slipping...

was doing okay with blogging up until thursday. missed a few...a wee bit lazy.

the most pressing news of the past few days has been my father's cousin, Louie. he had a pretty massive heart attack on saturday morning. my dad told me that one of the valves that went isn't fixable; his family is preparing for the worst.

we did go and see him today in St. Joe's ICU. surprisingly, he was awake and could actually speak underneath that huge oxygen mask. we'll probably go back this afternoon to check in on him. poor thing. he looked so small in that gown, surrounded by all those machines. the effects of six decades of smoking are not kind...

in the family waiting room were his four sons, wife, and my Uncle Jimmie...you know, the one who didn't 'remember' my name for years until i was about 25. now, he just calls me 'dear' when we talk. hmmm.

it was an interesting fifteen minutes with Jimmie. he had brought an old photo, probably from 1947, that was taken right before my father went back to China to find a bride through a matchmaker. everyone oohed and aahed over it because we don't recall ever seeing it. what is it with nostalgia? as we get older, it seems like we make more concerted efforts to gather photos, find family treasures, etc.

i know i sure like to look at photos and hear stories. perhaps i know that i should try to hang on to the memories of all the good times. after all, many of those 'good times' helped shape me as an individual. or maybe it's because this family is more out of control than ever...

anyway, where was i going with this blabber? oh yeah, after everyone but Jimmie left, we hung out and talked a bit about Louie. apparently, last week, when Louie and his wife, my mom, and Jimmie, were in Phoenix for a funeral, Louie gave Jimmie $700 for their two fares. Jimmie was totally taken aback because Louie was notorious for 'forgetting' to pay his share. Jimmie was wondering if Louie knew something was going to happen and experienced an epiphany during the trip. know what i mean?

the same type of thing happened with my eldest sister, whose husband died in september '02. less than two months before he suffered a massive coronary, he dropped everything and went on a three week trip to Georgia and Florida with just my sister; leaving their daughters at home. he explained that it was time to take the honeymoon that they skipped. they lived it up, like tomorrow might not come. and in late september, it didn't (for him).

sometimes you have to wonder if fate steps in and tells you what to do...or if you just have a feeling...do it and not tell a soul the 'real' reason why.

this time, did Louie know something that we didn't? or did a voice go off in his head, telling him to pay Jimmie without any future hassle?

really, such weird things shouldn't be filling my thoughts around xmas; there are other things to ponder at this time of year. ok guys, i think that i'm gonna finally lay a story on you that i originally was going to post for Halloween. so go grab a snack/drink and settle in because i'm known to like transition and details; people have had the gall to even call me plain verbose ;)

in her December 2nd posting, Laura blogged about an artist's meme that she wanted us to consider. basically, we were to address this question: What do I still need to grieve?

Take the next week to consider, and then before next Tuesday to consider the question. Write, draw, paint, sew, photograph-however you choose to communicate. Do one, or as many as you feel necessary. Interpret the question in any way that feels meaningful to you. If it prompts something else that feels more pertinent to you, then go with that...

for me, i guess the most effective way for me to address the question is by posting, albeit in a stream of consciousness fashion. so here goes...and please bear with me. this story is a bit long winded, but i guarantee the outcome is well worth it.

Every year, in December and January, I am reminded of something that has haunted me since January 16, 1995...6000 miles away, it was January 17th and 5000+ people were dying in an earthquake.

I'm not sure if I still need to grieve the victims of the great Hanshin quake that struck Kobe, Japan at 5:46 AM...but this event will surely follow me for the rest of my life.

I have never been to Japan. Someday, I will visit the Land of the Rising Sun and much of Asia. Ever since I was eight years old, I have had dreams of visiting China, Thailand, and Cambodia as well.

No, in January 1995, I was in Guatemala, visiting Maya ruins at Tikal, Seibal, Quiriguá, and Copán (in Honduras). I had planned this trip for months, even retooling it when Lois and I lost a day after being stranded in Houston at the beginning of the trip. Although I had been to Guatemala twice before, I really wanted this trip to be extra special; it was Lois' first time.

What a phenomenal trip we had! We scaled huge pyramids, noshed on fantastic cuisine, and were mesmerized by both the hospitality and myriad of colors of the Maya people.

Panajachel is a tourist haven for many foreigners. Many 'hippie/granola' types are drawn to the cheap prices and intoxicating views of the five volcanoes that ring Guatemala's most beautiful lake, Atitlán. It's also a good location to base oneself if you are considering shopping in Guatemala's world renowned open air market in Chichicastenango.

One morning, we boarded an old, retired, American school bus (the preferred form of mass transportation in much of Latin America) for the trek back to Guatemala City. After three days rest in the Panajachel region, we were ready to get back to ruins. Quiriguá and Copán were on the itinerary. To reach those sites though, we had to take a bus back to Guate (nickname for Guatemala City) and connect on an eastbound bus there.

It was 6 AM and we had just avoided getting on the wrong bus. We accidentally got on a bus that was loading for Quetzaltenango (better known as Xela, pronounced sheh-la), which is not far from the Mexican border - wrong direction. The bus was headed west...

Luckily, we jumped off the bus as soon as the bus driver and his helper started loudly whispering 'Xela...Xela'. Right when we got off the bus, a Maya man asked us where we were headed and we told him, 'Guate.' He directed us to the correct bus and we hurriedly thanked him and hustled over there.

It was stilll dark when we departed. The cold air of the mountains was still heavy and at least three or four hours from burning off. Bundled up and crammed into the seats like sardines, we started the bumpy route, passing through Maya towns on our way back to the capital.

Riding chicken coop buses in Latin America is a life altering experience. You get to see how the 'common' people travel and witness their highly efficient system of filling the bus to at least double capacity - OSHA would have a coronary - and yet collect a fare from every single passenger. As Americans, we really have it too easy in our 2.5 vehicles per household. Here, twenty miles can mean 15 minutes on the highway. In Latin America, it can take an hour or two to travel that far on a third class bus...a lifetime by our standards.

Really though, riding chicken coop buses is life altering because it's usually a miracle if you survive the trip. Whether it's a fanatical driver who takes hairpin turns at 50 miles an hour (honking the whole time) or the tiny seats that are built to fit children younger than 10 (if you're 5'0", you're too big for the seats), you are downright thankful and praising God/Allah/Buddha the second you get off the bus, intact.

This bus was no different. I still recall seeing the capacity number at the front of the bus - 36 people. Ha! I'm positive that there were at least 80 people stuffed onto this bus, which lurched every time we rounded a curve.

It wasn't too bad though. All the bodies crammed together made us forget about the chill outside. Occasionally, some cold air would sneak in every time a defective window towards the front slipped its notches and fell down. There was one mighty pissed off (but groggy) man who repeatedly pushed it back up.

In all actuality, the defective window was a saving grace. Some of the odors of the locals' clothing, reminiscent of a cow patch, especially in close proximity, were starting to get to me. My eyes nearly bugged out when I realized that a child who was on his mother's back, two inches from my face, needed his britches changed - big time. At that moment, I KNEW I was in for the longest three hour bus ride of my life.

We chugged along the road, stopping in five or six towns, squeezing in just a few more people. Upon arrival in Guate, the number of passengers was starting to thin out. Small waves of people would shuffle off each time we stopped near a market-type place. Soon, the passenger count had dwindled to about twenty; we could finally stretch out a bit.

While Lois and I were idly chatting about a preliminary itinerary for the next week, I heard, "¿Japonés?" After a dozen years traveling Latin America, I have become accustomed to being incorrectly identified as being Japanese. No sweat though. I know all Asians look alike and that only we can distinguish the different (Asian) races. Maybe it's in our blood. Asians, African Americans, and redheads are tourist novelties in Latin America. They make up the minority of the minority population, both in tourist numbers and citizenship.

Smiling, I looked up and saw that it was the little Maya man in Panajachel who directed us to the correct bus. I told him that I was Chinese. Looking sheepish, the man quickly apologized and explained the only reason why he asked if I was Japanese was because he had heard about the massive earthquake that struck Japan and left five thousand people dead in its wake.

We were a bit surprised because we hadn't heard anything about it. Of course, unless you're in Guatemala City or constantly buying a newspaper (if available), world news is not so up-to-the-minute in Guatemala. In some towns, the breaking news may involve two drunk men crashing a barn and sleeping with the livestock. You know, small town 'news.'

We mentioned to this man that we hadn't been near a newspaper for at least a week, but thanked him for the info. By then, only about five people were on the bus and it looked like we were all getting off at the last stop. When we exited the bus, we waved to the man and set out to look for a Rebuli bus, which would take us to Chiquimula.

On the way to Chiquimula, Lois and I discussed the surprisingly high number of fatalities. After all, the majority of earthquakes in Japan in recent years usually had death tolls of less than 200 (although one in 1923 did kill 140,000). We were a bit stunned because Japan builds some of the world's most earthquake-proof structures and highways.

Although we still had another week in Guatemala, we made a mental note to look for news in the upcoming newspapers. We casually picked up a paper here and there, but Chiquimula is not even the center of Maya news, let alone world news.

In fact, we didn't see anything in the news about the Kobe earthquake for the next week. It wasn't until we returned to the United States, when we finally got some news on it...and tons of it. See, we got back to Denver in the late afternoon of January 16th...AROUND THE EXACT TIME THE EARTHQUAKE HIT.

Our little Maya acquaintance on the bus had told us about the Kobe earthquake and provided a fairly accurate death toll figure one week before it happened...

To this day, I have been haunted - it's been nearly nine years - about this encounter. Did this man pass this information on to other people in casual conversation? Am I the only one whom he told? If so, why me? What good does it do to have a prognosticator who speaks the truth but isn't heeded? Or is it something else...something fated.

Perhaps it's better that I believed that the quake had already occurred. Who knows if anyone would have believed me. All I know is that I will probably carry this as a guilty burden for many more years. I'm just hoping that one day, when I experience the epiphany that makes everything fall into place, this unreal (if not downright, frickin' surreal) encounter will be explained to me.

well, another day to sleep on it...some days i wish i had dreamed it. you can't dream of fucked up shit like this though; truth really is stranger than fiction.