Central American culture and people have a unique flair, like the bright yellow church in hurch in San Andres Xecul, Guatemala

While you read this, I should be on a plane back to the States. As this Latin American production wraps up, I’d like to present the Centries, which honor the highlights of my Central American experience (the marketing department’s working on the name).

Best special effects: The Friday mercado in San Francisco, Guatemala. One of the biggest in Central America, it’s a Peter Jackson-scale assault on your senses. There’s every kind of food, animal, clothing item or appliance you would want, along with those you wouldn’t (e.g. dismembered alligator limbs and baby chicks dyed different colors). Bonus for the mysterious disappearance of my wallet.

Best character, drama: Luis, a student in my advanced English class in Costa Rica. He spoke well and brought a great energy. But what I really loved was he always wanted to talk about big concepts. One exchange:

LUIS: “Teacher, what do you think about the future?”

KENT (hopefully): “Umm, you mean the future tense, like will?”

LUIS: “No, our future – the future of people.”

And off the lesson would go.

Best character, comedy or musical: Marea, a friend in Puerto Jimenez, Costa Rica. She’s about 20 years older than me and parties 20 times harder than me. Her fiestas always packed the house, with people dancing on kitchen stools or turning pots into drums. She’d also make a delicious, homemade Bailey’s-like cream drink referred to only as “contraband.”

Best supporting character: Antonio, my 9-year-old homestay hermano in Guatemala. What a great kid. He always wanted to play, be it the Spanish-word game basta or tazas, which are sort of like pogs. He loved overreacting, showing you his homework, and helping me make U.S.-style cookies for my school.

Best villain: The subjunctive mood in Spanish. If you know it, you know why. If you don’t, run.

Most “Central American” moment: So many to pick, but I’ll go with facing the full fury of a Latina’s temper. My female roommate had invited a couple to crash at our house. They stayed in her room, she slept in my room, I slept on my floor. Two coed couples in two rooms did not go over well with our house mom. Before coming down on us, she tore into the guest couple about how they need to wait until they are married. Best line: ¡Eso no es una casa de cita!

Kent Green recently left his position as a teacher with Costa Rican English for Sustainable Tourism, which is looking for volunteers now. To see what he’s up to post-volunteering, check out his blog.

According to my Spanish teacher, Latin America is the best place to learn it: ”La vida aqui es muy duro,” she said. “Entonces necesitamos pensar en un otro vida.”

She was joking, trying to alleviate my frustration and also, I assume, knowing the subjunctive probably existed before Latin America did.

Still, there might be something to this.

Things ain’t easy here. I wrote about this in my last post on Guatemala’s history, and other La Vida Idealist bloggers have as well. Seemingly simple things like utilities frequently fail. Money is short, and there’s often pressure to give as much as you can.

The latter has created a strange conflict within me; I want to give money to people asking for handouts more than ever. But, I’m torn by never being sure about where that’s going. I was hanging out with the director of my school last Saturday, and he gave a few Quetzales to a begging child.  He said sure, he’s not sure she really needs it or will use it for food, but you never truly know so why not err on the side of compassion.

I miss that side of myself, the 8-year-old me that didn’t understand why my parents passed by every person asking for money on a Chicago winter night. I guess I have seen too many scams and have grown up too do-it-yourself American to fully get back to where I was.

How I’ve decided to resolve it is head out to stores and shops more. The reality is that Guatemala is pretty cheap, and so even though it cancels out what I could be saving, I don’t mind heading out for a hot chocolate when I need to check e-mail, rather than heading to my school where Internet is free.

It’s a feeble dream of trickle-down economics. But I hope (and here would be a perfect place for the subjunctive) that somehow, it helps.

Kent Green recently left his post as a teacher with Costa Rican English for Sustainable Tourism, which is looking for volunteers now.

A Guatemalan girl in a traditional Mayan traje peeps in through a door.

One of the best things about Spanish school is that it’s not just about Spanish.

Coming in, I’d envisioned the teacher I currently have, who spends most of our time practicing grammar forms. God knows I need it, but my previous teacher (the school swaps instructors each week, so you can experience different styles) followed a different mold. Our lessons consisted of drawn-out conversations, ostensibly focusing on a language point but not really.

In these talks I learned heaps about the history of Guatemala. And what I learned – man, it’s not pretty.

I had no idea that the country’s civil war consumed possibly 100,000 lives. That there’s a dark history of abuses of indigenous people. That, in large part because of those massive problems, the country’s main economic driver is Guatemalans who’d moved to the States and send money back. Only hearing about these things made me sad.

The good part, then, is seeing how relatively content most Guatemalans seem to be. I asked a driver in Guatemala City if, after the country was battered by tropical storm Agatha, earthquakes, and a giant sinkhole, the attitude in the city was down. He said no, not really; people just went about and did things. My roommate here in Xela had a point on this; she suggested it’s possible Guatemalans have been raised not to expect as much as we do, so they’re more happy with what they have.

It’s not to say Guatemalans don’t want to improve their lot or that they don’t want to root out government corruption. They do. They’ve just been saddled with a lot of baggage to overcome, and they’re not about to have that stop them from enjoying life.

Living here, I’ve continually been stunned by how much has happened in Central American nations, places I’d up til now considered generally insignificant. And, I’ve continually been wowed by the quality of people I’ve met, people I’d up til now never even considered.

Thinking about that boggles my mind. I realize how much more is out there to know about. And how many more teachers I’m gonna need to do it.

Kent most recently left his post as an English teacher in Puerto Jimenez, Costa Rica and is currently traveling. To see what he’s up to, check out his blog or follow him on Twitter.

It’s also not as common as it sounds. Yes, Xela has a fairly sizable population of gringos – and, of course, people from all races and backgrounds. The town’s high concentration of language schools and its proliferation of NGOs draws many people from more-developed nations.

Despite that, us gringos are clearly in the minority. Which is why we’re easily noticeable. Which is why it seems like we deliberately try to not look at each other.

This phenomenon hasn’t been limited to Xela. I’ve noticed it in other, non-hostel Latin America experiences. I was also guilty of it when I lived in Puerto Jimenez. If you’ve lived down here, have you noticed it (or done it)?

I have a couple theories as to why this ocular aversion occurs. Maybe it’s a fear that the other foreigner will start chatting away in English. Or that they’d start the threadbare “So, where are you from?” conversation.

But I really think it comes down to this: We who have decided to live here, be it for a few weeks or several years, really want to be a part of our adopted communities. We’re set apart enough by wearing fancy adventure clothes, cramming trendy coffee shops, and writing blogs, never mind the issues of language and skin. By locking eyes for even a second with a person who is obviously not from that community, we would acknowledge that bond of being different and send a crack through our sense of belonging.

Thinking about it, that’s a little nuts. Like a Peace Corps friend said in Costa Rica, “I could be here for 13 years and still be the extranjera.” Which isn’t necessarily bad; it just means that you’d have to accept always being different. Well, what’s one more thing?

I promise get back on the smiling-at-people (all of ‘em!) wagon, if everyone else promises to do the same. And then maybe I could write a post starting with, “A cute girl smiled at me today.”

Though I guess that’s not as common as it sounds, either.

Kent most recently left his post as an English teacher in Puerto Jimenez, Costa Rica and is currently traveling. To see what he’s up to, check out his blog or follow him on Twitter.

As it was explained to me, salsa is a dance of submission; the woman has to give up and follow the man. This idea could raise some hackles – and knowing the machismo culture here, that’d be understandable. Just for a few minutes, though, forget it and enjoy the beauty.

And, really, “beauty” is too tame. It’s straight-up hot when done to perfection. It makes the ridiculous undulations that go on in the U.S. seem as sexy as a streak of whale snot. After watching two top-notch dancers go at it for a few minutes, I wanted to make out with one of them, gender optional.

What struck me at one dance club in Xela was how free and fluid the men were (ladies, we know you’ve got elegance). Their moves were truly suave, and they’d fearlessly break away and spin like figure skaters or preen for the crowd.

If a guy in the States pulled this, some would snicker and mutter the British slang word for “cigarette” but mean something else. To dance the way Latinos can, though, makes them 10 times the man I am (never mind helping them land 100 times the girls I do).

The dancing ability here is strong in part because it’s done from a young age. It’s woven into the fabric of the lifestyle, something appropriate at the club, at a wedding, or at Wednesday night in a restaurant.

So, hey, United States: Stop watching the Stars dance, and start doing it yourselves.

Kent most recently left his post as an English teacher in Puerto Jimenez, Costa Rica and is currently traveling. To see what he’s up to, check out his blog or follow him on Twitter.

A group of students studies in the common room at a Spanish school in Costa Rica

Well, I’ve done this all backward.

More than six months after coming to Central America, I’m finally taking a long-term shot at Spanish school. I decided on the school I’m at – Sol Latino in in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala – after hearing good feedback from some travelers I met.

Before this, I spent one week at a school in Costa Rica, then left after I didn’t like it. I’ve also investigated several other schools. It’s difficult to classify what makes a good Spanish school. The variety (Xela alone has a gaggle of ‘em) makes it almost impossible to know what to go for. That being said, here’s a few tips from my experience:

Does the school have certified teachers? Instructors who are solely native speakers are great for conversation. However, they may not be prepared to address different learning styles. They also may have trouble helping a person who learns by the rules of grammar (like me). Actual teachers are more qualified for both.

How does the school decide which teacher you will have? My roommate in Xela goes to a different school than I do. She filled out a questionnaire when applying, and the school used the information to put her with a teacher that seemed suited to her personality. It’s worked out great for her. My school doesn’t have this, and I think it’s an excellent model. My first teacher at Sol Latino was good, but low-energy demeanor was not for me. Obviously, such a test wouldn’t guarantee a good match (online-dating sites, anyone?), but I think it’s a good start.

How much does it cost and how do you pay? The first point is a no-brainer: Can you afford the school? What’s more important is how the school makes you pay. One school in Panama I liked, for example, had prices that went down the more time you spent there. However, it asked you to pay up front. If I didn’t like it, I’d have lost a lot of money. I prefer to pay week by week. That offers the freedom to change if needed.

Sometimes, it all comes down to luck: Hate to end on this point, but it’s true. So much of the experience will depend on factors you can’t control. The teacher you get. If you click with the other students who attend the school. The temperament of your homestay family. The first choice you make in a school will be a risk, no matter what. But, whether you stay for months or bounce after the first week, it will be a learning experience.

And that’s what school’s all about.

Kent most recently left his post as an English teacher in Puerto Jimenez, Costa Rica and is currently traveling. To see what he’s up to, check out his blog or follow him on Twitter.

That time for me is now, and that place is Quetzaltenango, Guatemala.

Xela, as it’s commonly (and thankfully) known, is Guate’s second-biggest city, and I’ve fallen for it, hard. It sort of feels like cheating on Costa Rica, where I spent the past six months of my life, but Costa never got its hooks in me. I loved it, I’ll go back to visit, but I could have never lived there, never really considered that thought once I got over the initial Tico thrill.

Merchants sell their wares in one of Xela's vibrant markets. Photo courtesy of Nuevos Horizontes, a local women's rights group. http://bit.ly/dBUrl3

But Xela … it’s got a rich brew of restaurants and cafes, with local and international fare.  There are dozens of social-improvement organizations active in the community, meaning there’s an engaged and interested populace. It’s  a hotbed of language schools (which is why I’m here), and that means there’s a heavy gringo population. Many of these people often  get involved in the community, and most are serious enough about Spanish lessons that they won’t use English unless they can’t help it.

With all that, it maintains an “authentic” feel. I hate that word, but don’t know what else to call it. Women still walk around in traditional dress. The car-and-a-half-wide streets aren’t cobblestoned; they’re just “stoned,” collections of blocks that fiercely jostle the vehicles daring enough to cross them. The Mercado Democracia is as vibrant as any I’ve seen, with countless varieties of alien fruits, bootleg media, and cow livers within arm’s reach.

It’s also got a cool climate, is surrounded by mountains, and my host family calls me “Kenny.” What’s not to love?

When I realized the answer to that question was “nothing,” it was scary. Until now, I always thought I belonged in the States. Now, I’m not so sure. I feel like I could actually do something here, and enjoy it at the same time. That’s been a rare sensation.

So, even if I do leave Xela, I don’t think it’s going to leave me.

Kent most recently left his post as an English teacher in Puerto Jimenez, Costa Rica and is currently traveling. To see what he’s up to, check out his blog or follow him on Twitter.

Going to Nicaragua's Isla de Ometepe is a budget trip - only if you're from a developed country.

I don’t know why I hate the idea of me being rich.

Maybe its because I don’t like people who flaunt money, or because I’m jealous I never will be rich, or because I’m a good-old America-hating socialist.

Whatever it is, that label was put upon me recently. It made me really uncomfortable.

The night director at my school in Puerto Jimenez said it. He wasn’t being malicious or anything. I was telling him about my travel plans at the time, which didn’t seem extravagant. See more of Costa Rica. Hop into Panama. Back north to Costa and, if I’m lucky, Guatemala.

“I wish I was a rich American with all that time to travel,” he said.

I started to protest. I’m by no means rich. I’m solidly middle-class. When I lived in Chicago, I had an a second-hand laptop, took a budget snowboard vacation every winter, and if I was feeling flush, I’d go to Whole Foods once a week. I shut up before I could explain any of this to him; I had the sense that any one of these things, let alone all of them, would signify wildly wealthy.

This was reinforced a week or two later, while I was attending Spanish school in Orosi, Costa Rica. My teacher and I were practicing past tense to talk about vacations. I was telling her about my trip to Nicaragua, how I enjoyed it so much. She said she’d love to go. And I said, “Well, you should! It’s cheap.” It is, too; spending $20 a day there would be extravagant.

She shot me a look that had the force of a slap. What I didn’t understand was that would be an incomprehensible luxury for her. She explained a vacation was not feasible, not when her family struggles to find money to keep its house. She was working a triple shift in the coming weekend for that very reason.

“Oh,” I said.

Just as I can’t fathom the lives of the multimillionaires working at places like Goldman Sachs, many Central Americans equally are unable to fathom how I can so cavalierly bounce from country to country. To millions of people around the world, I am rich. To deny it is to ignore the massive privilege and luck that came with simply being born in the United States.

It was good to be reminded of that, and I hopefully won’t be prompting any more looks like my teacher’s anytime soon.

Kent most recently left his post as an English teacher in Puerto Jimenez, Costa Rica and is currently traveling. To see what he’s up to, check out his blog or follow him on Twitter.

A passerby stares as one of Panama City's colorful diablo rojo buses zips by

A rarely heard utterance: “My favorite thing about the city was the buses.”

A Dutch traveler said it to me about Panama City before I left. I inwardly scoffed; she must just think that because they use bikes so much in the Netherlands.

But then I got there, and she’d nailed it. Sorry, Karlijn.

Calling the buses diablos rojos is only partly accurate. Some of these second-hand U.S. school buses are red, sure, but they are also green and purple and pink. They have murals of castles or churches on the front and back. You’ll see paintings of world luminaries ranging from Jesus to Hugo Chavez, with accent designs featuring unicorns playing guitars.

Go inside, and it can be like a dance club or lounge. Samba or reggaeton will pound out of a custom stereo, while red or purple lights set the mood. Streamers are optional but encouraged.

I don’t know if each driver has his own bus customized, a la goalie masks in the NHL, or if they drive whatever bus they get that day. (Drivers aren’t the chatty sort, and it’s tough to find out if a bus is going close to your hostel, let alone delve into its aesthetics and iconography.)

Panama City can stagger the brain of a Latin American traveler. Restaurants touting Lebanese, French, and Thai food can be seen on one city block. Rush-hour traffic jams are choked with luxury cars, and rush hour itself was a concept I’d forgotten. Skyscrapers soar overheard, and where there’s not a skyscraper, there’s probably a crane building one.

In a city that is so developed and modern, it was a relief to see some of the flair and slapdash magic that has given this corner of the world so much of its charm for me.

Kent most recently left his post as an English teacher in Puerto Jimenez, Costa Rica and is currently traveling. To see what he’s up to, check out his blog or follow him on Twitter. For more on transportation in Latin America, check out “Day in the Life: Morning Commute“; “An Adventurous Routine“; “Where to Get Off the Bus?“; “Good Travel Karma“; “Traffic Circle from Hell!” and “All-Female Transport in Mexico.”

The shelves towered over my head. The aisles extended half a football field into the store. Endless varieties of products created a hall-of-mirrors effect down the shelves. I’d gone to supermercados in Costa Rica, but they were relatively small. This was different; it was American.

God help me when I step into a Costco.

The place was the Super 99 in David, Panama, a common stopover city to more popular destinations. I was heading to Boquete that morning and just wanted to grab food for the road, not be overwhelmed by capitalism.

This was portrayed well near the end of the movie The Hurt Locker. I can relate, although of course, the main character’s adjustment was much more severe. I’m not exactly sure what the sensation I’m relating to is. Shocked by choice? Stunned by the complexity of a mundane task? Surprised by the sheer volume of stuff, knowing that back home, these are replicated multiple times, town after town?

Maybe it’s good to jaunt through more-developed places before I go back to the States. After six months in Puerto Jimenez, jumping straight back to Chicago would have jarred me like a polar bear swim. I wouldn’t have adjusted well.

Of course, what’s to say that I will? A friend who taught English in Taiwan wrote me, asking “Do you think this is turning into a life change?”

It is, but I don’t know to what extent. I won’t know until I get back. But after being paralyzed in a supermarket, I do know that I’m scared of it.

Kent most recently left his post as an English teacher in Puerto Jimenez, Costa Rica and is currently traveling. To see what he’s up to, check out his blog or follow him on Twitter. For more on adjustment post-experience, check out “Homecoming” by Lizzie LaCroix and “Living a Double Life” by Emily Mew.