride as opposed to speaking to the person next to them? That person is amazing on the computer so why don’t they pursue their passion for it? A friend of mine grits his teeth as he talks about travel because he can’t stand the thought of not doing it a moment longer; but even though it’s his number 1 on his dream list, it’s his number 9 on his action list. Where do people find a good story to tell when they are stuck in the prison of their own monotonous lives?”

Now I’ve noticed a cycle that secretly attacks the souls of many people. People go to school, AS THEY SHOULD (I will always be an advocate of an education). But then after they get their “real job”, people feel this unseen pressure that ignites a need to put certain articles in their lives that will forever ensure their happiness. They surround themselves with certain things; with certain devices; with assured commodities; with guaranteed material items. It’s ironic to me that those very things you worked so hard to obtain were the exact objects that created the mundane existence that you weren’t expecting to encounter. People sit on their leather couches in their living rooms and glare at the flat screen picture boxes in their dust free houses and it takes everything in them to keep from just breaking down and screaming “I know there is more out there!”

So how to you keep that sentiment from taking over your life? How do you get that good story to tell? How do you break out from the all too familiar feeling of being trapped? How do you spend your whole life not waiting for your whole life?
You find your dream. You don’t settle for watered down paradises. You explore until you find your element. You discover new things; about yourself and about others. You’d be surprised at how much you learn about yourself through others. Don’t make the mistake of being disappointed at the dreams that you didn’t go for. I have to often remind myself that a dream that spends its entire existence as a dream is not a dream at all. But instead it’s a taunting echo that repeatedly reminds you that you never tried hard enough. So we should all grab our dreams and run with them; never looking back.…..except only when conjuring up a good story. 

Old Journal Entry

Journal Entry- Leaving home to go home.

This world is filled with many things that we get used to having around. We are told by many that these things will bring us complete happiness and total pleasure. We are unintentionally brainwashed to believe that we can’t survive without our so-called “needs” like the television or a hair dryer. We get tricked into believing that stress is caused by having too many lip glosses to choose from or where to eat that night with friends. These petty things consume our thoughts and don’t allow enough room for the small things in life to mean something.

I will forever be obliged to the Costa Rican’s for showing me the joy that comes from everyday small things. Here are the few of the things I will miss from this wonderful country: sunrises, rice 3 meals a day, no air conditioning, cheap bus rides, the chicken in the seat next to me, their pride of their country, their soccer games in the streets, the randomness of electricity, their life long dedication to family, their front porches, how they share everything, how nine people will fit in one car, their old furniture, their hospitality and how someone will proudly let you into their home with no shame that they have dirt floors.

Things I did not miss from the states: cheeseburgers, oversized SUV’s that only one person will ride in at a time, oversized ovens, cable, carpeted houses, tanning beds, billboards everywhere you look, overpriced movies, cell phones, parks that lacked kisses, fashion magazines, large cups of coffee, speed limits, ice in my drink, a closet full of clothes, drive-throughs, hot water and the fact that people don’t use their legs as often as they should.

The things I desperately missed in America: my family, my friends, energy drinks, high fives and the endless opportunities.

Hitchhiking

It's still too soon to really write how I feel about our most recent trip. But my brother and I started out in Atlanta, Georgia and ended up in Seattle, Washington and we did it all via hitchhiking. The kindness of people that we experienced along the way was inspiring and it changed our lives forever. Take a look at our slideshow and we will try to write more of our experiences real soon. -From Starla and Ryan Skelton (the founders of Wanderlust Adventures)

Honduras Doesnt' Suck!!!! And neither does Valdosta!!!

Wanderlust Adventures wants to say THANK YOU to Valdosta for your support. We had an amazing crowd of people that came out to help raise money for two schools in La Ceiba, Honduras. A special thank you to Mulligan's Sports Pub, to Soular 7 for their great entertainment, and to all the people that drove from Atlanta and other far off locations to be there. You guys rock and the children in La Ceiba will soon appreciate your generous donations.

Guatemala Jan. 2009

I sucked in an incredibly fresh breath of air; it was state of the art and I had never inhaled its equal. The air at 12,000 feet may be thinner, but it’s untainted and organic. I decided to go for a second round of deep breathing but I was met by an offending stench. I was even more offended when I realized that the funk was coming from the pits of my arms. I scrounged through my 25 lb. pack so that I could have a moment with my “Powder Fresh Secret.” I felt like there should have been music playing in the background as I dramatically applied it to my unshaven armpits. It did not 86 the smell but it did make the stink less raw.

I was perched on top of the third largest volcano in Guatemala with a small, yet matchless group. The volcano was dormant and held the name Acatenango. We had started our hike the previous day at ten in the morning. Our hike began with us donned in wife beaters and thin pants and by the time our world dropped below freezing; we were layered in every article of clothing that we had transported to the top. The hike was a character building hike that went straight up hill for hours on end. As the sun set, our team devoured dinner and we were asleep before we even had a chance to zip up our sleeping bags. Our night was filled with interrupted sleep because the sound of an exploding thunder kept delaying our dreams. The best part about that thunder was that it wasn’t thunder at all; but it was the overwhelming sound of an active volcano. Our campsite was a front row seat to Volcan Fuego; which happens to be one of the most active volcano’s in the world. After each eruption, the cone of the volcano seemed to be on fire as the lava slowly let gravity take its force.

My night of sporadic sleep could also have been blamed on my lower intestines. I think I had eaten one too many “energy” bars and I had OD’d on fiber. So I had at least three mini-adventures during the night that consisted of me cautiously roaming around with my head lamp leading the way to a safe spot to relieve my swollen stomach (or as our group called it; the food baby). The steepness of the volcano made it difficult to find a temporary restroom spot and the intense force of the wind didn’t make the toilet paper extravaganza any easier; but it was all necessary to relieve my stomach problemas.

After an interesting night and a marvelous orange sunrise we headed toward the actual peak of Acatenango. The sun beat down, the thin air got thinner, the dirt was in every crack of our bodies (and I mean every crack), and the dizziness began to set in. There was no alternative of falling or passing out because a fall from that height was not an option. The only thing that kept our group pressing forward was the encouragement from our professional local adventure guide; his name was Ryan but we called him La Maquina(the machine)! His faith in us was inspiring and some how or another—we all made it to the peak which happened to be at 13,045 feet (that’s 3,976 meters for all you non-Americans).

We passed the next few days in Antigua; which is a magical city. The kindness of strangers is overpowering in this town. And it didn’t hurt that its antique beauty partners with the doorway to adventure; so it makes it a perfect pueblo for outdoor enthusiasts. Our small group was enjoying each others company since we had connected from the common bond of pooping outdoors. I had already learned to admire each of them as they each brought something different to the table. But they did all have one thing in common: their flexibility and their attitudes surpassed those of any normal caliber. They weren’t capable of complaining in a serious manor and if they were, they hid it the entire eight days. I have such a massive respect for people that live with a positive attitude. Their affirmative mood and their positive outlook on everything made our trip!!! (and I want to thank you guys for that!!!!!!!)



After a day or two of soreness passed, we traveled via van to the top of a mountain that held unspoiled views. Our spectacle consisted of mountains; volcano’s and the crystal blue Lake Atitlan. Our team happily jumped on some mountain bikes and rolled quickly down the hills, past rural villages, down more steep inclines at ridiculous speeds and into a town that was washed with color. The name of the Pueblo was Panajachel. It was filled with entrepreneurs that hadn’t hit puberty yet. The women that say “you can never have too many purses” have never been to that town. It was the land of souvenirs. But it was also the land of more people that exuded awesome-ness. Everyone smiled and everybody was neighborly. It had a good feel to it.

When the sun started to retreat, we jumped on a lancha(small boat) and headed towards our hotel. It was called the Volcano Lodge and it was a majestic place that was lost in the trees. After a surprisingly great night of sleep, we started our next day by climbing in sea kayaks and paddling for two scenic hours over the lake. We were lucky to be able to paddle free of any wind. We followed the maquina(Ryan) up some steep rocks till we looked down about 50 feet. Then we jumped. It was amazing to say the least (except for the part when we first hit the paralyzing-ly cold water).

We hiked back for about three hours on the edge of cliffs and through rural towns. We were able to see men and women in traditional clothing. We passed their dirt-floored houses, their chickens running in and out of them, and of course their big white smiles! It was an experience like no other. I hadn’t even left the country yet and I already couldn’t wait to come back!!!!! Me encanta Guatemala


During our trip, our group set aside some time to give back to the community. We brought food to families, fed the homeless and entertained children at a special needs orphanage. Those moments were just as important to me as my near death instances that I crave. They remind me of a purpose; whether we recognize it or not, we all look for that in life. We all strain to better ourselves and that’s how I pine to better mine.

There is a void that sneaks its way into my life on a regular basis and it screams at me “why aren’t you doing more? There are so many people you could be helping so step up your game!” Those are the howls that make me want to give up because I’m not doing enough. My convictions start seeping through and I start second guessing everything I am doing. Questions start flooding my mind. Guilt attacks. I think things like: I’m not doing enough. And: It’s not fair to be helping one situation and not the other. But I can’t allow myself to think that way. I don’t have the answer to all of life’s mysterious calamities. So instead of beating myself up about what I can’t do to help the world, I focus on everything I can do. I can buy stoves that will assist the hunger problem in Darfur. I can collect books for the children of Honduras so that they will have a better shot at an education which will enable them to end their vicious cycle of poverty. I can bring highly needed shoes to an orphanage of 15 small children that are all under the age of five.

We spend so much time focusing on the negative until we go stark raving mad and nothing gets done. So my suggestion to myself and to others is—find your purpose; your meaning, your aspiration, your target, your mecca, your scope, your scheme; whatever you want to call it, just find it! And once you catch it, don’t let anyone make you feel inadequate about having it. We are not all meant to do the same things or care about the same things in life. If you have a burden for the orphanages in Cambodia then hold fundraisers to raise money for supplies that you can send them. If you have a heart for India, then volunteer for community projects in Dharamsala. If you feel drawn to help your home town, then get to your nearest computer and google till you find something. Recognize your purpose and go for it! Your life will be changed for the better and so will the life of someone else.


A Special Thank you to Old Time Outfitters!
www.wanderlustadventures.org