Chantal - Have Laptop Will Travel

December 05, 2002

San Pedro Sula Dreams

I don’t remember where I was headed. Maybe it was to Trujillo, to the beach; maybe it was to the border then on to Guatemala. I remember having very few lempiras left, which either means I was waiting till I got to the bank in Trujillo, or trying to use them up so I could start afresh with quetzales in a few hours’ time.

It was a bus station I knew well, not least because of the hours that would pass between arriving on one bus and waiting for the next to leave. The bus would turn off the main road, and head through a residential zone before pulling into an oversized driveway. It was apparently quite near the city centre, or maybe just a bus company I wanted to use but could never find, but never felt any urge to explore. I’d arrive, buy a bottle of Fresca, find a chair to sit in and give my shoulders a well-earned rest from my rucksack. That would have been 1996. I’d returned my harp to its owner, and had gone to Mexico City a few weeks previously, so had probably already added a guitar to my load. Travelling semi-light.

I remember now. I’d returned to England partway through the summer for a family event, and was faced with approximately another month until I was due back at university. I still had my return ticket from Mexico to London, and at that time the fares to Honduras were thankfully cheap. I flew back to San Pedro Sula, the closest international airport to Trujillo, my favourite beach. In retrospect, I think that’s only relatively speaking: from the map of Honduras in my memory, Trujillo is the last coastal town before the impenetrable jungle mass of Mosquitia, aka the Mosquito Coast, as immortalised by Robert Holdstock and Harrison Ford. A few months previously, I had worked in Catacamas, the ‘frontier’ town on its southern edge.

So I sat there. Under the café’s canopy, near the front. Plastic chairs and tables, plastic colourful tablecloths. Even though I was sitting in the shade I only remember bright sunlight. How long did my Fresca last? How long did it stay cold? I don’t even remember how long I had to wait.

What I remember most strongly is Brown. The brown shade of the dirt of the bus terminal. A large square dusty brown expanse, with the browny-grey flooring of the café on one side. The afternoon sun playing across it, undisturbed by the non-arrival of buses. The other people in the café sat quietly; I was the only foreigner. Sometimes I pulled out my guide book to look at the town map, but then put it away again each time, unwilling to explore or leave the terminal.

I needed to buy some punta music – the pop music of the local Garifuna population. I’d left Trujillo too early in the morning to buy any, and this bus terminal was my last hope. It was close enough to the coastal towns that they might have some; if they didn’t, I’d have to wait till the next time I made it to the coast. I had enough money in lempiras to buy three tapes, if I wasn’t grossly overcharged. So I sat there waiting, until one of the tape sellers arrived and made a beeline for me.

It was some time later when the watch seller arrived. I’d been using an alarm clock as a watch, and seeing him reminded me how impractical that was. Given I had managed to smash the fronts of my last two watches, I chose one with bars across the face. And a compass on the side; tapping it would make it change its mind and swing in a different direction. He wanted 200 lempiras for it. I only had 55. In the true spirit of bargaining, he accepted it and moved on to the next table. I now had three punta tapes and a watch.

Six and a half years later, my mind has been back in that chair at that table in that bus terminal all morning, disregarding the chaos around me and the backlogged workload. I’ve never forgotten that afternoon – one afternoon out of the half dozen or more times I changed buses there – nor have I ever understood its significance for me.

When I’m travelling and not commuting, I lose all concept of time and impatience; time simply flows around and past me. And perhaps that explains why I still cherish that afternoon, still feel drawn to it: the sense of peace and relaxation, even the sense of space without any buses parked on the dirt square.

Or maybe it’s one of those places which scream at you that you’re truly in Central America. The kind of place you need to go to shake off the London stress and ingrained habits; the kind of place you can hold in your memory when you return and use as a protective shield against the grimness of everyday life.

Posted by chantal at 03:55 PM | TrackBack

August 16, 1998

Carolan With Salsa

There are many reasons why one shouldn’t travel around Central America with a harp. Among these are the fairly uniform 100% humidity throughout most of the region, and having to travel by ‘chickenbus’, where space and oxygen are rare luxuries and all luggage is arbitrarily thrown on the roof, in the trunk or under one’s seat depending on the country. Not to mention the sheer availability of strings outside of a few places in Mexico – and the inconvenience of lugging around something so large, awkward and heavy.

When I was planning to leave England, I knew I had an approximate time frame of five months, three of which would be spent working on archaeological sites in Panama and Nicaragua. At the last minute, an email friend offered me some work playing in a restaurant in Antigua, Guatemala for the remainder – giving me all the excuse I needed to ignore my better judgement and the advice I’d been repeatedly given, and to simply wrap up my harp well, pack some spare strings and hope for the best.

I’m in Antigua now, having survived a month in Panama and less than a week in Nicaragua. It is a beautiful colonial city, the former capital from 1543 until its destruction by earthquake in 1773, leaving it with a disproportionate number of ruined churches and convents. Nowadays it is full of Spanish schools, making it a far more obvious place to encounter language students and tourists than the large musical community I discovered instead. I spent my first morning playing on a rooftop with a guitarist, two Native American flautists and an African drummer; a few hours later I was introduced to one of the local Andean groups, Sol Latino, who had been warned of my arrival and was entranced by the thought of live Celtic harp music. In the evening, after their performance, we returned to a friend’s room and exchanged songs throughout the night, sometimes on harp, sometimes on guitar, with or without voice, or on panpipes or flutes. At one point they started playing Greensleeves beautifully on guitar and wooden flute before repeating it a second time with a flamenco rhythm.
That was my introduction to the Antiguan music scene – several Andean groups who play charangos, panpipes, wooden flutes, guitars, traditional and African drums; other panpipe-players, pianists, drummers, a violinist, a bamboo sax player and an enormous number of guitarists. Apart from one of the part-time musicians in Sol Latino, who is currently studying the concert harp at the Conservatorio in the capital, this is the first time that most people have heard, or even seen such an instrument. Particularly a small Celtic harp playing what is invariably described as ‘the music of the angels’.

Part of the excitement of playing here is, admittedly, my growing as a performer, having primarily only played for myself in England. Although now I am content to play anywhere there are people willing to listen, before arriving here my ‘concerts’ had been limited to a palaeontological lab in Balboa, Panama; being divebombed by oversized flying ants in Managua, Nicaragua; and a beautiful evening playing calming music from a rooftop over central San Salvador, El Salvador.

Regardless of whatever bookings I have for the evenings, I always try to make a point of playing in the plaza in the afternoons, as most people are relaxing and socialising, boys are offering to shine shoes and Indian women and girls try to sell their handicrafts. Within minutes of starting, I am usually surrounded by children anxious to touch this strange object, people lounging nearby trying to appear nonchalant, tourists full of questions, and other musicians waiting until the song or set is over to approach me. ‘What is that?’ is normally the first question I am asked. One day when I didn’t particularly feel like playing, I made the mistake of offering the children a go, and have been fighting for full possession of my harp ever since. It is more than just a little offputting to be playing an emotional song and having the bass strings tweaked frantically by someone who shouldn’t be there.

Playing in the park was originally a spontaneous idea one Sunday afternoon (when I was completely out of money) whilst waiting for Sol Latino after spending the morning playing with one of them on panpipes in a convent. For at least the following few weeks I was recognised throughout town for those few hours’ playing, and was approached by the organiser of a local fiesta who wanted me to play in the pueblo’s church.

Most of my time is spent with other musicians: talking with them, planning to play together even if we rarely make it beyond the listening-to-each-other stage. A flautist, who has been invited to represent Guatemala with her guitarist partner at a function in Los Angeles, heard about my playing and after a brief afternoon together has invited me to spend some time with her at her treehouse on nearby Lake Atitlan. The one time I finally performed in public with a friend on keyboards, we were filmed and interviewed by one of the national TV channels. Playing in the park one night, I met a man anxious for harp lessons in return for the use of his piano, as well as the local mariachi band, to whom I tried teaching a few Breton songs.

One day, playing in the park, one of the audience introduced himself as a photographer from National Geographic, on an assignment covering the ancient cities and ruins of Central America. After talking together for a while, he decided to return in the near future to prepare an article on the music scene in this town. Several of us are in the process of learning new instruments, or wanting to (I am currently yearning after an Andean bamboo sax), so at times we joke about forming a new group, with perhaps only one of us playing an instrument we’re at all familiar with. And playing Andean music, of course…
In six months, I have only met one other Celtic musician, and am only slowly becoming flexible enough on the harp to be comfortable with other musical traditions. Still, that doesn’t stop my regular nightly sessions, either in someone’s hotel room or in the park, for local and travelling musicians and anyone who happens to be with us at the time. At other times we might spontaneously launch into one of our stock favourite songs (such as ‘Way Ay Ay’ by Kjarkas, ‘Lejos del Amor’ by Illapu, ‘Dust in the Wind’ or ‘Greensleeves’) in some café or bar when the day is over. Some of my most memorable moments have been with a Mexican group, visiting for the weekend while performing in town, and playing during a power cut – the room lit by matches and lighters – at a farewell party. Also very vivid is the excitement of an Irish pianist on discovering I was borrowing a keyboard for a while (officially to prepare for an audition at the National Conservatorio), leading to many an entertaining night.

A consequence of the traveller population is an unusually spontaneous and dynamic atmosphere, reflected in the many projects and offers I’ve received in a very short time. For example, I had found a restaurant I was determined to approach for work, only to meet the about-to-be owner in a late night bar a few days later. He was also the person responsible for us being filmed for TV. A ‘crazy drummer’, as I call him, keeps dropping hints about some project he has in mind, always refusing to elaborate. A Colombian friend, who plays a cuatro, similar to a small guitar, has been arranging for me to play at a local home for mentally and physically handicapped adults. The most bizarre request has been to play for someone bitten by a scorpion in order to calm her and help her sleep. Most exciting yet: a ‘legendary’ Andean musician has recently returned from a long stay in Japan and in anxious to organise something with me and his current group. Sigh… I know I should start thinking about returning to England soon, but with an opportunity like that….

Right now I’m preparing to record – an idea I’ve had at the back of my mind for some time. A few days ago, on a rare trip to the capital, one of my friends in Sol Latino urged me to record as soon as I could – despite the horror stories I’d heard about their own recording experiences – so that I can earn more money selling my music whilst playing. I’ve been advised to learn some of the more popular local and, yes, Andean songs – really, I have no idea why there is such a very strong following here! – but intend to learn some of my other (non-Andean) favourites too regardless of how unfamiliar they might be. I don’t yet know how it will work out, but I’m building up to asking some of Sol Latino to join me in the studio; although they all play Bolivian, Peruvian and Chilean music beautifully, I can’t help but wonder how some O’Carolan or Breton tunes will sound with a salsa rhythm, or with panpipes, a charango or an African drum in the background. At the very least, it should be representative of the experiences I’ve been having here so far.

And talking of experiences, I’m meant to be heading up to the Chiapas, Mexico the day after tomorrow, where I hear there are musicians I’m already looking forward to meeting and playing with. Of course, it might mean missing out on playing for Bill Gates when he arrives in town sometime in the next fortnight….

Sounding Strings, Spring 1999
written July 1998

Posted by chantal at 03:09 PM

September 25, 1995

Down & Out in Costa Rica

I’ve always believed there were only two dimensions to being in a country: working, or travelling through. Now, besides the realms of endless other possibilities, I am identifying a third: being ill. Unlike the Traveller, circumstances force you upon places you might otherwise have bypassed, or not even considered; upon people, whether locals, ex-pats or tourists in ways that could easily have been avoided otherwise. I’m the one with a death-mask in any café across this country; I’m the one politely trying not to faint whilst some Costa Rican is pouring out his life story. And the cruellest irony, of course, is that despite all these bizarre experiences - the places I’ve been, the people I’ve met - these past few days will only ever be remembered as the worst, not to say most disastrous part of this holiday. This is my fourth day, and my third hotel in Costa Rica; it has taken me all this time to cover the one-and-a-half hour journey from the capital to this place, Albergue de Montaña Tapantí at KM 62. My ultimate destination is but a half hour walk from here, but for now I’m bedridden, unable even to raise my head. Sniff.

This hotel is the sort of place I’m talking about. On my scrappy little map, it is represented by a little box, presumably indicative of having missed my stop. I missed my stop - never even saw it, but what I did see was an enormous - wall, spanning the entire bend of the road, with “Hotel Tapantí” engraved on it in huge letters. For me, it was just The Meeting Point. For others, well, let’s see what Lonely Planet has to say... “This small highland hotel is the most comfortable place to stay on the Interamericana... There is a garden and some remnants of high altitude cloudforest - a good spot for some roadside birding...” Prices comparable to those of, in all its pink-and-grey stucco glory, the Hotel Presidente in the capital. I’m not complaining, though - I got a special deal. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until well after dark that I finally accepted that I was to be stranded here for the night, if not indefinitely; it’s started to make me think I wouldn’t mind being stuck here for something like that length of time...

I spent the evening chatting with an Antonio Banderas-lookalike (honestly!) and playing with the smallest kitten I’ve seen, which had no concept whatsoever of gravity, mortality, or the fleas she was generously scattering across the room. When I realised I was hungry, the manager - well, I must call him Armand, out of deference to Anne Rice - grinned, and ran off to the kitchen calling, “I’ll be back very soon, I cook very quickly, I’m a very good cook!” He then continued to stand over me for at least the first part of my dinner, asking plaintively if I liked the spaghetti. I was the only guest.

What a far cry from the café where I’d been staying in Santo Domingo, a pseudo-suburb of San Jose! Upon awakening in San Jose, Robert, the American I’d met on the plane, informed me I was in fact staying in a whorehouse and had arranged for me to stay at a restaurant/hotel owned by some of his friends. Entering it was like re-entering the first world: it was decorated exclusively in black and white marbled tiles, and seemed to be a magnet for more ex-pats and tourists than actual locals. On the first day I met the man responsible for the film “Medicine Man”. He’s also directed a part of the film “Congo”, although you won’t see his name in the credits. I also met a man from Brighton who came out here seven years ago for the butterflies, and still had no intention of returning; old friends such as Robert seemed to be forever dropping by. I spent most of my time with the restaurant staff, whose English was only marginally less restricted than my Spanish; after an utterly draining evening, I could go to bed feeling we’d finally managed to get ourselves understood, or at least where it really mattered.

What does “Costa Rica” make you think of? Have you already heard of it, have you already been here, do you want to come here but - ... what? This is something I was discussing with Armand last night. You can come here for the ecological diversity - from the Caribbean lowlands to this cloudforest I’m in, at 8,800 feet, to some of the most beautiful beaches in Central America, to the comparative barrenness of Guanacaste in the north, deforested to make way for grazing pastures. The locals blame McDonalds; the guide book simply refers to fast food chains in general. You can come because it’s the safest, and certainly the most stable country in Central America, and also the only country in the world without its own army. You can come because you want to participate in one of the conservation projects here, as I’m supposedly doing. You can come because it’s on the route between Nicaragua and Panamá... you can simply come. Except - nothing.

Two years ago, tourism reached such a level that a large amount of hotels were opened simply to deal with numbers. Now, tourism appears to be on a decline, and 150 hotels and restaurants are up for sale. It is not helped by the costs of this country either - as a reaction to the surge in tourism, the entrance fees for the country’s 58 national parks were raised significantly, thus excluding a number of tourists from this country’s major attraction. Armand was perplexed; perhaps he was just too optimistic for his country? Surely, he felt, people would want to come to Costa Rica anyway, regardless of their reason, regardless of even having a reason.

If it wasn’t for people like him, my view of this country would be very very limited. Hotel rooms, yes; scenery, no. Not exactly true: even on the way from San Jose through its suburbs, I was - what word is there I can use? - overwhelmed by the sheer lushness of this country. Even the capital is permeated by it: in parks, on pavements, behind barbed wire fences. You step between buildings and suddenly you step millions of years back in time.

Up here, the vegetation comes with a twist: The Cloud. The latest novelty.

You have to understand that yesterday was the first day I felt well enough to walk, so ended up proving it by walking back not quite an hour the distance it had taken the bus to finally stop and let me off. I was exhausted, I was fuming, I was fed up - an outstanding success this trip has not been - and carrying bags, guitar, more bags than I’d imagined. (Two.) Sometimes I’d be walking along a clear patch of road, only to look back and see the road behind me shrouded in white. At other times, I’d see some mist before me, anticipate walking into it, only to discover it had since sidestepped me and was now tumbling down the mountain. And then - at the foot of Hotel Tapantí. I sat there in a little heap, too worn out to move, to respond to the lorry drivers who honked as they passed every few minutes, perhaps even laughing. I took a long long look at the land around me, trying to find some justification for this murderous journey I was making. I looked at a tree. I wasn’t impressed. I looked at a patch of mist. It moved. As I watched, it crossed the road and came towards me; at the same time, I could see others parading up and down the road. The cloud came closer and closer. All at once, the countryside around me vanished and was transformed from sad and rainy to - elusive. Mysterious. Something hoped for, not quite reached. The primary - virgin - untouched rainforests I’d been promised. With new hope, I picked up my bags and continued up into the hotel.

In fact, I was thinking of a Stephen King story, The Mist. Help me, I was thinking, I don’t want to die this way.

(Commissioned in September 1995)

Posted by chantal at 03:17 PM | Comments (0)