Phew, I thought. Someone can be a pretty, fun, smart and interesting traveler in her thirties. This came as an incredible relief, because like most women past 25, I can feel my thirties approaching like the inevitable onslaught of winter. No matter how much I know that age is just a number, 40 is the new 30, 30 is the new 20, people can be “young at heart” and so on, I still get anxious about the future just like (practically) everybody else.

These ordinary fears are further complicated for the traveler.

For most people, social norms dictate that long-term travel is for the young post-college crowd. It’s for them to have a bit of “adventure” before settling down and leading a normal life. Take the following examples, for instance:

Upon hearing that I have been living and traveling in Central America the past eight months, most people give me the following response: “That’s great, you’ve got to do that while you’re young.”

Uhhh… but what if I want to do it again when I’m 55?

Or, take my mom, for example. She once asked me: “sure, it’s fine floating around while you’re 26, but do you really want to be doing the same thing when you’re 32?”

Uhhh… sorta.

And I’ve even been guilty of such thoughts myself, as hypocritical as they are. I mean, who hasn’t rolled their eyes at the 42 year old who’s hitting on the 19 year old backpackers in some crowded hostel dorm?

So, the first question is: is there an age after which long-term travel or the nomadic lifestyle is inappropriate?

My answer: no. (Did you expect me to answer any other way?) People should live the way they want, as long as they aren’t impeding on others’ lives or shirking their responsibilities (supporting children, for instance.)

No, because being nomadic is in many ways a lifestyle choice. And while I’m a slower nomad – I tend to do the longer-term expat thing more than actual backpacking – this is a lifestyle I can’t see myself giving up for quite some time.

Sure, my traveling style might have changed a bit, and will probably continue to change as I get older. I used to always stay in dorms, no matter what. Now, I often cough up the 5 bucks for a private room – 5 bucks I would have spent on beer to make the hostel dorm bearable. As my father has, as I grow older I might come to want more comfort as I travel. But I’ll still be the same.

So my answer, then, is no. But truth be told, most people’s answer would be yes. Scour the internet a bit, and you’ll find debates on whether it’s “sad” to travel solo or teach English abroad after 30. Many people, it seems, are offended at those who do not settle down in the traditional way.

Second question, then: how to deal with the people who think long-term travel is only for the very young?

I don’t have an answer to this. At least for me, it’s not so easy to say “fuck ‘em.” I like my family and friends. Many get me, but some don’t. But I’m still not willing to forget about them.

Morelia, we clicked.

At first glance you are steely and cool, and at second rosy and warm. Your buildings are almost all made of grey stone, but there’s a strong hint of pink amidst the grey.

You’re rough around the outsides, but beautiful on the inside. I like that rough ‘n tumble Latin look you’re sporting as I first approach you. But as I make my way deeper to your core, I realize you’re one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen.

Sometimes you’re modern, and other times old-fashioned. One moment you’re wearing a cowboy hat and charming me with your chivalry, and the next you have long dreadlocks and you’re throwing me a mischievous glance.

You bestow me with that tranquility I’ve been craving yet I don’t think you’re boring. I feel safe in your arms, and the air is fresh and clean. I can see the mountains in the distance, and it relaxes me to know that nature is so close. Your pace of life is slower, and I want to slow down with you.

But there’s certainly lots bubbling under your surface. I get the distinct impression that I would have a lot of fun and variety if I hung around you for awhile. You’re complex than you seem, I know it.

And damn, man, do you know how to cook!

So I’ve decided that I want you. You’re the one for me, and I want to stick with you for the long haul.

And here’s why it hurts: you don’t want me back. Here I am, willing to move here, and you don’t want me to.

I drop off resumes at every language school in town, and all I get are no, no and more nos. Am I not good enough for you?

You say it’s just not a good time for you. Maybe I could come back and apply in July, you say. Maybe you’ll have room for me then. But what if I’ve found someone else – a different city – by then? What if I don’t feel the same way about you anymore, Morelia? It might be too late!

So now I’m heartbroken, Morelia. I walk down your streets, marvel at the serenity in your breathtaking cathedral, I’m amazed at the friendliness of your sons and daughters, I enjoy the sunlight on my shoulders while I eat a refreshing cup of gazpacho. But I can’t really enjoy it, Morelia, because I know this romance won’t last.

This article struck a chord with me.

Many people assume that I am an extrovert. I am loud and funny, and make friends very easily. In some ways, I certainly have extroverted tendencies.

But there’s a bit of a loner half-heartedly hidden in this sociable person, and in many ways I am an introvert, especially while traveling.

Today was a glorious day. I arrived in Morelia, a town I had a strong hunch I would love. I walked around town, just bursting with joy that I had found a place so lovely and filled with great energy. I got a snack, and sat down to eat and watch young Mexican hippies play djembes and awkwardly attempt to dance the African way. I stared at the Cathedral, marveling at the undertones of pink in its stone walls. I sat down for some quesadillas in a little roadside stand. I knew that I already loved this place.

I must have spoken at most 20 words to anyone all day.

The problem is, I’m afraid I can only really “feel” a place when I’m by myself. The feeling of being alone in a strange place – that delicious sense of loneliness mixed with wonder – is the way I get to know somewhere.

When I’m with other travelers, I’m not as touched by my surroundings.

Case in point: last week I went traveling with two great guys I met in my CELTA course. These friends make me laugh a lot, and I’m looking forward to hanging out with them again in the future. We had a good time, and my camera is filled with silly photos of memorable moments. It was a good week.

Truth be told, though, that after five days of traveling with these buddies, I was ready for time by myself. I had been to Queretaro with them, but yet I didn’t feel like I had gotten to know the place at all. Selfishly, I remembered why I usually travel alone: it’s so much easier to make decisions only for yourself.

I need to find a balance between my extroversion and introversion. I need to learn to travel better with other people, especially since I am getting to the point of my life where finding a partner would be nice, and he sure as hell better want to travel with me. I need to know how to get to know a place while having fun with people by my side. But I can’t – and I won’t – give up completely my strong desire to be alonen some times, and create memories that are entirely private.

“There’s a solution to that,” my friend replied. “Only make friends with locals, not foreigners.”

That’s easier said than done.

Any person living abroad presumably wants to form and strengthen meaningful friendships with local people in their adopted country. (At least I hope: otherwise, what’s the point?)

But it’s often easy for some people to get sucked into the “expat crowd” and soon find themselves with only fellow foreigners for friends.

At the same time, should a person snobbishly shun their fellow outsiders entirely, so they can only connect with the “authentic” local culture? Imagine the potential deep friendships that might be missed doing so.

I am constantly trying to find a happy medium between these two extremes.

This relates to one of the reasons that I am leaving Quetzaltenango.

Ignore anyone that says Quetzaltenango (Xela) isn’t overrun with foreigners: it is. Mind you, it is overrun with mostly great foreigners who are passionate about Guatemala, interested in the language and culture and genuinely want to become a part of the community. But that doesn’t change one basic fact: Xela is an expat town.

In addition, Xela’s expat component is extremely transient. There are a few foreigners who stay for a couple years or more, but most stay for a few months to a year. As a result, people are coming and going all the time.

This adds to the dilemma. It’s emotionally draining to see friends come and go all the time. I’ve become close with a number of people in the last seven months here, but almost all have already gone.

So, is the only solution to make only friends with Guatemalans? Well, I don’t believe in passing up a potentially awesome friendship just because someone is also foreign.

As well, in a town like this with a constantly rotating cast of gringos, it is sometimes difficult to make friends with locals. Don’t get me wrong: I have many Guatemalan friends that I will miss and hope to often visit here in the future. It’s just that – and some people disagree with me – I sometimes get the impression that many Quetzaltecos are a bit jaded with foreigners. After all, why invest in a friendship if you will be here today, gone tomorrow?
This dilemma, I know, will follow me wherever I go and will not be cured by leaving Xela. I know that in the future I will need to continue trying to balance expat and local friendships.

But I think that a transient, expat crowd makes striking this balance more difficult, and that is one of the reasons I am moving on. I would like to live somewhere where there is a higher proportion of locals to foreigners, just so that it will be easier to establish stable bonds. And I’d like to think that in many other places, the expats that are there are staying for a lot longer. Like I hope to do.

Regardless, I will miss this city when I leave in approximately 24 hours. Quetzaltenango has brought wonderful people into my life, and holds so many memories. It has frustrated and inspired me. It has taught me a lot.

The saddest thing about leaving: I have been in Xela long enough for it to feel like home, but not long enough for it to actually be home. But it probably isn’t meant to be my home, but a stop along the way.

Me dancing bachata with my salsa buddy William.

Phil (American), Andrea (Guatemalan) and I hanging out on the night that everyone piled into my bed.

One Dutch, one American, two Canadians, two Guatemalans and one Italian over at my place for a meal.

(Considering I had two colds, two flues and even a kidney infection that sent me to the hospital, I guess you could also argue that Guatemala doesn’t agree with me… but let’s just overlook that right now.)

Edmonton wasn’t even “that cold” while I was home, meaning it hovered between -10 and -25. (Celsius. For you Americans, that’s between “well below freezing” and “really fucking cold.”) I have certainly been there when it’s been worse. Still, I could feel my throat freeze when I breathed in fresh air, and I couldn’t stand to walk the dog more than 5 minutes.

Winter takes a toll on us Canadians and other northern dwellers.

My hands, soft and smooth in Guatemala, is cracked and dry along the knuckles. My face is similarly scaly, and turns bright red when I try to apply any lotion to make it soft again.

It’s too cold to contemplate a nice long walk, let alone a jog, so my body has barely been used. As a result of lack of exercise, I have had a hard time sleeping the last two weeks.

It must be no coincidence that Canadians are prone to bouts of depression in the winter, myself included. Right now it only gets light after 8am, and the sun sets around three.

That feeling I get every year at the end of winter when the snow melts for the first time and it smells like spring – that feeling that everything is going to be alright and in fact might be wonderful – cannot be a coincidence.

In Guatemala in the middle of December I can sit on a bench in central park, basking in the sun’s rays. (With plenty of sunscreen, mind you. I am after all a pasty gringa.) Even if it’s not that warm in Quetzaltenango I can still feel the sun seeping through my pores, bringing happiness and contentment.

No, I am certainly not a winter person.

But does this mean that I am not, well, a Canadian person? Of course I’m Canadian… it’s where I was born, raised and nurtured. I do have that sweet little passport that gets me into any country with hardly a question asked. It’s not that I don’t belong in Canada. Of course I belong – I am Canadian.

It’s more of a question of whether I am suited to it. Suited to everyday life in Canada, a life that (let’s be honest) is pretty darn nice.

This is a question that I ask myself all the time. I am happy – maybe happier – living in Guatemala (or Burkina Faso, or probably a great number of tropical countries.) I’m out of my element there, which somehow makes me feel more comfortable in my own skin.

I was explaining this to a friend the other day. I’ve always been a bit of a black sheep, an odd one. Being somewhere where I really don’t fit in, then, is a relief.

Besides, many of the peers I surround myself with in the traveling or expat life (since I’m hovering somewhere between the two right now) are always more like-minded, especially other foreigners. They are all really interesting and diverse, but like-minded at the same time. Often the majority of my peers in Canada don’t really get me or my life choices. And while I certainly don’t click with every wanderer/expat/traveler type, I certainly do with a lot. Basically, the way I want to live my life, the things that make me happy are understood and encouraged.

Some of my family members feel that I should try to get my life more on the “career” track. Doing something like teaching English, even if turns out I’m great at it, make good money and love it, does not count as a “career,” apparently. I guess a “career” is something that sounds impressive.

But I guess if I’m happy, challenged and engaged with what I’m doing, I should stick to my guns… at least until I find out for myself that I should alter course.

Day of the Dead, celebrated here in Xela on the 1st and 2nd of November, is the day that families go to the cemetary and honor the memory of their lost ones.

In Canada, this might be thought of as a very somber or depressing holiday.

Here, it’s amazing just how uplifting the event can be.

I woke up this morning at 1pm, after celebrating the not-so-Guatemalan holiday of Halloween a bit too hard. I spent the next three hours nursing a headache (ok, hangover) in bed, but at 4pm I knew I had to drag myself out of the house or I would later regret not witnessing Day of the Dead. (There will also be celebrations tomorrow, but apparently today is the biggest.)

I walked down the street to the cemetary, and saw that the whole street in front of it had been turned into yet another fair. Hurray, more delicious fair food (see last post.)

But I was not distracted by the churros, ponche and french fries on display. I walked through the crowded gates to the cemetary, music playing, and found myself back in what is probably the most beautiful place in Xela.

I had not been to the cemetary since I went there with a group back in 2008. I’d love to go more often, but on most days the cemetary is known as the most likely place to be robbed in Xela since it’s so huge and quiet. So, when there is the chance to go – either with a big group or on a day that’s really busy – I will always jump at the chance because it’s just so beautiful.

Today, it was even more beautiful. In fact, the cemetary on Day of the Dead is quite possibly the most beautiful thing I have witnessed in Guatemala.

It is simply a wonderful thing to see so much life in a cemetary.

There were thousands of people there. Whole families walked around hand in hand. Everyone was decorating the graves of their relatives with beautiful floral arrangements – so many that the cemetary smelled so fresh and alive. Kids flew brightly-coloured kites, apparently a tradition at this time of year. Other children laughed and played amongst the tombstones. Young people supported their grandparents as they walked. Food vendors inside the cemetary sold bags of chopped-up fruit, chocolate, or tostadas covered in vegetables and ground beef. Mayan women wore their most beautiful huipiles (blouses) and chatted to each other in their indigenous language.

I walked around, and felt overwhelmed in a lovely way. I often find that the most “meaningful” moments I experience while traveling, or anywhere really, are when I am by myself, and observing what is going on around me. Today was no exception. I thought about my maternal grandparents, dead now for more than a decade. I thought about family, and whether I would like to have one of my own.

After walking around for an hour and a half, and starting to feel some drops of rain, I headed out. On the way out of the cemetary I stopped and got a hot cup of ponche de leche (milk punch). It warmed me up as I walked back home.

No, the guide said. In fact, the people living in the area prefer when there is a steady supply of lava. When there is no lava, pressure builds under the surface and there is the risk of a dangerous eruption. The slow-flowing lava, on the other hand, allows the heat to be released at a safe rate.

“Hey, that’s just like people,” my brother said. “If you keep anger bubbling beneath the surface eventually you will just explode!”

True that.

I can really be a travel snob. I have been on the verge of yelling at other travelers for the last three months. Girls wearing booty shorts in conservative places. Backpackers wearing pyjama pants in public, making locals roll their eyes and confirm their view that foreigners are slobs. People insisting on walking home alone at 3am, despite the fact that both locals and foreigners have been held up at gunpoint in Xela doing just that.

But telling off these people will just lead to awkwardness, because I’ve never had tact. It’s likely it won’t achieve anything but making someone think I’m a bitch.

Seriously, though, there’s the risk that one of these days I will crack and chastise some poor, unsuspecting booty-short wearing girl. Because I keep this all under the surface.

So, in an effort to not blow up at someone, I am going to insert the occasional “snide comment edition” on Yelkaye.net. Think of it as slow-moving bitchy lava.

Besides, I know that a large proportion of travelers like to make fun of other travelers. What better thing to fill a travel blog with, at least now and then?

So, Snide Comments. Volume One.

My brother and I were waiting at our Antigua hostel for our van to Pacaya to arrive. Waiting with us was another backpacker staying at the hostel who was going to take the same hiking tour.

When the van arrived, it was pouring rain. A river of water was running down the cobblestoned streets, so the driver had no choice but to park in a puddle.

The driver got out of the car and came to greet us at the door.

“I don’t want to step in a puddle,” the backpacker told the driver immediately. “Please move the van so I can get in without getting wet.”

“We don’t really have time to move the car. Step over it,” the driver said.

“No,” the backpacker replied. “It won’t take you that long to move it.”

So the driver took at least five minutes trying to do a better parallel parking job in the very narrow street and crowded street, while the other passengers in the van shook their heads and rolled their eyes.

Once we started hiking, it became clear that our group was going to go at a moderate pace, given the different ages of people on the tour. The backpacker kept on racing ahead. When our group would pause to catch our breath every once and awhile, the backpacker would ask the guide rudely why we were going so slow.

After a pleasant hour and a half walk up the hill, we reached the lava. The backpacker immediately went walking farther up the hill on slippery gravel to see other lava, even though the guide yelled at him to come down.

Like all tour groups to Pacaya, we stayed up there for about twenty minutes or so. It was starting to get dark, so the guide asked us to leave.

The backpacker wouldn’t leave.

The guide (and other people in the group) yelled at him to come down. He could hear us, but he didn’t listen. He stayed up there for at least another fifteen minutes while the guide continued to yell at him to leave.

We ended up walking down in the dark. (I had a flashlight, so this didn’t actually bother me, but it bothered me on principal that the guy would blatantly disrespect the local guide.)

On the way home, the backpacker was speaking to two Guatemalan women on the tour.

“Where is there to go out in Antigua that’s not touristy? I hate going out and being surrounded by stupid tourists.”

Still, though, Caye Caulker is a wonderful place and probably shouldn’t be missed on a trip through Central America. People traveling on a budget can probably splurge for a couple days of island life.

That said, I bet most “budget” packpackers spent tons more money than I did. I wouldn’t be surprised if most were spending at least 50 dollars a day. Here’s what you can do to reduce costs:

Don’t stay right on the beach. Everything is literally a one minute walk from the beach – do you really need to be RIGHT on it? On the beach, the best 10 US dollars will get you is a bedbug-ridden dorm bed. Off the beach in the wonderful Sandy Lane Hotel, 10 US dollars a night (well, 20 for two people) will get you a private cabin with your own washroom, fridge, complete kitchen and TV. And there’s a place to barbeque! Staying here saves money because of good cooking facilities. The same kind of cabin would be double the price on the beach.

Don’t drink that much! Jeez… a beer in bar costs about 4 US$, a cocktail about 7 US$. Do you really need to get wasted while you are here? If you want to drink, go to one of the liquor stores off the beach and buy some beer or coconut rum. Much cheaper (about 1.50 US$ for a bottle of beer or 10US$ for a big bottle of rum.)

Cook! My brother and I bought a box of cornflakes and milk for breakfast, and barbequed fresh fish for dinner.

When eating out, don’t eat right on the beach. It’s pretty easy to get a big delicious lunch for 5 US$ (cheap for Caye Caulker) if you eat off the beach at a place like Sea Garden Cafe (hope I have that name right.)

Anyways, I think Belize and Caye Caulker would make a great first stop in Central America for those new to the region. It’s super easy to travel there, and coming from North America or Europe the prices will seem cheap! Then you can move further south and be pleasantly surprised as the prices get better.

Over the last couple months, I’ve realized that I sometimes find traveling with people difficult. It is hard to compromise with the needs and wants of others. And sometimes I find that I can only feel a place when I am wandering the streets by myself.

But I’m not actually the complete loner I make myself out to be. I have had some frustrating times with people the last couple months, but I have also connected and enjoyed myself immensely with old and new friends.

The friends I felt closest to in Xela all left recently or are leaving, and I was surprised to find myself bummed out about that. You know, legitimately sad at each goodbye. Guess I am not as cold and callous as all that.

Maybe I am only part lone wolf.

Travel Snobbery ahead. (You know, how you get some travelers together and one will say “I’ve been here, it was incredible,” and another will reply “but I’ve been here, and it is more incredible!”) I try to avoid this as much as possible in my blog, but today I’m going to jump headfirst into a bout of travel snobbery.

You have been forewarned.

I think that, for me, West Africa was the best introduction to travel. I hadn’t been to any “different” places before (only Western Europe, and that is hardly challenging.) So I was pretty green when I woke up to unfamiliar sights and sounds my first morning in Burkina Faso.

Burkina Faso is an incredibly rewarding, beautiful, warm (both literally and figuratively) place. But I’m not going to lie – it’s not an easy place to travel. The cities are chaotic and dirty, the rural villages isolated and rustic. I loved every minute of it, but it was a challenge.

Why was this the perfect traveler’s bootcamp for me?

Because now almost everything seems like a piece of cake. While others complain about aggressive vendors, I can’t help but think that they are nothing compared to the “artisans” who line Ave Kwame Nkrumah in Ouagadougou. Things run slowly sometimes in Guatemala, but it’s nothing like waiting an hour and a half for a plate of riz sauce in a Burkinabe restaurant.

This isn’t to say that Guatemala doesn’t come with its own unique challenges. I’m not saying that everything is a walk in the park everywhere, or that I’m some “super-traveler” that knows everything.

What I’m trying to say is that my extended time in Burkina (and elsewhere in West Africa) has made me feel prepared to take on the challenges in practically any part of the world.

My favourite skill aquired in Burkina?

The art of the bucket shower.

While living in the village of Sapone three years ago, we often ran out of water. I learned to clean myself completely using a quarter of a bucket shower.

This morning, then, when I discovered that there was no water in the shower (or taps) in Xela, I made due. I walked to the kitchen and poured a pot of boiling water from the hot water heater (you know, the thing for tea.) I waited for it to cool a bit, and then, with about six cups of hot water, I showered. Yes, my hair is shiny, and I have no unfortunate odor about me.

While my fellow foreigners in Xela feel sort of gross and smelly, I am sitting happy… and, let’s be honest, like a travel snob.