Woopahs and Hapoows

In keeping with Quetzaltrekker spirit as much as possible, we’ve revived a tradition preformed every Monday night at QT staff meetings. It is a tradition based on a little pink mailbox left on the caja, upheld by the Woopah Coordinator, whose job is to shove the mailbox, slips of blank paper and a pen tied to a doll into every guide’s face at least once weekly. Woopahs are celebratory notes, Hapoows are lamented miseries; also included are Confessions, exactly as they sound, they are admissions of guilt or embarrassment, generally relating to defecation. Woopahs are read weekly, at the end of every QT meeting.

Our trail Woopahs are a little different. They’re kept in a labeled plastic ziplock in the side of a backpack, with blank papers and a pen therewithin. They’re read whenever we get the privilege of a rest and a beer together. They vary in theme and intimacy. Fourth Wave, the self-appointed Woopah coordinator, throws the bag at the other three from time to time in hopes they will contribute.

For the sake of updating you on how we’re getting on with our stuff, we’ve each Woopah’d and Hapoow’d an item in our packs. Enjoy.

For your own entertainment, you get to figure out who is who; I’m using our trailnames without translation here.

The cool kids tossing disc

The cool kids tossing disc

FOURTH WAVE:

Woopah! Wet Wipes, the only thing that can make you feel like a real person at the end of a dirty trail day. Who knew so much grime could accumulate between your toes, behind your ears, and in your nailbeds.

Hapoow! My Colombia hiking shorts, which prove lack of perceived immunity to dreaded burning thigh chafe

FD:

Woopah! Orange Drank Mix. No idea what it is, other than Orange Drank Mix.

Hapoow! My toothbrush, a daily reminder of my inadequate dental hygiene practices.

LADYPANTS:

Woopah! Sleeping under the moon and the stars, how it rejuvenates and recovers our bodies every night.

Hapoow! Trail mix. Sweets + Sun = Stomach Ache

SPECIAL SAUCE:

Woopah! My collared shirt, which makes me look like a bro at a golf party who was run over by a dust devil.

Hapoow! Sorry Mum but those short short underwear cause some serious chaffing over the 20 mile days, one has upgraded to a longer pant leg pant or letting all go free and the problem has disappeared.

WOOPAH! Toilet Paper.

WOOPAH! Toilet Paper.

There you have it folks. More Woopahs perhaps are to come, until then, we know they shall be carried on with charming regularity down in Xela.

Love,

The Hiker Trash

 

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