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Fuel spiral likely to curb air travel: Brewer
Every $3 rise in world oil price costs Air Canada $75 million a year, CEO says
Reuters
Thursday, May 22, 2008
MONTREAL - High fuel prices that are consuming a growing proportion of income at Air Canada will likely hurt demand for air travel, the airline's chief executive said Wednesday.
Montie Brewer, Air Canada's president and CEO, said the rapid rise and volatility of fuel prices was a concern at the airline, which is pushing ahead with plans to use newer, more fuel-efficient aircraft.
"The severity of it will impact customer demand. We'll see how much the customer can absorb and still plan on traveling," he told reporters after the company's annual meeting.
Brewer said every $3 rise in the price of a barrel of crude adds $75 million to Air Canada's annual fuel costs and fuel now accounts for some 31 per cent of the airline's operating cost base, up from 25 per cent last year.
In the first quarter, Air Canada's fuel expenses rose 22 per cent to $715 million from $585 million a year earlier and fuel costs are now roughly twice what is spent on wages and salaries. On May 15, Air Canada eased back on its fuel surcharges, brought in just a week earlier, after rival WestJet Airlines Ltd brought in lower extra fees.
Air Canada also plans to start charging customers a fee for a second checked bag on certain North American flights.
Brewer told the annual meeting that Air Canada's fleet renewal program is a key part of its plan to combat high fuel prices. The average age of aircraft in the carrier's fleet is less than nine years.
Fleet ages for U.S. legacy airlines range from 10 to 18 years, but are much lower for newer carriers, according to the AirSafe.com website.
Air Canada, the world's 14th largest commercial airline, has taken delivery of 14 Boeing Co 777s, and expects to have 18 in the fleet by early 2009.
"For 2008, we anticipate the 777s will account for more than 17 per cent of our capacity, triple their production in 2007," Brewer said. He said Air Canada was seeking compensation from Boeing for delays in the delivery of its fuel-saving 787 Dreamliner, but declined to provide details.
The Dreamliner program, delayed in April for the third time, is 15 months behind schedule. Air Canada has 37 firm orders and 28 options for the Dreamliner. The airline took delivery earlier this year of the last three of 60 EMB-190 jets ordered from Brazilian aircraft maker Embraer.
Air Canada's class A shares were off 48 cents or 5.5 per cent at $8.18 on the Toronto Stock Exchange Wednesday. The stock has lost more than half its value since being issued at $21 in late 2006.
Brewer blamed the poor stock price performance on a lack of liquidity in Air Canada shares and declines in valuations for comparable North American airlines.
© The Edmonton Journal 2008
Looks about the same as when I was there.
Aztec leader's tomb found
By MARK STEVENSON, Associated Press Writer Fri Aug 3, 3:24 PM ET
MEXICO CITY - Mexican archaeologists using ground-penetrating radar have detected underground chambers they believe contain the remains of Emperor Ahuizotl, who ruled the Aztecs when Columbus landed in the New World. It would be the first tomb of an Aztec ruler ever found.
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The find could provide an extraordinary window into Aztec civilization at its apogee. Ahuizotl (ah-WEE-zoh-tuhl), an empire-builder who extended the Aztecs' reach as far as Guatemala, was the last emperor to complete his rule before the Spanish Conquest.
Accounts written by Spanish priests suggest the area was used by the Aztecs to cremate and bury their rulers. But no tomb of an Aztec ruler has ever been found, in part because the Spanish conquerors built their own city atop the Aztec's ceremonial center, leaving behind colonial structures too historically valuable to remove for excavations.
One of those colonial buildings was so damaged in a 1985 earthquake that it had to be torn down, eventually giving experts their first chance to examine the site off Mexico City's Zocalo plaza, between the Metropolitan Cathedral and the ruins of the Templo Mayor pyramid.
Archaeologists told The Associated Press that they have located what appears to be a six-foot-by-six-foot entryway into the tomb about 15 feet below ground. The passage is filled with water, rocks and mud, forcing workers to dig delicately while suspended from slings. Pumps work to keep the water level down.
"We are doing it very, very slowly ... because the responsibility is very great and we want to register everything," said Leonardo Lopez Lujan, the lead government archaeologist on the project. "It's a totally new situation for us, and we don't know exactly what it will be like down there."
As early as this fall, they hope to enter the inner chambers — a damp, low-ceilinged space — and discover the ashes of Ahuizotl, who was likely cremated on a funeral pyre in 1502.
By that time, Columbus had already landed in the New World. But the Aztecs' first contact with Europeans came 17 years later, in 1519, when Hernan Cortes and his band of conquistadors marched into the Mexico Valley and took hostage Ahuizotl's successor, his nephew Montezuma.
Ahuizotl's son Cuauhtemoc (kwow-TAY-mock) took over from Montezuma and led the last resistance to the Spaniards in the battle for Mexico City in 1521. He was later taken prisoner and killed. Like Montezuma, his burial place is unknown.
Because no Aztec royal tomb has ever been found, the archaeologists are literally digging into the unknown. Radar indicates the tomb has up to four chambers, and scientists think they will find a constellation of elaborate offerings to the gods on the floor.
"He must have been buried with solemn ceremony and rich offerings, like vases, ornaments ... and certainly some objects he personally used," said Luis Alberto Martos, director of archaeological studies at Mexico's National Institute of Anthropology and History.
The tomb's curse — water — may also be its blessing. Lopez Lujan said the constant temperature of the pH-neutral water in the flooded chambers, together with the lack of oxygen, discourages decomposition of materials like wood and bone that have been found at other digs around the pyramid, which was all but destroyed in the Conquest.
"This would be quite an important find for Aztec archaeology," said Michael Smith, an archaeologist at Arizona State University who is not connected to the dig. "It would be tremendously important because it would be direct information about kingship, burial and the empire that is difficult to come by otherwise."
All signs found so far point to Ahuizotl. The site lies directly below a huge, recently discovered stone monolith carved with a representation of Tlaltecuhtli (tlahl-tay-KOO-tlee), the Aztec god of the earth.
Depicted as a woman with huge claws and a stream of blood flowing into her mouth as she squats to give birth, Tlaltecuhtli was believed to devour the dead and then give them new life. The god was so fearsome that Aztecs normally buried her depictions face down in the earth. However, this one is face-up.
In the claw of her right foot, the god holds a rabbit and 10 dots, indicating the date "10 Rabbit" — 1502, the year of Ahuizotl's death.
"Our hypothesis is precisely that this is probably the tomb of Ahuizotl," Lopez Lujan said.
Any artifacts linked to Ahuizotl would bring tremendous pride to Mexico. The country has sought unsuccessfully to recover Aztec artifacts like the feather-adorned "shield of Ahuizotl" and the "Montezuma headdress" from the Ethnology Museum in Vienna, Austria.
"Imagine it — this wasn't just any high-ranking man. The Aztecs were the most powerful society of their time before the arrival of the Spaniards," Martos said. "That's why Ahuizotl's tomb down there is so important."
The Mystery of Easter Island
New findings rekindle old debates about when the first people arrived and why their civilization collapsed
http://www.smithsonianmagazine.com/issues/2007/april/easter.php
Attack at main Sri Lanka airport
A military base adjoining Sri Lanka's only international airport has come under attack from suspected Tamil Tiger rebels, government officials say.
Witnesses reported hearing a series of loud explosions followed by gunfire.
Passengers already on aircraft were disembarked and led to a shelter, while others trying to reach the airport were turned away and approach roads closed.
The airport was attacked in 2001 by Tiger rebels who killed 18 people and destroyed civilian and military jets.
The BBC's Roland Buerk in Colombo says that people living near the airport were woken at about 0045 on Monday (1915 GMT Sunday) by a series of loud explosions, followed by gunfire.
A police officer, speaking to the Reuters news agency, said that there had been a large explosion in a military area near the runway, where attack planes and helicopter gunships belonging to the air force were parked.
Air assault claims
There are reports that the assault may have involved an aerial attack by suspected Tamil Tiger rebels.
Neil Butler, a passenger at the airport, told the BBC News website that he was inside the passenger terminal building and could hear the sound of machine guns and mortars.
The 2001 attack resulted in the loss of half the civilian fleet
There is no word yet on casualties at the facility which is 30km (20 miles) from Colombo.
Colombo airport is the country's only international passenger airport and it adjoins a military base, which houses some of the aircraft used in recent air strikes against Tiger rebel bases in the north of the country.
Sri Lanka has been sliding back into civil war for months, our correspondent says, and although a ceasefire does exist it is only on paper and both sides have been ignoring it for months.
Our correspondent says that as the fighting in the north has worsened many people have been expecting the Tiger rebels to strike back in dramatic fashion in the south of the country, and it now appears that such an attack may be under way.
The island is heavily reliant on the money which tourism brings in, so an assault on the airport could be very bad news for Sri Lanka's economy.
In the 2001 attack on Colombo airport, which involved suicide bombers, half of the country's national airline fleet was destroyed.
Surf map Oaxaca & Chiapas
Playa Marinero is between the sheltered waters of Playa Principal and the famous surf of Zicatela.
It's just a few minute walk to either Playa Principal or Zicatela.
Under most conditions, it's a great beach for boogie boarding and body surfing.
Nice, very nice.
Visiting Vietnam? Read this...
http://ourmaninhanoi.blogspot.com/2005/09/visiting-vietnam-read-this.html
Ya maybe not for long though, words getting out...
http://www.ballofdirt.com/entries/7859/108487.html
Saturday Journal has Vietnam on the cover of the travel section. Phu Quoc looks pretty good.
Vietrnam's Roaring Economy..NY Times
HO CHI MINH CITY, Vietnam — Nearly four decades ago, South Vietnamese leaders mapped out their battle plans inside the presidential palace here. When they lost the war, the palace became the base for the Ho Chi Minh City People’s Committee, which worked to impose tight Communist control.
Electrical power is plentiful in the industrial zone of Bien Hoa city, in contrast to interruptions elsewhere.
But in September it was the scene of a very different gathering: a board meeting of the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank.
In the three decades since Vietnam has gone from communism to a form of capitalism, it has begun surpassing many neighbors. It has Asia’s second-fastest-growing economy, with 8.4 percent growth last year, trailing only China’s, and the pace of exports to the United States is rising faster than even China’s.
American companies like Intel and Nike, and investors across the region, are pouring billions of dollars into the country; overseas Vietnamese are returning to run the ventures.
In the latest sign of Vietnam’s economic vitality, trade negotiators from around the world are preparing, after more than a decade of talks, to put the finishing touches on an agreement, possibly by Oct. 26, for Vietnam to join the World Trade Organization. President Bush, President Hu Jintao of China, President Vladimir V. Putin of Russia and other heads of state plan to come to Hanoi in mid-November for an Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation summit meeting.
For Vietnam, the meeting will be a coming-out party, critical to its pride in much the way the 2008 Olympics in Beijing are for China.
“I think they are the next China,” said Michael R. P. Smith, chief executive of the Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Corporation. “It’s not the scale of China, but it’s a significant economy.”
Through the end of last year; Vietnam’s growth rate exceeded that of Thailand, Malaysia, Taiwan, South Korea and even India, its closest rival.
The latest Asian economic tiger, Vietnam now produces and uses more cement than France, its former colonial ruler. The main index for the Ho Chi Minh City stock market and a smaller exchange in Hanoi have nearly doubled in value this year. Vietnam has become the talk of investment bankers and investors across Asia.
But with such growth has come controversy, here and in the United States. Republicans in Congress are divided over a coming vote soon after the midterm elections: Should the United States grant permanent, full trade relations to Vietnam, given the two countries’ history and Vietnam’s current position, where it sells almost nine times as much to Americans as it buys?
Corporate America is divided, too, over a Bush administration initiative to win votes for full trade status by throwing a bone late in September to Southern senators representing states where textiles are made. Vietnamese officials are furious with Washington over what they see as a last-minute protectionist attempt to limit the exports of their country’s booming garment industry.
In Vietnam, nearly double-digit growth is starting to produce the same shortages of skilled labor as in India and China. Executives at multinationals like Groupe Lafarge of France and Prudential of Britain say that local accountants, human relations managers and other professionals are so scarce that salaries are soaring 30 percent to 50 percent a year.
Many educated Vietnamese now are like Ha Nguyen, 34, a chemical engineer who is working at his third job in three years, having received big raises each time he changed companies. “Right now, it’s easy in Vietnam to find a job,” he said, pausing while doing a chemical analysis of cement quality at a corporate laboratory here.
Roads and ports in this country are increasingly choked with cars and ships, the congestion worse than China’s but not yet as bad as India’s. Yet deep-seated corruption has slowed construction; the government has put the brakes on highway building across northern Vietnam this year after uncovering a graft scandal that led to resignations and detentions all the way to the top of the Transport Ministry.
Balanced against these problems is a government that, like China’s, has embraced capitalism after becoming disillusioned with the widespread poverty and sometimes hunger that accompanied tight state control of the economy.
Economic liberalization policies have been pursued in earnest since the early 90’s, after poor harvests and economic mismanagement left millions facing malnutrition in 1990.
Among the architects of this change are a handful of bright economists like Le Dang Doanh, a top adviser to the government and the Communist Party who studied in the old Soviet Union and East Germany but became deeply disillusioned with the corruption and inefficiency of state-owned industries.
“The reform is definitely irreversible,” Mr. Doanh said. “Any attempt to come back to a centrally planned economy, to overplay the state sector, is economically irrational, inefficient and psychologically is counterproductive.”
Part 2-
A Fast-Growing Economy With a Rising Trade Surplus
If anything, Vietnam has leaned in the other direction. The Finance Ministry has just produced a draft personal-taxation law, expected to be approved by January, that offers more tax breaks for the wealthy than the United States does. Inheritances among immediate family members will be entirely exempt from taxation. So will interest on all but the largest bank accounts, and a fierce debate is under way over whether capital gains should be taxed.
And in some ways, Vietnam is more pro-business than China. Reluctant to anger city dwellers, state-owned power companies in China minimize blackouts in residential areas but cut off power to factories as much as three days a week, forcing them to run on costly diesel generators.
Vietnam takes the opposite course. Takashima Masayuki, general director of a Japanese-owned factory that makes shirts and jackets in Bien Hoa city, said the factory did not even have a generator because the authorities never allowed power to be cut off in the industrial zone where it is situated. By contrast, Ho Chi Minh City residents say they have brief power interruptions as often as twice a day.
Like China and India, Vietnam has benefited enormously from the return of a diaspora — people who had fled the country. Thousands of overseas Vietnamese have come home after learning English, gaining entrepreneurial experience and acquiring technical skills.
Phu Than, Intel’s country manager for Vietnam and Indochina, was 14 when he was evacuated in the last days before the fall of Saigon, leaving by helicopter with his mother, an employee of the old American Consulate in Danang.
He earned an electrical engineering degree from the University of California, Davis, then joined Intel and now oversees the largest foreign investment in Vietnam, the construction of a semiconductor assembly and test factory that will cost $300 million for the first phase and another $300 million for a likely expansion later.
American businesses are catching on to Vietnam’s attractions, but they still lag behind Taiwan companies, which are the biggest foreign investors in Vietnam, followed by Singapore.
Vietnam’s appeal to foreign companies rests on its young labor pool. Three-fifths of its 84 million people are under 27. And with a policy of limiting families to two children, as distinct from China’s one, Vietnam will continue for many years to have a large proportion of hard-working low-skill employees.
Typical is Nguyen Thi Hong, 30, who rides each morning on her rusty bicycle to stand outside factories and look for work in Bien Hoa, 15 miles northeast of Ho Chi Minh City; in China, factories advertise far and wide even for unskilled workers.
A brightly patterned kerchief protecting her from air pollution, Mrs. Hong said she and her husband, a mechanic who has found work here, have left their year-old son with his parents in their hometown in the central part of the country.
Vietnam has reduced the percentage of its people living in abject poverty — less than $1 a day — to 8 percent from 51 percent in 1990, a greater advance than either China or India.
But incomes are still far short of Western levels. Few of these Vietnamese can afford to eat American beef or fly in Boeing jets. The country’s trade surplus with the United States has soared — it exported $5.56 billion worth of goods to the American market in the first eight months of this year while importing $625.9 million.
That imbalance, much of it in the garment industry, has complicated the Bush administration’s effort to persuade lawmakers to approve normal trade relations with Vietnam. The administration tried to shore up support by sending a letter on Sept. 28 to two Republican senators, Elizabeth Dole of North Carolina and Lindsey Graham of South Carolina, saying that the Commerce Department may file its own antidumping cases against low-price shipments of Vietnamese clothing without waiting for American companies to do so.
But the letter has upset retailers and other importers, who worry that they may end up paying any punitive duties that are imposed.
“The retail industry is really split on this,” said Brad Figel, the government affairs director at Nike, which remains in favor of the bill and is seeking clarification of administration policy.
Antidumping duties are an emotional issue in Vietnam, after the United States imposed them on catfish exports three years ago and the European Union recently imposed them on Vietnamese and Chinese shoe exports. Vietnamese officials warn that dumping cases could hurt the regulatory environment for American businesses and cause layoffs at garment factories, where most workers are low-income women.
“These people suffered from the war a lot already, and we would not want them to suffer again,” said Nguyen Anh Tuan, vice director of Vietnam’s Foreign Investment Agency. “American investors should not lose their foothold in Vietnam.”
Talk to garment-factory workers in Vietnam these days, though, and they are looking forward to a future where their children live far better than they do. “My parents were very poor,” said Nguyen Thu Hoai, 28, said as she folded green Nike jackets in a state-owned factory in Ho Chi Minh City.
“But I will be able to give my son a good education,” she said, describing a modest Prudential life insurance policy she bought for her 2-year-old son that includes a savings fund for educational expenses. “He will have more opportunities.”
I didnt realize that Galle was a "tourist hub", wasn't 20 yrs ago.
Must be tough trying to recover from the tsunami, now this.
Tamils in the area are going to feel it too.
I guess the flip side is it will make for an otherwise quiet destination
with fewer tourists and cheaper prices.
I would like to get back there one day as part of a south India jaunt.
Asian menus can be amusing, here is an example...
http://www.phnomenon.com/index.php/cambodian-food/restaurants/menu-weirdness-in-battambang/
Eat your heart out...
http://www.phnomenon.com/
Guns & Frivolity in Cambodia by Eben Strousse
http://www.bootsnall.com/articles/05-04/guns-frivolity-in-cambodia-cambodia.html
I stood in the shadow of the bus and watched the spray of my urine rise off the parched, dirt road onto the tire, and slowly drip down in tears of salt and dust. I wondered if the bus driver would notice - or even care. Cambodia has the highest percentage of unexploded land minds and munitions of any country in the world. The seriousness of the danger is somewhat apparent when our bus infrequently pulls over to allow the passengers to relieve themselves. It is ill advised to step off the main roads, so we stick pretty close to the bus.
I ended up in SE Asia somewhat abruptly after getting laid off from my day job. I had known my job was in danger and expected to lose it. The writing was on the wall, so to speak, but I was still stunned when they told me to pack up my shit. Much like reading about a politician accused of fraud, I was shocked but not surprised. I obviously had some decisions to make. The job market couldn't get much worse. The economy was in shambles. And my savings account lacked "security" by about two zeroes. My sensible side said, "Suck it up and a get a new job." My frivolous side said, "Buy a plane ticket to somewhere far from here."
I soon decided that frivolity was much sexier than sensibility, and that I needed to take full advantage of my new found freedom. I'm single and irresponsible, and knew there may not be many more times in my life when I'm the only person depending on me. So I paid off my credit cards, gave away my plant, stuffed my backpack and jumped on a plane. I picked Cambodia because it's about as far out of my element as I could get. What I hoped to take away when I resurfaced is the kind of learning you can't get from books − and some kick-ass stories.
I had already spent about a week in northern Cambodia exploring the ancient temples of Angkor Wat before catching the bus heading south to the capital city, Phnom Penh. This bus (piece of crap van) was noisy, cramped and had rust spreading like cancer. It looked like something donated to a high-school auto body class. Plus, at over 100 degrees, it was rather disappointing that the AC appeared to have been ripped out of the dashboard. We were forced to keep the windows open to avoid heat stroke, despite the heavy clouds of dust streaming into our faces. Everyone wrapped t-shirts or bandannas around their faces "outlaw style" to keep from gagging, and wore sunglasses to prevent eyelids from caking up. We looked like reject terrorists. I thought the bus was hot and crowded when it left Siem Reap with seven or eight of us foreigners - but it soon became unbearable as the driver kept picking up locals to make a little extra money under the table. I wanted to call bullshit every time he pulled over but chose to bite my tongue. We gained another half dozen passengers before he was satisfied. The roads only exacerbated the situation, resembling nothing more than neglected hiking trails. The conditions kept the bus under 40 mph but more than once we hit potholes that sent us out of our seats, and into the ceiling. Occasionally, we would disappear into whale-sized craters before emerging again from the other side.
The only comforting part of the journey was that I still had water left when the bus broke down in the desolate mid-section of Cambodia. We sat without shade on the side of the road in pools of our own sweat, when we weren't pushing the bus up and down the road to try to jump-start it. We quietly read pirated, xeroxed copies of classic novels and travel books. We played magnetic backgammon and tic-tac-toe in the dirt. And we watched the bus driver with his head buried under the hood, tinkering with the engine and swearing in his native Khmer. At one point I relinquished some of my water to the driver for the bus's radiator. I'm no mechanic, but when it poured out of the bottom onto the ground, I figured we would be there for a while.
Every ten minutes or so, a small procession of humble, inquisitive faces would slowly drive by in a plume of dust: peasant, migrant workers on make-shift tractors, a family of four packed onto a decrepit, Chinese-made moped, a rusty, diesel cattle truck loaded with farmers-turned-minesweepers. We traded gentle stares with equal curiosity. Most passersby would offer innocent waves as if to make us feel welcome. But the truth of the gesture was revealed when our return waves brought shy smiles and giggles at the goal of simply communicating with such unusual visitors.
About two hours had gone by when we noticed a car racing towards us from the direction we had come. It was traveling much faster than any other vehicle we had seen, swerving viciously, and appeared to be catching air over some of the larger mounds in the road. It reached us quickly and rocketed past in an enormous whirlwind of dust like the cartoon Tasmanian Devil. About twenty yards down the road it slammed on its breaks and skidded dangerously to a stop. The car's wheels then spun in reverse, it backed fiercely through its own trail of smoke, and locked its breaks violently across from where we were sitting.
The old car was badly dented and rusty, and so covered in dirt you couldn't see through the windows or even discern its original color. I strained to look through the haze as the dust slowly dissipated and noticed the window nearest to us slowly winding down. Then suddenly, a young, grinning Khmer face popped out through the window and said, "Taxi?" The other bus passengers and I exchanged looks of disbelief. No one said a word. The taxi driver glanced back and forth along the line of stranded foreigners and gestured towards his car with amused bewilderment, "Taxi!" No one moved. I began weighing my options and tried to recall if there was an entry in my Lonely Planet Cambodia guidebook about taxi murders or kidnappings. I was tired, hot and restless and wondered how long it would be before another bus showed up. "Taxi!" beckoned the driver as he thumped the outside of the door with his palm. I wavered for another moment and then slowly clambered to my feet, hefting my backpack onto my shoulders. My fellow bus passengers stared up at me with wide eyes. I contemplated my actions hesitantly as the taxi driver waved me over with encouragement. I turned to the bus driver who simply shrugged as if to say, "It's your call buddy." I shrugged back, and climbed into the cab.
We sped along the grueling, prehistoric road at teeth-rattling speed. I was amazed the car held up under such conditions. The driver worked the steering wheel with a frenzied mastery, constantly correcting our path as we bounded over rocks and around potholes. The shoelaces on my hiking boots would have come untied if I hadn't doubled the knots. I was both impressed and horrified. About twenty minutes passed before I offered "Phnom Penh" as my destination. The driver nodded vigorously in the rear view mirror as if there was no other plausible option. I sat silently, gripping the door handle and gazing intently out the window. About thirty minutes later, the driver abruptly turned to me and said, "Guns. You like?" I was dumbfounded. "You like guns? I take you shoot guns. You shoot guns. Many guns." I responded tentatively, "I aah, don't really need to be shooting any guns. I really just want to get to..." He interrupted, "You American, yes?" I answered hesitantly, "Yes, but I..." He cut in, "All American like guns. You like. No problem." I replied, "Yeah, that's cool but I really don't..." He suddenly jammed on the brakes and sent the car sliding to a stop in the middle of the road. He turned to me with a look of persistent sincerity and said, "It's ok. I good friend. You shoot guns. Very good guns. No problem. You like." He then turned around and jerked the car back into motion, our Tasmanian devil cloud of dust trailing behind.
About 45 minutes later we pulled off the main road onto an unfathomably worse side road. We had to slow down significantly in order to navigate around the holes and gaps in our path. We passed through villages dotted with primitive huts and small patchwork houses, all stained brown with dirt kicked up by passing vehicles. We drove by gaunt, tireless men in conical hats digging in rice paddies. We passed women shouldering wooden buckets of water and families hiding from the sun under shelters made from palm fronds. Cambodia is the poorest country in SE Asia and the roadside images brought to life the descriptions of poverty we gloss over in the New York Times. Village streets are lined with litter, stray dogs, and naked children playing in the dirt. You also can't help noticing the extraordinary number of amputees � one out of every 250 people in Cambodia. Some bound along masterfully with makeshift crutches. Other less fortunate victims drag legless midsections along the road using their bare hands.
We left the villages behind and drove for another 30 minutes or so before entering an endless web of back roads bordered with rusted barbed-wire fences. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever be heard from again. Eventually, we came upon a tall, narrow, white-washed shack that resembled an outhouse. The shack stood next to a small side road blocked by an old-school, manual barricade like something you might imagine at a rural Russian border crossing. We pulled up to find a middle-aged Khmer man sitting on a stool wearing a grubby t-shirt, camouflaged pants and a side-arm. He got up slowly, fanning himself with a tattered newspaper, and walked out to the cab. The driver muttered a few words in Khmer and motioned towards me in the back. The guard glanced at me indifferently, nodded slowly to the driver and walked casually over to the barricade. He leaned down on the weighted end, raising the opposite side of the pole just high enough to clear the top of the cab, and waved us through. We followed the road for about a mile and a half to an uninviting building pieced together with cinderblocks, corrugated steel and bamboo. We pulled up next to a couple of rickety pick-up trucks parked in front and climbed out of the taxi. The driver put his hand on my shoulder, smiled enthusiastically, and said, "Time to shoot guns."
It was a little unsettling when we were greeted by a toothless, ex-Khmer soldier holding an M-16 assault rifle. He was wearing an American t-shirt with a skull and cross bones that said, "Mess with the best, die like the rest." I said hello the politest way I knew how. The soldier sized me up for a moment and then pointed to an impressive selection of guns hanging from small wooden dowels hammered into a bamboo wall. There were small caliber handguns, hunting rifles, shotguns and intimidating, automatic machine guns. I have a rudimentary knowledge of guns but identified a German Luger, a Colt .45, an Uzi, several M-16's, and even what looked like an old Tommy gun straight out of a mobster movie. As I examined the weapons, I did my best to appear composed and knowledgeable as if choosing an album at a hip record store. But in actuality, I was intimidated as shit and wishing I was back on the side of the road next to the broken down bus.
My demeanor changed pretty quickly after firing off 30 rounds with an AK-47 assault rifle. It was kick-ass and I was having trouble holding back the drool. I was a kid again, the star of my own war movie. It was a twisted childhood dream come true. I wanted to pull the trigger on everything he had. I wanted to blow shit up. I was a dangerous man. There was certainly still a degree of fear when I put down the smoking gun but it was overcome by exhilaration and adrenalin. The soldier had dealt with people like me before. He could sense my pathetic, juvenile fascination and complete lack of will power. He walked over and handed me a laminated menu with a grocery list of handguns, shotguns and machine guns, and asked me what was next. A gun menu!? I couldn't fucking believe it. I scanned the list greedily like a fat chick at a buffet. I didn't want to have to choose. Then, with a burst of courage, I peered up at the soldier and asked if he had anything with a little more kick. He smiled sadistically, flipped the menu over, and revealed some seriously heavy artillery.
It was a tough decision, but I had to go with the fully automatic, Russian K-57, armor piercing machine gun. It's the kind of weapon that's mounted to the side of a helicopter, and similar in size to the American M-60 that Stallone shouldered in Rambo. The Khmer soldier didn't have much trouble talking me into buying 150 rounds of ammo, which took two guys to feed into the gun from the side. Three-inch bullet shells spat out of the gun in bursts of flame as it recoiled, showering around me like a copper hailstorm. It was like holding a jackhammer, only louder. But I could still hear the perverse laughing of the taxi driver who stood behind me, thumping me on the back as I fired and hollering with approval. I was sweating by the time I ran out of ammo and had a few shell burns on my forearms. I was hoping they'd scar.
Before the gun even stopped smoking, the soldier held the evil menu in front of me again and pointed to the bottom of the list: "B-40, Rocket Propelled Grenade Launcher". I was at a loss for words. I had already spent $30 bucks on the AK-47 and $150 on the K-57 (a buck a bullet). The B-40 would set me back another $250 and the soldier said I would have to take a 45 minute drive in his truck to get to a safe place in the mountains to fire it. My week's travel budget was already blown and I really didn't want to get into a truck with this guy. But we were talking bazooka. I would be the envy of all my sick friends. As I wrestled with a decision, the soldier, with a heartless grin, informed me that for an extra $100 he would throw in a water buffalo for a target. It was clearly time to exit the shooting range.
I was headed for the cab when another ex-Khmer soldier strolled up with a hand grenade dangling by the pin from his index finger (probably not the safest way to carry it). I stood, somewhat in shock, staring at the live grenade. The cab driver patted me on the back, smiled, and nodded slowly with approval. A little over the top, but I figured, what's another $20 bucks. I followed the two soldiers, with cab driver in tow, through a barbed wire fence behind the shooting range. We walked about 1/4 mile through a barren, dirt field until we got to a small, muddy pond. The grenade-throwing lesson took about 15 seconds. One of the soldiers picked up a rock, put it in my hand, and made an underhand throwing motion towards the water. I managed to land the rock near the center of the pond and he gave me a thumbs-up with approval. He then put on a kevlar helmet, handed me the grenade and took a step back. It was understandably a little shocking to be standing in the middle of Cambodia holding a live hand grenade with zero military training. I hesitated for a moment and then pointed to the helmet the soldier was wearing and the baseball hat on my head. He reassured me in broken English that the kevlar helmet was far too hot and that I was much better off with my baseball hat. So I posed for a quick picture to the taxi driver who was serving as my official photographer, pulled out the pin and tossed the grenade into the pond. We were only standing about 20 yards from where the grenade landed. The cab driver ducked behind the second soldier but my friend with the helmet stood firm. He calmly indicated with hand signals that there was no need to run. I still wished I were wearing Adidas instead of Tevas when the thing exploded and emptied half the pond into a mushroom cloud of water. It was pretty cool, to say the least.
I sat quietly in the cab gazing through the window as we slowly made our way out of the compound, past the meager villages, and back to the main road. I was physically exhausted but my mind was racing. Sadly, my thoughts weren't occupied with the thrill or gravity of what I just experienced. Instead, I was sweating my unemployment and the job I had lost in San Francisco. I guess I was suffering from the backlash of indulgence. It was like the anxiety or guilt felt after spending money on something extravagant, sleeping with someone you shouldn't, or even just devouring a half bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. After all, I should be walking out of an interview, not off a shooting range in Cambodia. It's the worst job market in decades and I didn't have a lead. My money was literally going up in smoke and I had no income. I sat thinking about the phone call when my boss laid me off. I thought about the strained silence when I told my father the news. I thought about my ex-coworkers and friends and the client relationships I tried so hard to build. I thought about my paltry 401-K plan. I thought about my career. I thought about my future. "Tomorrow in morning, 10 o'clock," mumbled the cab driver from the front seat. "Excuse me," I asked. The driver twisted around to face me, "I pick you up hotel 10 o'clock. We go back gun range." I was perplexed. "Go back? What for?" I asked. He smiled widely, "B-40 shoulder grenade launcher." It took me a moment to comprehend his reply. I stared at him feebly. I took a few long, contemplative breaths. "Make it eleven."
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Burma's confusing capital move
By Kate McGeown
BBC News
Burma's confirmation that it was shifting its seat of government has left many analysts at a loss to explain the move.
After all, why go to the huge trouble and expense of relocating thousands of officials to a remote mountainous region when there is a well-established political infrastructure in the port city of Rangoon?
Information Minister Kyaw Hsan said the site of the new capital, near the town of Pyinmana, was a more strategic location for Burma's military rulers.
"It is centrally located, and has quick access to all parts of the country," he told reporters on Monday.
But analysts outside the country were unconvinced.
They said the real reason was probably still a mystery. But it was possible the country's hard-line military rulers were worried about foreign invasion, or wanted more control over ethnic minorities in the border regions, or were even following the advice of fortune tellers.
"I'm Burmese, and sometimes even I don't understand what the government is thinking," said Aung Zaw, the editor of Irrawaddy, a publication run by Burmese journalists in exile.
Joseph Silverstein, a Burma specialist and Emeritus Professor of Rutgers University, described the plan as "totally irrational".
Fear of attack
The military junta's liking for secrecy, coupled with its suspicion of the outside world, has led many people to speculate that the move is due to some generals' fear of being attacked by the United States.
According to Aung Kin, a Burmese historian based in London, the country's army is much stronger than its navy.
It is "more comfortable defending a land perimeter" such as Pyinmana than a coastal city such as Rangoon, he said.
But according to Christian Lemiere, Asia editor of Jane's Country Risk, any potential enemy is much more likely to attack by air than by sea - and therefore moving location will make little difference.
In fact, if anything, a smaller centre of government will be easier to target from the air, Mr Lemiere said.
All this is of course assuming someone is actually planning to attack Burma in the first place - a move which analysts agree is extremely unlikely.
It is true that Burma's poor human rights record has done little to ingratiate its senior generals to the international community. But analysts say there has been no suggestion of a foreign attack.
"Rumours of an American invasion are just a joke - but the military is extremely paranoid," said Aung Zaw.
'Rat hole'
Diplomats have speculated that another possible reason for the move to Pyinmana is that its central location will make the government better able to monitor the lawless border regions of the ethnic Shan, Chin and Karen states.
Aung Zaw said that to a certain extent this may be true, but he doubted it would make much difference in terms of military control.
Saw Sarki, from the Karen National Union (KNU), agreed.
"The army is quite decentralised anyway, and it is spread throughout Burma already," he said.
Others say the move may simply be about the government's need to increase its own security.
"Pyinmana is much less populated, so it can build a fortress from scratch," said Saw Sarki.
Reports from inside Burma talk of a maze of underground tunnels being built, and Aung Zaw described the new location as the government's "rat hole".
The isolated new site will also provide the authorities with increased secrecy from the outside world.
Many ministries - including the foreign ministry - are in the process of moving to Pyinmana. But foreign and UN embassies have been told there are currently no plans for them to follow.
"If you need to communicate on urgent matters, you can send a fax to Pyinmana," the foreign ministry said in its statement on Monday.
A British diplomat told the BBC that she could not predict what impact the move would have on relations with embassies and the government.
But analysts say it will almost certainly make contact with the Burmese leadership - already one of the world's most secretive governments - even more difficult.
Joseph Silverstein believes the most likely explanation for the relocation is advice by traditional Burmese fortune-tellers.
"Everybody listens to fortune-tellers in Burma," he said.
General Ne Win, who came to power in 1962, was totally dependent on their advice, Mr Silverstein added.
"He is once said to have decided to change the direction of traffic overnight [as a result of a fortune teller]. It caused a huge number of accidents," he said.
Tackler... "I travelled in Burma in 1985. All the vehicles were driver on the right made for driving on the left side of the road like UK, Australia etc yet as the article points out the government had dictated the country adopt driving on the right side. As the article eludes the result was very dangerous on the narrow roads with poor shoulders and overloaded vehicles. Scary riding in the passenger side!"
McTeague says number of Canadian travellers registering abroad on the rise
LAUREN LA ROSE at 15:48 on October 22, 2005, EST.
TORONTO (CP) - In a year that's seen an unprecedented number of natural disasters, more Canadian travellers are registering with embassies and consulates overseas, said the parliamentary secretary responsible for Canadians abroad.
Dan McTeague said there's been a sharp increase in the last six months of between 20 to 30 per cent of Canadians registering with the government while visiting foreign countries.
"Registration should be a pre-condition for any type of travel; it's as important as your passport," McTeague said Saturday.
"We've tried to encourage this at Foreign Affairs, but many do not do it. It allows us to get a better handle on where you are if should you run into trouble."
More than 2,400 Canadian travellers are registered in Mexico, which is in the direct path of hurricane Wilma.
McTeague said 90 people who chartered buses inland Wednesday are stranded at Merida airport while another 190 Air Canada passengers were sent by Mexican officials to various locations inland, McTeague said.
McTeague said there are likely more travellers not registered that are unaccounted for, and expects the number to rise above 300 Canadians in the region.
There have been no reports of Canadians killed or injured by Wilma.
"We want people to have a good time when they're travelling, but we also want to make sure that they know that the easiest way for us to get a hold of them is ... to let us know where they are," McTeague said.
Christine Theberge, vice-president of public affairs for the Association of Canadian Travel Agencies, said tour operators provide information and encourage clients to register, but the onus falls on individuals to do so.
"(Travel agents) can't do everything for the consumer, people also have to be responsible," Theberge said.
"When it gets to their personal information, (people) are very careful."
Following last year's Boxing Day tsunami, Foreign Affairs worked closely with local travel operators to locate Canadians abroad.
Theberge said under normal circumstances, the Privacy Act restricts the ability to share information with third parties, and it would be difficult to have agents register clients directly on the government's behalf.
About 600,000 Canadians have travelled outside North America this year, a four per cent increase over 2004.
To Live and Dive In Honduras
By Carol Clark
Special to The Washington Post
Sunday, August 8, 2004; Page P01
Shortly into our first dive off the Honduran island of Utila, the American dive master, Tex, signaled us to come close. Earlier, on the boat, Tex had been the epitome of cool, cupping his weathered hands to deftly light cigarettes as the wind whipped his wild, sun-bleached hair. Now I could see the excitement in his eyes as he waved us in his direction. What could have gotten him so agitated? I wondered, as my dive buddy, Patty, and I finned to his side.
Tex held out his underwater slate. I peered at it anxiously, searching for the urgent message, but all I saw were scribbles. Was it shorthand for "your air hose is leaking" or "Great White circling"?
Then I saw it: a tiny, motionless creature clinging like a piece of chewed gum to one edge of the slate. Tex was gaga over a sea goddess nudibranch, a black, slug-shaped mollusk striped in gold.
Later, two large green sea turtles floated by, ethereal as angels, but Tex barely gave them a nod. He was mesmerized by a Venus's girdle, a diaphanous bit of jelly sparking tiny rainbows amid its vibrating rows of cilia. He pointed out a half-inch baby filefish hanging horizontally among the branches of a coral fan, and dime-size shrimp hiding in the tentacles of a sea anemone.
"I'm really into the micro stuff," Tex explained when we returned to the boat. I grew a little worried when I realized he wasn't kidding. Was this guy really a native of the "Everything Is Bigger" state?
"Think we'll see a whale shark tomorrow?" I asked.
Tex scanned the horizon as though he were the Marlboro Man gazing off into the prairie. "It's a bit early for them yet but . . . maybe," he said.
Utila, one of the Bay Islands off Honduras's northern coast, has two claims to fame among divers: It's low-budget, costing about $160 to get an open-water diving certificate, and its waters are frequently host to the whale shark -- the world's largest known fish, growing up to 50 feet. Despite its membership in the shark family, the whale shark's diet of plankton and small fish gives it a reputation as a gentle giant among divers and snorkelers.
Patty and I were experienced divers on a budget. What could be better than a close encounter with a whale shark?
Utila, however, had other plans for us.
A low-key Caribbean outpost, settled by pirates, British planters and freed African slaves, Utila is not out to impress anyone. The island is only about three miles by eight miles, with two-thirds of that area a swamp. The commercial center, known as East Harbour, is a few blocks lined with dive shops, funky beach bars and open-air restaurants.
Unlike the larger, more developed Bay Island of Roatan, known for its upscale resorts, Utila caters mainly to European backpackers who bunk in family-run guesthouses and lodges. You can also find air-conditioned rooms on Utila, with satellite TV, but as soon as you step out the door, the voracious sand flies will remind you that you are roughing it. Up until 2003, when 24-hour electricity came to the island, the 2,000 residents drew power from a generator that shut off at midnight.
After a few days on Utila, our pace had slowed and our priorities had shifted. When we weren't exploring the island's reefs, we were learning the nuances of the local way of life.
"You can stay till we have to run you out, and that will be never," co-owner Norma Bush told us when we checked into the Blueberry Hill guesthouse.
She and her husband, Will, sat on their front porch, chatting in the lilting Caribbean English spoken on Utila.
"We born and raised right here," Norma said.
"Did she tell you how long we been married? Fifty-five years," Will said. "Did you think I'm that crazy?"
"I'm the crazy one," Norma countered.
Our simple cabin, painted blue, yellow and orange, was perched on stilts and had only wooden shutters to cover the windows. Roosters roused us each dawn. Still groggy, we would set off down Monkey Tail Road. The street sweeper would look up and smile at us from beneath her pink "Dollywood" cap as we turned into Thompson's Bakery -- a cluster of tables and chairs set in the garden of a white clapboard house.
"Good morning, ladies," Tisha Thompson would greet us, as she served us hot coffee and johnnycakes, the local term for biscuits. Her clientele was mainly locals, who appeared to need conversation more than coffee to start their day.
Like many native Utilans, Tisha has relatives in the United States. I asked her if she had ever thought of moving.
"When I visited the States, the first thing they told me was, 'Don't open the door for anyone.' Why would I want to leave all this?" she asked, looking around at the familiar faces. "I'm a single mom and my kids go where they want. They got liberty and love from everybody."
By 7 a.m., we'd be suited up and on our dive boat, on the lookout for "boils," bubbling patches on the ocean surface that indicate swarms of tiny fish getting devoured by tuna or whale sharks. We were on Utila in January, the tail end of the rainy season. Although whale sharks can appear any time of the year, they're most frequently spotted from February through April, when the weather is clearest.
"I've seen a whale shark's head by the bow of the boat and the tail extending past the stern," Tex said, as he leaned against the rail of the 30-foot Wall Nut. "That's a big fish."
Our boat included divers from England, France, Australia, Holland, Germany and Canada. Most of them were taking advanced certification classes, everything from rescue diving to a dive master course. The calm, warm Caribbean Sea surrounding Utila is ideal for training.
Patty and I preferred to focus on recreational diving. We spent our days swimming through coral mazes and around pinnacles, exploring a shipwreck at 80 feet and drifting along reef walls.
Tex brought me eyeball-to-eyestalk with a spindly cleaner shrimp -- the same obsessive-compulsive species that had a French accent in "Finding Nemo."
We saw manta rays, snappers, schools of midnight angels and bouquets of translucent purple sea squirts. A five-foot moray eel, a gaping jaw attached to a sinuous, luminescent green body, shot out of its lair and swam past us.
Whale sharks slowly subsided in our consciousness.
Evenings, we headed for Coco Loco's, a dockside bar where the sound system blared an eclectic mix of Bob Dylan, the Rolling Stones and techno music. By the time the sunset turned the horizon pink and orange, the dock would be packed with divers, yachtsmen and expat residents of Utila drinking rum and bottles of Salva Vida ("Lifesaver") beer.
Anything could happen at Coco's. Once, at dusk, a waifish European woman stepped onto the dock and lit two torches attached to long, slender chains. She then began swirling the chains in intricate patterns around her body as she danced. She looked like a giant, flaming gyroscope.
For dinner, we would move on to R.J.'s for seared tuna, the Island Cafe for sauteed lobster tails or to Tranquila's for grouper in white wine sauce. We ate well for less than $10 a meal, including drinks.
Everyone is accessible on an island as small as Utila, including the mayor, Alton Cooper, 33. An unassuming man in cowboy boots and blue jeans, a jumble of keys dangling from his belt loop, he can be found many evenings sitting on a dock near his home, chatting with locals and tourists.
I asked Cooper about Utila's history and he told me he was a direct descendant of Sir Joseph Cooper, a British planter who left the Cayman Islands with his family in 1834 after the British abolished slavery. Most of the island's residents today trace their lineage to Cooper or to a handful of other adventurers who arrived around the same time, including the pirate Henry Morgan. In 1859, Utila officially became part of Honduras, but the original families stayed on, growing bananas, then coconuts.
"After World War II, the coconut trade tumbled and things got really bad. The houses started rotting and falling down because there was no money to fix them," Cooper said. "My dad made a living getting reef rock. After a storm, he'd take a crowbar and break up pieces of the reef to use as landfill."
When dive tourism came to the island in the late 1980s, it rescued the economy along with the reef. Cooper himself became a dive instructor before opening his own dive shop, one of a dozen now on Utila.
"We didn't appreciate the environment before," he said. "Now that we make a living off of it, we see the value in conserving it."
The mayor invited Patty and me to join him on a reef patrol.
The next morning we got into a skiff piloted by Henry Hill, the island's reef patrol officer, who is charged with enforcing bans on spear fishing, protecting endangered sea turtles and preventing over-harvesting of conch and lobster.
"I was going to wear my eye patch, but I couldn't find it," Henry said. He had lost his right eye in a fishing accident and had never bothered to get a glass one, using a polished piece of coral to fill the space instead.
The mayor was multi-tasking, trolling a line with a large lure in hopes of landing a barracuda as we motored around the island's perimeter. A man in a distant boat held up his catch -- a kingfish longer than his arm -- and Henry waved back.
When we arrived on the island's uninhabited north side, we were joined by a pod of dolphins.
"Want to swim with them?" Cooper asked.
Patty and I put on our snorkels and fins and slipped into the water. To our amazement, the dolphins greeted us like old friends, making clicking sounds and circling us playfully. I felt as if I'd entered another universe as I floated on the surface of the bottomless blue, watching the dolphins glide under and around me in the morning light.
During our last dive on Utila, Tex wanted to show us something special he had discovered. He led us to a crevice in a reef wall where we had to practically knock heads to see his tiny treasure: a frog fish.
With an eye for detail honed during two weeks in Utila, I examined the bright yellow, lemon-size creature. It gripped a piece of brain coral with two appendages that looked more like feet than fins and stared back at me with an expression so serious it was comical. It remained perfectly motionless, except for a stalk-like appendage that bobbed atop its head -- a lure for passing prey.
"That was cool! I've never seen a frog fish!" I shouted when we broke the surface.
A competing dive boat was motoring past.
"Shhh!" Tex said. "It's a secret. No one else knows where the frog fish hangs out."
He needn't have worried. The dive boat kept going, its newly arrived passengers no doubt focused on finding a whale shark.
Thanks for the corny post.
Lose Yourself in Nicaragua's Corn Islands
-By Cecilia Ryan
http://www.guideofnicaragua.com/1202/CornIsland.html
Photos: Diego Congote and Ligia Vaughan -
Anyone who knows me knows that I am deathly afraid of flying, especially in tiny, 16-passanger propeller planes. The whole concept just seems too unnatural to me. And although I knew I was headed to “an unspoiled Caribbean paradise,” as most people I’d spoken about the Corn Islands had referred to them, I was breaking out in a cold sweat in Managua’s 90º weather as our group headed towards the city’s International Airport.
The isolated beaches of Little Corn Island offer a placid retreat from hectic modern-day living.
I was lucky enough to have been traveling with a young and vivacious group that unknowingly kept me from swallowing my tongue in a nervous fit with their jokes and evident excitement about our up-coming adventure. But the pangs of anxiety were still there, and as I stepped off the dark green pickup that had brought us to the airport, my knees buckled. Out of embarrassment, I composed myself, grabbed my red vinyl duffel bag from the back of the truck and headed into the Atlantic Airlines check-in counter, where we and our luggage were all weighed— Reminding me of the frailty of the aircraft we were about to board on our 45-minute trip to Nicaragua’s Caribbean Coast.
But within the next couple of minutes, something happened to me— We paid our 15 Córdobas in airport taxes, presented our tickets, and headed towards the x-ray machine. The scene in the waiting area soon distracted my fidgety, dramatic mind— There was rhythmic reggae music dancing from the speakers attached to the waiting room walls and passengers in shorts, sandals and cornrows sat relaxed, chatting and laughing with each other, waiting for their names to be called as the small planes pulled up to the tarmac outside. The atmosphere was contagious and I immediately lapsed into people-watching mode and suddenly forgot about the remote yet vivid possibility of crashing into a Nicaraguan hillside in a fiery ball. (I told you I have an overly active, dramatic mind.) Although we had yet to board our plane, our trip to Nicaragua’s Caribbean was well on its way.
Great Corn Island children take a break from playing in the sand.
There was one character we dubbed “Rocket Man” who distracted me from my fears for the rest of our trip to Great Corn Island. I had noticed him in line for the x-ray machine. As airport security people tend to do, they poured out all the contents of his backpack on the static conveyer belt. Bottles and bottles of rum clinked out of his pack. “Be careful! These are for tonight’s Fiesta del Cangrejo,” he said, smiling and winking at the uninterested security guy. “Rocket Man,” with two shinning gold teeth, seemed to have a permanent smile on his face, and was quick to start up a conversation with us. Wearing a metallic-looking silver sweat suit, blond glossed curls hanging over his forehead, and a tiny boom box competing with the airport’s music clutched under his arm, he smiled at us and sat close to us—Diego and Jesse, the two guys in our group, started talking about all the diving and snorkeling they were planning on doing in the crystalline waters off Little Corn Island, when “Rocket Man” heard his cue and abruptly jumped in the conversation. He told us all about the diving adventures he’d had under the waves off his home island and the countless underwater treasures we could look forward to discovering ourselves.
Most Corn Islanders earn their living from fishing the bounties of the sea.
Next thing I knew, we were flying over the country’s impressive Lago de Nicaragua and looking down at lush green forests intersected by serpentine shiny rivers, reflecting the sunrays that radiated from above. Unimaginable hues of green appeared and changed before my eyes as passing clouds morphed the impressive landscape below me. From time to time, an air pocket would kick me out of my tranquil state, but the amazing view from 7,000 feet would soon reel me back in. The shades before me changed from green to blue as our plane reached the clear waters of the Caribbean, where sandbars, clouds, algae formations, and the sun’s rays changed the color spectrum of the water below me to shades as extensive as those found in hardware store paint displays.
We scheduled our trip to Great Corn Island to coincide with Las Fiestas del Cangrejo, a two-day festival during which locals celebrate the anniversary of the abolition of slavery in Nicaragua. This year the festivities commenced on August 27th with a “block party” that went for several blocks. People everywhere were jamming to reggae songs. There were several Palo de Mayo dancing competitions and the election of la Reina del Cangrejo. But by far, the highlight of the festival was the delectable sopa de punche (crab claw soup) that was handed out free to all the revelers.
Most people in the Corn Isands are quick to greet you with a smile.
Although the atmosphere was fun and inviting, the ocean was calling us and we soon headed to explore the parts of Great Corn Island we had braved Atlantic Airlines’ planes for— the submerged parts. Intricate rings of coral that invite exploration surround the larger of the Corn Islands. There is even a XVI century Spanish galleon submerged just 18 feet below the surface of the water. The girls and I opted to go snorkeling, but the guys decided to delve a little deeper. They recounted seeing “just about every kind of fish imaginable,” sponges, reefs, rays, and one of them even says he thinks he saw a Hawksbill Turtle swimming by— I wouldn’t know a gold fish from a shark. I was just happy to be bobbing up and down in the warm, pristine turquoise waters. I was definitely infused by the relaxed “island” temperament every Corn Islander seems to have been born with. Most islanders lead a very hassle-free lifestyle, with reggae and rum being the highest priority next to "chilling out.” Long forgotten was the stomach-turning anxiety I had felt just a few short hours before.
After a long afternoon of “fish-watching” and sunbathing we headed to our hotel for a quick shower and then walked towards the Great Corn Island Port to scope out a place to eat. Most of the locals we encountered on our four-block evening promenade to the port suggested we dine at The Fisherman’s Cave, overlooking the water. We sat at a table on the outside terrace and a round frizzy haired girl eventually made her way towards us. The first thing out of our waitress’ mouth was, “So that you know, your meal is going to take over an hour. But you’re welcome to hang out here and drink beer while you wait.” There is a downside to the Corn Island no-cares, laid-back attitude. But it was an invitation we could not refuse and soon we were telling funny stories and laughing over cold Toñas, muffling our noisy bellies until our food arrived. And although as promised, our wait lasted over an hour, the food was worth the wait. Almost all of us ordered lobster tails—Grilled, breaded, fried, boiled, drenched in garlic sauce— Every which way they prepared it, it was delicious!
Ana hanging with a local in Little Corn Island.
Although Great Corn Island has pretty amazing things— its food for one— Little Corn Island is my favorite of the two. Its desolate beaches are the perfect setting for relaxing under a shady tree, enjoying a great book and a refreshing drink of coconut’s milk— Ana and Alexandra, two of my young companions, spent almost a whole afternoon scavenging for the huge conch shells the Little Corn Island tides wash ashore. Jesse enjoyed holding his breath on and off for hours, his flippers splashing out of the clear blue water. Diego disappeared for a full two hours, capturing the incredible Little Corn Island scenery in his digital camera. And we all shared a magnificent sunset from the open-terrace of our hotel—the perfect ending to a perfect day.
The trip back to Managua was not without the usual angst of flying I so meticulously described before, but Nicaragua’s Corn Islands and their people are enchanting enough to mesmerize even the most anxiety-ridden traveler, like myself— If at least for a couple of days. Whatever your worries might be, I invite you to drown them in the crystal waters off the coasts of Nicaragua’s Corn Islands.
Little changed since they were a haven for buccaneers and pirates during the 17th century, the Corn Islands (Great Corn Island and Little Corn Island) are located approximately 55 miles east off the coasts of the Caribbean town of Bluefields, offering everything from snorkeling, scuba diving, horseback riding, fishing, and water sports to tourists. Below you’ll find some useful information for visiting the Corn Islands and some websites that can help you find out more about these paradisiacal islands before your trip.
Transportation
Since my trip to the Corn Islands, there has emerged a new alternative to the questionable existing airlines that fly to Nicaragua’s Caribbean— Air Segovia. I suggest you give them a call first.
Offices in Managua:
Air Segovia:278-7162
La Costeña: 263-1228
Atlantic Airlines: 222-3037/222-5787
All taxi rides in Great Corn Island are C$10 per person, no matter if you’re traveling a couple of blocks or traversing the whole island, but I recommend you ask how much the fare is going to be before getting in a cab. Getting around Little Corn Island is as easy and painless as a 20-minute walk from end to end.
A public boat, or panga makes several trips daily from Great Corn Island’s port to Little Corn Island. Fares are C$70 per person but you have to be willing to travel with supplies like ripe mangos, or even live chickens, and are subject to ever-changing departure and arrival times. If you are traveling on a more generous budget, I recommend renting a private panga for the day. You can ask at the port or at any of the hotels for a private panguero they would recommend. (An added bonus to visiting the Corn Islands is that everyone there speaks English.) Private boats generally run around US$15 per person if you’re traveling in a group of at least five people, and they drop you off where ever you want and pick you up at anytime you specify. Just remember to pay them after they have dropped you back off at your hotel.
WHALE SHARK...
Rhincondon typus, the whale shark, is normally a rare site in the Caribbean. Many adventurers travel around the world to Australia or Thailand in the hope of seeing this most amazing of creatures. What most divers don’t realize is that the banks, which lie north of Utila are home to annual rendez-vous of the worlds biggest migratory fishes. These massive fish, the worlds largest, grow to the incredible size of over 50ft in length. Old Tom, the largest whale shark frequenting the waters around Utila, is estimated to be 55ft long and has a mouth large enough for 3 men to stand upright inside! Imagine preparing to enter the water and seeing a shadow larger than your boat swimming towards you. It can be quite nerve racking, fortunately for divers, these massive fish are filter feeders and do not bother themselves when people swim close by. Whale sharks are seen year round but for the best chance of seeing one, time your visit during the most active months of March/April/May and August/Sept/Oct.
GENERAL DESCRIPTION:
The whale shark is a the biggest shark and the biggest fish. It is NOT a whale. It has a huge mouth which can be up to 4 feet (1.4 m) wide. Its mouth is at the very front of its head (not on the underside of the head like in most sharks). It has a wide, flat head, a rounded snout, small eyes, 5 very large gill slits, 2 dorsal fins (on its back) and 2 pectoral fins (on its sides). The spiracle (a vestigial first gill slit used for breathing when the shark is resting on the sea floor) is located just behind the shark's eye. Its tail has a top fin much larger than the lower fin.
The whale shark has distinctive light-yellow markings (random stripes and dots) on its very thick dark gray skin. Its skin is up to 4 inches (10 cm) thick. There are three prominent ridges running along each side of the shark's body.
SIZE:
The whale shark is up to 46 feet (14 m), weighing up to 15 tons. The average size is 25 feet (7.6 m) long It is the largest fish in the world. Females are larger than males (like most sharks).
TEETH:
Whale sharks have about 3,000 very tiny teeth but they are of little use. Whale sharks are filter feeders who sieve their tiny food through their large gills.
DIET AND FEEDING HABITS:
The whale shark is a filter feeder that sieves small animals from the water. As it swims with its mouth open, it sucks masses of water filled with prey into its mouth and through spongy tissue between its 5 large gill arches. After closing its mouth, the shark uses gills rakers that filter the nourishment from the water. Anything that doesn't pass through the gills is eaten. Gill rakers are bristly structures (the thousands of bristles are about 4 inches or 10 cm long) in the shark's mouth that trap the small organisms which the shark then swallows. The water is expelled through the sharks 5 pairs of gill slits. The prey includes plankton, krill, small fish, and squid. The shark can process over 1500 gallons (6000 liters) of water each hour.
SOCIAL GROUPS:
Whale sharks are solitary creatures. Groups of whale sharks have only rarely been seen.
HABITAT:
Whale sharks live in warm water (near the equator) both along the coast and in the open seas. They spend most of their time near the surface.
DISTRIBUTION:
Whale sharks are found worldwide in the warm oceans from the equator to about ±30-40° latitude. They are not, however, found in the Mediterranean Sea.
SWIMMING:
Whale sharks are slow swimmers, going no more than 3 mph (5 kph). They swim by moving their entire bodies from side to side (not just their tails, like some other sharks do).
REPRODUCTION:
The Whale shark was long thought to be oviparous (an egg 14 inches (36 cm) long was found in the Gulf of Mexico in 1953; this would be the largest egg in the world). Recently, pregnant females have been found containing hundreds of pups, so, Whale sharks are viviparous, giving birth to live young. Newborns are over 2 feet (60 cm) long.
Whale sharks are sexually mature at 30 years old. This is the age at which they are able to mate and reproduce.
WHALE SHARK ATTACKS:
Whale sharks are harmless to people and usually indifferent to divers.
LIFE SPAN:
It has been estimated that whale sharks may live up to 100 - 150 years.
WHALE SHARK CLASSIFICATION:
Kingdom Animalia (animals)
Phylum Chordata
SubPhylum Vertebrata (vertebrates)
Class Chondrichthyes (cartilaginous fish)
Subclass Elasmobranchii (sharks and rays)
Order Orectolobiformes
Family Rhincodontidae
Genus Rhincodon
Species typus
Now that's snorkeling...
Boca del Cielo, Chiapas...
Puerto Arista, Chiapas...
Montebello Lakes National Park, Chiapas...
Hang out...
http://www.hennessyhammock.com/
This looks like fun...
http://www.sailing-diving-guatemala.com/Sailing-Belize.htm
Nice pic...
Looking forward to this...
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