Friday, October 25, 2013
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Puntos Suspensivos Periodismo Continuo Quinta Edición
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Zipolite: Un placer oaxaqueño en la 5ta edición de Puntos Suspensivos - Periodismo Continuo!!!!
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Volunteer at a new hostel in Puerto Escondido. - workaway.info We are in the process of opening a new hostel in Puerto Escondido, Mexico. We are a couple in our late 20s/early 30s. Ross is from New Hampshire and Mallory ... www.workaway.info/146114646356-en.html
Volunteer at a new hostel in Puerto Escondido. - workaway.info
We are in the process of opening a new hostel in Puerto Escondido, Mexico. We are a couple in our late 20s/early 30s. Ross is from New Hampshire and Mallory ...
| www.workaway.info/
Volunteer at a new hostel in Puerto Escondido.
 Description
We are in the process of opening a new hostel in Puerto Escondido, Mexico. We are a couple in our late 20s/early 30s. Ross is from New Hampshire and Mallory is from San Francisco, California. We have both spent months backpacking all over Central and South America, and finally fell in love with Puerto Escondido. After spending a collective 12 months living in hostels all over the world, we believe that we can truly provide the perfect backpackers experience . The hostel is a 6min walk from the only swimming beach in PE (carrizalillo beach) and the beginner surf beach. We are also 2 min away from the Rinconada which has a bunch of popular restaurants, bars and cafes. You can walk to basically anything that you need and if you want to go to other neighborhoods in PE it's only 20 pesos ($1.50). We are very excited to open in November of 2013 but could use some help from artists and builders to give our hostel all of the character and details we desire!
Area
Oaxaca
Type of help.Art project,Helping with Tourists, Building Help
A new hostel means a blank canvas! We are primarily looking for artists who are interested in painting large murals around the hostel. We can share images of these 'blank canvases' but there is a lot of space to work with (the house is large, with high ceilings, and all white at the moment). There are also some unfinished areas of the hostel. Ross, the owner, is a Civil Engineer and builder but he could use some help finishing off some of the rooms and other projects around the hostel. We could also use some basic front desk help and night shift help as well.
Languages spoken
English & Spanish
Accommodation
All volunteers with stay in gender specific dorms.
What else ...
Puerto Escondido is a VERY cool town. It hosts the X Games in surfing and BMX biking. Surfing is definitely one of the most popular activities! The hostel is a 6 min walk from the sand of Carrizalillo Beach which is a great swimming beach and where people go for beginner surfing. It is a gorgeous little alcove area and you can even see the ocean from the top story of the hostel. The hostel is also 2 min walking distance from the Rinconada which is filled with Puerto Escondido's most popular restaurants, cafes, and bars. Another popular thing to do in Puerto Escondido is to go on a fishing trip where you not only return with fresh caught tuna, but also up close interactions with dolphins! Other activities in Puerto Escondido include: deep sea diving, snorkeling, kayaking, bird watching, visiting organic coffee plantations, whale-spotting trips, language school and a great night life!
Some more information
Internet access
Limited internet access
We have pets
We are smokers
Volunteering hours expected
3-5 (depending on type of volunteer work)
Photos
Click to enlarge
        
Host ref number: 146114646356
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Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Cabanas Biuzaa Carret. Puerto Angel - San Agustinillo Zipolite OAX 70902 Mexico 1-866-599-6674
Cabanas Biuzaa (Zipolite, Mexico) | Expedia
Book the Cabanas Biuzaa from \$41.31 - Situated near the sea, this resort is close to ZipoliteBeach, Amor Beach, and Camaron Bay. Also nearby are Panteon ...
| www.expedia.com/Zipolite- |
Cabanas Biuzaa
Monday, October 21, 2013
PUMPING IN PUERTO ESCONDIDO
PUMPING IN PUERTO ESCONDIDO
| Pumping In Puerto Escondido - X Games
Summer isn't over until you say it is. For Greg Long and a fortunate crew in Puerto Escondido, Mexico, the warm water and south swells just keep coming.
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http://xgames.espn.go.com/surfing/gallery/9858167/pumping-puerto-escondido
Zipolite Beach Billies, Come celebrate original ZBB member, Don Karp's 70th with us!!! — with Brian Legg.
Get Deported From Spain And Go To Mexico Instead Tuesday October 15, 2013
Expat Focus Columnists
(meet all our columnists here)
Ted Campbell
(read previous articles here)Get Deported From Spain And Go To Mexico Instead
Tuesday October 15, 2013 (12:47:54) (335 Reads)
Ted Campbell
After years of working at UPS and, more recently, studying evenings at the local community college, Sam finally took a vacation. He got two weeks off. He bought round-trip tickets to Spain, with an arrival in Madrid and departure in Barcelona. He planned to backpack around, maybe even visit Paris or Morocco.
He was detained at the Madrid airport, kept in a holding cell overnight and then shipped back to the U.S.
Now, four days later, he sat with me in the wide, airy second-floor hotel lobby in Tulum town, Mexico. Loud party music blasted from clubs and restaurants on the street below. We ate mangoes and shared caguamas of Victoria, big 40-ounce Mexican beers. It had been a long day in the hot sun of the Mayan Riviera, Mexico’s Caribbean coast.
Two hours south of Cancun, Tulum is famous for seaside Mayan ruins and a bigger, less developed beach, both also called Tulum. Cheap hotels, fish restaurants and travel agencies line Tulum Avenue, the main drag in town.
Earlier that day at the ruins, big iguanas lounged on green grass while we peered at strange inscriptions on the blocky fortress. Thousands of years ago Tulum was a seaside stronghold built of white limestone on rocky cliffs and beaches of powdery white sand over turquoise water.
Sam had taken a passenger van from Cancun that morning. A day before he’d flown in from Atlanta. Sam was chicano – a Mexican American, born in Mexico but raised in LA. His accent was more California than Mexico. He was dark but not tan, short and stocky with a shaved head and big black sunglasses, wearing flip-flops and a black sweat-soaked t-shirt. He was 34 years old. He had a good story.
Spanish immigration at the Madrid airport
Four days earlier he got off the plane at 8:30 a.m. in Madrid. Like everyone else, he waited in line for immigration, U.S. passport in hand. Then it was his turn.
“How long will you be staying in Madrid?” the officer asked.
“Just a day or two.”
The officer looked up from the computer, expressionless. “Why?”
“I’m going to travel around for two weeks.”
More questions – travel plans, job, family, financial resources, and finally, “What’s the name of your hotel?”
“I don’t have one yet.”
Fast typing on the computer. Fast scribbling on the immigration form. A stern look at Sam. Another look at the passport.
The officer handed him his passport and immigration form. “Please follow this officer upstairs.”
The holding cell, aka immigration jail
They kept Sam in a holding cell overnight and then flew him back to the U.S.
“What was immigration jail like?” I asked.
“First they had me in an interrogation room for hours. It was like the movies – big mirror on the wall, metal desk, good-cop bad-cop. One of them yelled at me, and the other said, ‘Everything’s gonna be alright.’ I thought I was doing well, but then they took me to the holding cell.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t have hotel reservations. I showed them my return ticket from Barcelona, told them I was going to backpack around. I said I was going to find a hotel on foot.”
“Right. Everyone does that.”
“It was weird. They kept calling me Mexican. I told them, look at my U.S. passport! You have it right there!”
The holding cell was down a labyrinth of white-tile hallways. The immigration officers took his belt away and put him in the room, a sad, sterile grey room with leaded-glass windows. Young and old, male and female sat on the bottom bunks of stiff bunk beds and at metal tables in metal chairs, playing dominoes, checkers and chess. A 20-something Brazilian with a long beard drew crayon portraits of everyone.
“Why did they take off your belt?” I asked.
He laughed. “So I couldn’t hang myself!”
Most detainees were Latin Americans, with a family of five from Michoacan (Mexico), five Brazilians, a few Venezuelans and one Guatemalan. The rest were Turks who didn’t speak English or Spanish but knew the Spanish word for Turkey.
“Were they guilty?” I asked.
“Of what? None of them had enough money or a letter of invitation. Those were the reasons for not letting them into the country.”
“Except you.”
“Yeah, no hotel.”
Whenever the Brazilian finished a crayon portrait, he asked the subject whether they wanted to take it. Everyone said no except the children from the Michoacan family.
“Did you take yours?” I asked.
“No, he never got to me.”
They ate at 3:30 p.m. By 4 they were all let out, escorted to airplanes for the trip back home, all except Sam and one Turk. The Turk didn’t talk and didn’t play games. The lights went out at 11:30, but the TV stayed on at full volume all night.
A homecoming of sorts
They released Sam at 10:30 the next morning. They didn’t fly him back to L.A., but to Atlanta, the world’s busiest airport and mostly likely the cheapest flight from Madrid. He simmered down on the long flight and thought about what to do next.
“You must have been mad,” I said.
“Yeah, but what could I do? I didn’t want to ruin my vacation.”
At the ticket counter in the Atlanta airport, he figured out that a flight to Cancun was cheaper than to L.A. “So here I am. My girlfriend will come in a few days. We’re going to Chichen Itza.”
Chichen Itza is the most famous pyramid complex in Mexico and one of the new Seven Wonders of the World. It’s about 3 hours from Cancun.
“Cool. I haven’t been there yet myself,” I said.
Now in Tulum, we ate mangos and drank beer on the balcony of our cheap hotel. He hadn’t been to Mexico for years, and never down here in the Mayan Riviera.
Sam looked forward to seeing his girlfriend. She didn’t have enough time go to Spain with him, but she could take a long weekend off from work to see him in Cancun. She was the first person he had called from Atlanta.
“You know, Spain would have been awesome, but here I am! Those ruins were amazing.”
The sun began to set over Tulum town. A breeze picked up and music from the bars got louder. We went out for fish and beer.
“I guess Americans get deported too,” he said. “But I wasn’t running away. I was running ahead.”
Ted Campbell writes about travel, music, culture, food, and mountain biking. He lives in Mexico and writes a blog called No Hay Bronca.
Read Ted's other Expat Focus articles here
He was detained at the Madrid airport, kept in a holding cell overnight and then shipped back to the U.S.
Now, four days later, he sat with me in the wide, airy second-floor hotel lobby in Tulum town, Mexico. Loud party music blasted from clubs and restaurants on the street below. We ate mangoes and shared caguamas of Victoria, big 40-ounce Mexican beers. It had been a long day in the hot sun of the Mayan Riviera, Mexico’s Caribbean coast.
Two hours south of Cancun, Tulum is famous for seaside Mayan ruins and a bigger, less developed beach, both also called Tulum. Cheap hotels, fish restaurants and travel agencies line Tulum Avenue, the main drag in town.
Earlier that day at the ruins, big iguanas lounged on green grass while we peered at strange inscriptions on the blocky fortress. Thousands of years ago Tulum was a seaside stronghold built of white limestone on rocky cliffs and beaches of powdery white sand over turquoise water.
Sam had taken a passenger van from Cancun that morning. A day before he’d flown in from Atlanta. Sam was chicano – a Mexican American, born in Mexico but raised in LA. His accent was more California than Mexico. He was dark but not tan, short and stocky with a shaved head and big black sunglasses, wearing flip-flops and a black sweat-soaked t-shirt. He was 34 years old. He had a good story.
Spanish immigration at the Madrid airport
Four days earlier he got off the plane at 8:30 a.m. in Madrid. Like everyone else, he waited in line for immigration, U.S. passport in hand. Then it was his turn.
“How long will you be staying in Madrid?” the officer asked.
“Just a day or two.”
The officer looked up from the computer, expressionless. “Why?”
“I’m going to travel around for two weeks.”
More questions – travel plans, job, family, financial resources, and finally, “What’s the name of your hotel?”
“I don’t have one yet.”
Fast typing on the computer. Fast scribbling on the immigration form. A stern look at Sam. Another look at the passport.
The officer handed him his passport and immigration form. “Please follow this officer upstairs.”
The holding cell, aka immigration jail
They kept Sam in a holding cell overnight and then flew him back to the U.S.
“What was immigration jail like?” I asked.
“First they had me in an interrogation room for hours. It was like the movies – big mirror on the wall, metal desk, good-cop bad-cop. One of them yelled at me, and the other said, ‘Everything’s gonna be alright.’ I thought I was doing well, but then they took me to the holding cell.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t have hotel reservations. I showed them my return ticket from Barcelona, told them I was going to backpack around. I said I was going to find a hotel on foot.”
“Right. Everyone does that.”
“It was weird. They kept calling me Mexican. I told them, look at my U.S. passport! You have it right there!”
The holding cell was down a labyrinth of white-tile hallways. The immigration officers took his belt away and put him in the room, a sad, sterile grey room with leaded-glass windows. Young and old, male and female sat on the bottom bunks of stiff bunk beds and at metal tables in metal chairs, playing dominoes, checkers and chess. A 20-something Brazilian with a long beard drew crayon portraits of everyone.
“Why did they take off your belt?” I asked.
He laughed. “So I couldn’t hang myself!”
Most detainees were Latin Americans, with a family of five from Michoacan (Mexico), five Brazilians, a few Venezuelans and one Guatemalan. The rest were Turks who didn’t speak English or Spanish but knew the Spanish word for Turkey.
“Were they guilty?” I asked.
“Of what? None of them had enough money or a letter of invitation. Those were the reasons for not letting them into the country.”
“Except you.”
“Yeah, no hotel.”
Whenever the Brazilian finished a crayon portrait, he asked the subject whether they wanted to take it. Everyone said no except the children from the Michoacan family.
“Did you take yours?” I asked.
“No, he never got to me.”
They ate at 3:30 p.m. By 4 they were all let out, escorted to airplanes for the trip back home, all except Sam and one Turk. The Turk didn’t talk and didn’t play games. The lights went out at 11:30, but the TV stayed on at full volume all night.
A homecoming of sorts
They released Sam at 10:30 the next morning. They didn’t fly him back to L.A., but to Atlanta, the world’s busiest airport and mostly likely the cheapest flight from Madrid. He simmered down on the long flight and thought about what to do next.
“You must have been mad,” I said.
“Yeah, but what could I do? I didn’t want to ruin my vacation.”
At the ticket counter in the Atlanta airport, he figured out that a flight to Cancun was cheaper than to L.A. “So here I am. My girlfriend will come in a few days. We’re going to Chichen Itza.”
Chichen Itza is the most famous pyramid complex in Mexico and one of the new Seven Wonders of the World. It’s about 3 hours from Cancun.
“Cool. I haven’t been there yet myself,” I said.
Now in Tulum, we ate mangos and drank beer on the balcony of our cheap hotel. He hadn’t been to Mexico for years, and never down here in the Mayan Riviera.
Sam looked forward to seeing his girlfriend. She didn’t have enough time go to Spain with him, but she could take a long weekend off from work to see him in Cancun. She was the first person he had called from Atlanta.
“You know, Spain would have been awesome, but here I am! Those ruins were amazing.”
The sun began to set over Tulum town. A breeze picked up and music from the bars got louder. We went out for fish and beer.
“I guess Americans get deported too,” he said. “But I wasn’t running away. I was running ahead.”
Ted Campbell writes about travel, music, culture, food, and mountain biking. He lives in Mexico and writes a blog called No Hay Bronca.
Read Ted's other Expat Focus articles here
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Learning Spanish Through Music
My Spanish Notes |
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Posted: 19 Oct 2013 11:37 PM PDT
Today I have something special for you all. My friend Ted who writes the blog No Hay Bronca, has written a great post for us. No Hay Bronca is where Ted writes about his experiences living and traveling in Mexico and Central America, Mexican music, culture and a whole lot more. I clearly remember being instantly hooked on his blog after reading just one entry, so be sure to check out his blog, No Hay Bronca.
And if you plan on traveling to Cancun be sure to check out his post Having a great time (and cheap) in Cancun without doing the all-inclusive thing. It's got some great travel tips. I plan on traveling to Cancun myself this year and I've already gotten some great ideas and advice from him.
Anyway, I've rambled on enough. Ted's going to take it from here. Enjoy!
Learning Spanish Through Music
by Ted Campbell
I joke that when I first moved to Mexico three years ago, I only knew three words of Spanish: cerveza, bonita, andgracias. All those boring years of high school and university Spanish were totally wasted.
But the truth is I’d already done some traveling in Latin America before and was quite confident when ordering food, getting a hotel or having some light chitchat on the bus. But Mexico – especially Mexico City – is another story.
At times Mexican Spanish seems like another language. It’s full of slang, and much like American slang, the meaning can change depending on the situation.
Imagine yourself at a party where everyone speaks gibberish. The music is just loud enough that you have to lean in close to hear what people say. And when the words come through, you can hear but you still don’t really understand.
You experience a strange mixture of boredom, frustration and odd contentment. And what makes it worse is that the people keep coming because you speak just enough gibberish to encourage them to talk more.
And it goes on until 5 a.m. And when you wake up it starts all over again.
I had this experience countless times during years of parties and weekend trips with friends before I became reasonably fluent in Spanish. Once on a 5-day trip in Puerto Vallarta, after days of barely understanding nonstop conversations in Spanish, I sat next to my buddy on the beach and pulled out my notebook, asking him to explain some of the words I kept hearing.
I jotted down about 20 words and their many meanings. From then on those words jumped out at me as the trip went on.
I like this blog and asked to write a guest post on it because it teaches Spanish the way I learned it – straight from the street. I suffered through a lot of parties but picked up something from every one of them. I hit the books and worked my way through Spanish grammar.
And I learned a lot from listening to music in Spanish, as well as discovering really good bands that few English-speaking folks north of the border have heard of.
If you want to learn Mexican Spanish the natural way, but don’t have a Mexican friend to sit down with and explain it to you, then listen to music. Listen to Panteon Rococo, Molotov, Celso Piña, Los Tigres del Norte, or one of the many other great groups from Mexico.
Café Tacuba plays in many styles, but can best be described as alternative rock. Chilanga Banda is their take on rap/hip hop. It’s chock-full of Mexican slang, many starting with ch-.
I can’t claim to understand everything he’s saying, so I won’t explain the whole song. Instead I listed some common Mexican slang that appears in it. Please add to my list in the comments!
Chilango: Someone from Mexico City, known as D.F. in Spanish. Chilanga Banda means Mexico City Band.
Chamba: A job, and not a fun one. The verb is chambear
Chava: gal, kid, or a child. Chava is for a girl and chavo is for a boy.
Chafa: something cheap or low quality
Chela: beer
Ñero: A low class person, aka naco
From the chorus:
Pacheco: stoned; high on marijuana
Cholo: Mexican hip-hop kids, who wear baggy pants and flat-brimmed hats
Churro: Mexican donuts, a long tube of fried dough covered in sugar. Or it’s the word for a blunt, an above-average sized joint.
It’s easy to find the complete lyrics on Google, for this or any song. Search for Chilanga Banda letras – letras is the word for lyrics in Spanish.
Do this for any song you like. Better yet, sometimes kind souls make videos on YouTube that have the lyrics:
Ted Campbell
I write a blog about living in Mexico called No Hay Bronca. Most posts are travel stories, but one of my most popular is called TopTen Mexican Slang. Thanks to Rodney for letting me contribute this guest post.
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