First Hours on Isla Grande del Maíz

From the window of the plane I could see the blue waves of the water come closer into view. Then streaks of turquoise, followed by a thin stretch of white beach, a thick stand of palms, then the corrugated roofs of the shacks. After that it was a blur of greenery and bright colors until the wheels of the aircraft touched the ground and jolted us in our seats.

The ATR 42-300 twin-propeller plane reached the end of the runway and circled around to a small rectangular building called the airport. We came down the air stairs to the tarmac and into the little building where we waited for workers to bring our luggage.

Outside the building a man in a white shirt and pot belly came asking if we needed a taxi. I couldn't tell if he was speaking Spanish or English, but could understand the gist of his question. “One dollar a person,” he added, but he had to repeat it twice.

We walked to his old beater, a car that looked like a Volkswagen Rabbit with a large crack across the windshield. Our two carry-on bags barely fit inside the trunk.

Jenelle and I sat in the back seat, but were surprised when he picked up two girls on the short drive to our lodging. They were in their early teens and of a beautiful Afro-Caribbean complexion. One sat in the front and the other in the back seat next to me. The three of us barely fit. He dropped them off at the beach. “I have to take any opportunity I can,” he said, shrugging his shoulders as if he had to justify.

I won't bore the reader with the details of our hotel, but sufficeth to say, our cabana was close to the beach and looked like a thatched hut.

By this time I was very surprised at what I had seen. Nearly everyone was of African descent and they were everywhere playing in the streets, walking the streets, and at their homes which were little more than patched-up boards.

We walked along a narrow paved road that ran along a slender beach. Palm trees grew along the side and groups of boys played together in the water. Up ahead we could see a congregation of boats at the port.

Everyone was friendly. A young man came up alongside us, smoking a cigarette. The left pant leg of his blue jeans was pulled up to his calf. “How are you?” he asked.

He went on to point at what looked like stacks of wooden pallets on one of the boats and explained they were cages to trap lobsters. That's where he worked, but now he was on his way to meet his wife.

As we continued we passed several living quarters. With the exception of two nice houses the rest were very modest or simply shacks. Some stood on stilts. Others had chickens running around. Most, I would say, had someone in the the front sitting on a chair enjoying the breeze. I expected to hear a strumming banjo.

We passed a small white building with an ATM machine on the inside. This was the island bank. I would need to use it later.

Nearby a small footpath led through a fence and across the airport runway. This was the shortcut to the other side of the island.

Across from the port we found a little nook that sold food. We sat down at a table and a lady asked if we wanted something to drink. She brought a Coke and water, then we waited. A hot charcoal grill on the other side of the open-faced room sent smoke rising into the air. The lady used tongs to place marinated chicken on the grill. We thought she would return with a menu, but never did.

Meanwhile, a stray mutt came and sat right beside my chair. A skinny homeless man with filthy dreadlocks and swarthy skin sat on the steps in front of us. He, like the dog, was hoping for a crumb of food.

I finally went to the lady and asked if there was a menu. “No,” she said. “It is a buffet and it is 280 córdobas a plate.” She pointed to trays of food enclosed inside a glass casing.

We were hungry and began to pile food onto our plates. I didn't know the name of anything except the white rice with red beans, known locally as gallo pinto. I piled on pasta, two drumsticks, fish and a chicken breast.

By now the flies had found us. The warm food layered with the hot and humid summer weather left our skin with beads of sweat. The homeless man twice made eye contact with Jenelle.

On our way back to the room we enjoyed the now cooling summer evening. Heavy storm clouds billowed in the west. All the grass and trees were green. A subtle breeze enhanced the ambiance of the evening.

At the room we changed into our swimming suits and walked a few minutes to the beach. A stray dog followed us.

The white sand beneath our feet felt fluffy. We waded into the warm water where we bobbed and talked for the next half hour. The sky gradually darkened as distant street lamps now bore illumination.

All was quiet except our talk and the incoming baby waves that pushed us around. Twice I saw bolts of lightning far to the west. This was an omen of adventure to come.

All was well in that moment on a far-flung island that no one's ever heard of. This was just the beginning. Jenelle and I had five more days in this paradise. ♠

First Hours in CDMX

San Jerónimo Street in Mexico City.

Just after 8 am we left our hotel on Calle San Jerónimo and entered the narrow old street. The morning sun glistened on the upper level of the brown brick buildings that seemed to bend with the contour of the street.

Most of the rolling security shutters on the shops were still down. I didn't know if that meant they were not yet open for the day or were closed permanently.

We walked along a busy road toward Mercado de La Merced, a bustling market in the center of Mexico City. Many were just now setting up shop while others pulled vending carts along the side of the road, still unassembled.

Across the street I noted the dome and bell towers of an old church. It was boxed in on both sides by so-called modern buildings, now tarnished and falling apart themselves.

Templo de San Pablo el Nuevo.

At the end of the street we arrived at the market and along the outer extremities crowds began to gather and vendors displayed their wares. On the corner a vendor had already prepared a line of taco meat that filled the air with aroma.

We entered inside the market, but to our disappointment, only a few vendors had set up shop. Looking for breakfast, we returned to the taco stand on the corner.

My mouth watered as I eyed the selection of stewed meats. I chose the alambre since I had never seen that option in the States.

He scooped the warm meat onto four corn tortillas and sprinkled them with onion and cilantro. Two tacos for me and two for Jordan. I drizzled a mystery red sauce over the meat, then we ate them standing up, using a nearby unused vending cart as a table.

The flavorful food hit the spot. The meat practically melted in my mouth. Tacos for breakfast in Mexico City. What else could we ask for ?!

Tacos de alambre.

We walked our way closer to the historic center. I was still amazed that since we had left the airport the night before, we had not seen another tourist. That still held true. Now as we ambled about the streets, they became more full and chaotic with locals on their way to work or wherever they might be going.

We passed by a plaza with yet more street vendors beginning their day. Most of them had large parasols above their booths to protect from sun and rain. They sat casually with their goods, like they had for the last thousand days, completely unaware of two gringo tourists infringing on their world.

I was amazed at how many old churches we saw dotted along the way. Most of them appeared to be from the earlier Colonial Period in the 15― or 1600's, built with gray bricks and rocks, perhaps looted from the old Aztec city.

Street market at Pino Suárez.

Parroquia de San Miguel Arcángel. 

Detail on historic building in Mexico City.

I decided to take a closer look at one of these old churches. Like the others, it too was built with gray brick. I noticed the bell tower silhouetted against the blue sky.

Then I saw the plaque on the outer wall. We moved closer and it confirmed that this was the church I had studied about. The plaque read: “Here are the remains of Hernán Cortés.”

Inside the church was simple and unpretentious. Old dim paintings hung on the wall and two lines of pews ran to the front.

At the front, behind a red plaque, embedded in the wall, were the remains of the Spanish Conquistador.⸻I've been to the graves of both Christopher Columbus and Francisco Pizarro, and Hernán Cortés certainly wins the award for the least prestigious memorial.

We returned outside, walking down José María Pino Suárez Street. As we walked I noticed the streets became cleaner and the cafes on the side became more geared toward the tourist. Buildings, it seemed, became older and more grand.⸻Then we saw it. We came to a massive plaza with the cathedral on the far side and a large Mexican flag in the center. This was the Zócalo. ♠

Church with the tomb of Hernán Cortés.

First Hours in Ho Chi Minh

We stepped outside our hotel and into the humidity and chaos of Ho Chi Minh City. Horns and mopeds blared all around. The amount of two-wheeled conveyances boggled the mind. Everyone, it seemed, was on a motorbike: ladies in dresses, fathers holding toddlers, buddies, singles⸺most wearing masks and helmets. The chaos on the roads spread like an ant colony, especially at intersections where no obvious rules could be observed. Ants just weaved in and out as they pleased. 

Vietnamese women sat along dilapidated sidewalks and set up shop for the day. Dogs sat with them, some wearing leashes and some roaming freely. 

We found a man selling Banh Mi from his cart. With excitement he came and translated the options for us. “This one is fish,” he said in a strange accent. He gave us a strip of fried fish from his cooler where he kept it warm. We wanted two of them. 

He took a baguette and sliced it in half lengthwise. He piled on greens and cucumbers, along with fried strips of fish, more toppings and two types of sauce. When I bit in I could taste the sweetness of the sauce alongside the burning of raw pepper. I began to sweat.⸺ I gave him 200,000 dong and he gave me change. It only came out to 30,000 dong and I think he short-changed me, but I didn't catch it until later.

Our morning stroll took us past a Chinese temple, with images and burning sticks of incense along the sidewalk. Around the corner was another house of worship, this one appearing Christian due to figures of Christ and the Virgin Mary. Built next to it was a tall pagoda, crowned with a cross. 

River near our hotel in Ho Chi Minh City.

Our journey took us on a bridge that crossed a river. From here there were many good views of Ho Chi Minh, including the pagoda of the church. The trees along the bank reflected in the water. On the far side of the bridge we crossed over a street that ran parallel to the river. We peered down over the railing and watched the mopeds buzz underneath, their four-cylinder engines revving in unison. We watched the fruit shops down below setting up for the day. Ladies in cone-shaped rice hats pushed out plastic tables and cut herbs to sell with swimming broth of pho.

The smell of asphalt and exhaust filled the air, along with an occasional whiff of anise and herbs. Everything was dingy, from sidewalks to stacked buildings that served as homes. Some of the flats that faced the noisy street had clothes hanging out to dry on the balcony. 

Morning in Saigon.

Clothes hanging out  to dry.

Setting up shop on the streets of Ho Chi Minh.

Every intersection was a new adventure. Wait, wait, wait, read . . . after that car⸺hold on, not yet. Now! We walked slow and methodically across every busy intersection, with cars and mopeds passing in front and behind, usually honking. They didn't stop or slow down. They just swerved around. 

In a park we were approached by Mr. Tung. He wore green pants and a shirt that resembled military attire. When he learned we were Americans he became very friendly. I could barely understand him because of his thick accent, but from what I gathered he admired Americans because they helped his cause. After the North Vietnamese won the war, his family fled to the Philippines. I finally learned he was offering tours. He was very nice, but I could hardly understand a word he spoke, so I decided to pass it up. 

In that same park we passed a group of ladies doing slow aerobics (maybe Tai Chi?) to music. They pointed their arms in the air and slowly spun to music like synchronized swimmers. 

One of many crazy intersections in Saigon.

On the sidewalk we passed a man carrying a long stick over his shoulder, a wooden tray of coconuts on one end and a box of tools on the other. He was very convivial and let Jordan carry the weighted stick on his shoulder. We didn't think anything of it.  Then he stopped, pulled out a butcher knife from the wooden box, and whacked off the top of a coconut and handed one to each of us with a straw.

Of course he is expecting money, I thought. I pulled out my wallet, expecting to pay perhaps 10,000 dong each. When I asked him how much, he replied with 150,000 dong! There was no way two coconuts were worth 150K in Vietnamese dong. Reluctantly I gave it to him, but was determined not to be hustled again. 

Jordan carrying a load for the "coconut man."

Around the block we came to the Notre-Dame Cathedral Basilica of Saigon. I highly anticipated this visit. I had seen many cathedrals in Europe, as well as South America. This would be my first in Asia. This architectural marvel dated back to the French colonial period. 

To our disappointment the building and grounds were covered in scaffolding and fencing. It was closed to the public. Even the two iconic bell towers were obscured. We watched from across the street as workers labored on the roof. 

Workers on the roof of Notre-Dame Basilica Cathedral of Saigon.

Not far away we came to an interesting sign on a lamppost. Depicted on the sign were four people, including a construction worker and college graduate. In the background on one side was a farm, and on the other, skyscrapers. But what caught my attention the most was the banner in the center. It looked like an old Soviet-style red flag with a hammer and sickle in the corner. I found this curious because I knew this wasn't the flag of Vietnam (a red flag with golden star), but I also knew that Vietnam was one of five communist countries in the world (the others being China, Cuba, Laos and North Korea). 

The hammer and sickle has become a standard symbol around the world for communism as a whole. The hammer represents the workers and the sickle the peasants, and put together they are unified. Jordan translated the words of the sign on his phone: “Vietnam journals: unity, creativity, building the country for a more sustained development.” I don't know if you would consider this “communist propaganda,” but that's certainly what came to mind. 

Just a few more blocks and we arrived at our destination. Several tanks, a Chinook helicopter, and a Huey sat in front. We paid 40,000 dong and entered the War Remnants Museum. ♠

 

A propaganda sign on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City?

 

First Six Hours in Lima

We left Jorge Chavez International Airport in the back of a taxi at 7:15 am. The first thing that stood out was that I was grateful not to be driving. Traffic was gnarly. Bumper to bumper, door to door. Honking every five seconds and old beat up cars vying for position. It was a miracle we didn't hit anyone. 

My second impression was that EVERYONE was wearing a mask. I considered asking the driver whether it was obligatory, but decided against it. Mothers, fathers, children, students, workers⸺they all wore the mask. 

A typical street in Lima, Peru.

Haze or smog enveloped everything. We were excited to see a southern hemisphere sun, but today would be disappointed. Nearby hills, that normally would be painted in color and detail, now stood as mere silhouettes. 

We passed along street after unknown street, not knowing if we were facing north, south, east or west. Buildings were coated in an array of bright colors, but were also falling apart. 

At last the cabbie parked alongside the road and announced he had come as far as he could. We must walk the remainder, which was only around the corner. Our travel from the airport had taken us forty minutes. 

Jirón Trujillo Street on the north side of the Rímac River.

We climbed the stairs to the front desk and as expected they told us it was way too early to check in. But they would hold our luggage. We could come back at two o'clock and our room would be ready.

Running on fumes from an overnight flight, we set out to do our best, exhausted and excited all at once. 

We crossed the Rímac River toward the Plaza de Armas and Lima Cathedral. The first item to draw my attention were all the police. They were everywhere! Armed with military rifles and some with shields, they looked as if they were poised for battle. Almost the entire plaza had been cordoned off and I wondered what was going on. 

I walked to a security guard and asked him why everything seemed to be closed off. He responded it was because of the threat of protests. 

Lima Cathedral.

One of many police found on the streets of Lima.

My second observation as we walked around were all the “works” going on. Every street, it seemed, was under construction. There were obras everywhere. Entire streets had been torn out and now workers laid mortar and brick one by one, taking their time. Buildings were blocked off with construction barricades and streets had detours around the workers. Between street workers and the police, the government must have been paying hundreds of employees on every block! 

After wandering for nearly an hour we finally made our first purchase of food: a sandwich for each. One with avocado and the other with olives. Nothing else. No oil. No mayo. It was the first olive sandwich I ever had. (And in all truth, I thought she said tuna, rather than aceituna!) 

The "obras."

Our fist attraction entered was the Convent of San Francisco, built in the 1600's. For twelve soles each we got entrance and an English-speaking guide. Between her Covid mask and thick accent, I barely understood a word she said, but got the gist. 

The Convent was beautiful. The art work, architecture, carved wooden furniture—all of it amazing.

And beneath it all . . . the catacombs! Thousands upon thousands of bones now laid in neat piles—mostly skull and femur bones—for all to see. We walked through a series of underground tunnels to view the subterranean arrangements. My favorite part came as we stood in a room of ossuary delights while listening to the choir on the level above us sing Gregorian chants. Unfortunately for us, no photography was allowed in the convent. 

The Convent of San Francisco, of course, under construction. Home to the catacombs.

As we had nearly three more hours to kill, I chose to fulfill a goal of mine and explore the hill of San Cristóbal on the north side of the Rímac River. 

To put it bluntly, crossing the Rímac to the north side was akin to crossing into Tijuana from San Diego. Whereas most of the historical sites on the south side were protected by hundreds of police, the north side was a different story. 

Our first attempt failed. 

San Cristóbal Hill beneath a blanket of smog. This area, unfortunately, is too dangerous for the average tourist.

Sudsy water of the Rimac River.

Painted wall on the north side of the river.

We hadn't even crossed the bridge when a lady with the “tourist police” stopped us and asked where we were going. “You can't go over there,” she said. “That's too dangerous. You should stay in this area where all the police are.” She then told me to tuck my camera into my pocket so no one could swipe it.

Part of the north side is semi-safe. Our hotel on Jirón Trujillo Street was there, and a wide array of restaurants and street vendors. But beyond that principal area, things get really sketchy. 

After taking a break on a bench in front of a church, we again tried to venture into that sketchy area toward St. Christopher Hill. We didn't get too far before a man from across the road looked us in the eye. He didn't have to say a word. He only shook his head and waved his finger. A similar experience happened shortly afterward. That was strike three. We gave up our fraught plan. 

This was about as far as we dared venture into the Rimac District.

Armed guard on the street corner.

With less than an hour to go, we found a street cart selling ceviche. Anyone familiar with Peru knows this is the national dish. Our chef, Jesús, turned out to be very friendly. 

We sat on plastic chairs in front of his cart. While he deep fried fish and sweet potatoes, he asked us an array of questions regarding where we came from, and what our plans were. Then he scooped the fried food onto a plate, along with a pile of raw fish that had been marinated in lime juice. He topped it with raw onions, dried corn, salt and other ingredients, creating and extremely strong dish. 

We sat in front of the cart to eat and visit with Jesús. He asked if he could film us, and while I consented, I felt stupid for stumbling all over my Spanish sentences. We were tired and ready for a nap.

Ceviche, the national dish of Peru.

A picture with our street-chef, Jesús.

At last, two o'clock came and we again climbed the stairs of our hotel. Two twin beds awaited us and we plunged our weary bodies. At the moment Lima still felt like a dream, something we had only fancied. Perhaps after a little rest we could return to the streets and make them come alive. ♠