Escape from Guatemala

When I had one day woken up in Antigua, Guatemala and realized that Kevin and Willie’s flight from New York had left that morning bound for Costa Rica, I realized that it was time to get the hustle on and get my ass down there to meet them.  So, after wrapping up my remaining affairs in the small colonial Guatemalan town filled with drunken 20-something tourists, I headed to Guatemala City to board a TICA bus in sheer excitement at finally seeing my dear friends after several long months on the road.  As my bicycle bumped along the cobble-stoned streets, my equipment incessantly popping right off my rig, the sun shone innocently and it looked like wonderful weather for the brief, albeit initially steep uphill, ride to the city.  I had gotten a late start, and as I trudged ever higher through the dense forests that rimmed the edge of the valley surrounding Antigua, I wondered if I would indeed hold true to the rendez-vous time that I had Alvaro that I would be arriving, or if indeed I would, as usual, be arriving fashionably late.  Well, at that time, I couldn’t have had any idea of what the near future held for me.

    I spun my pedals cheerily as I idled along up the curvy mountainside road in low gear, eagerly anticipating the beauty and mystique of a new and exotic country as well as the companionship of my people.  But as I finally began to see the crest of the hilltop in the near distance, after only an hour or so of riding, I also noticed the rising winds and darkening sky on the horizon.  As the road from Antigua joined with the main highway through the highlands, bustling traffic began to pick up on the road and I raced forward with the speeding vehicles now that the path ahead had transformed into a smooth rise and fall, following along the top of the mountain ridge.  As I rode, I wondered how much longer the weather would hold out, but then up ahead I saw the tree cover fall away and the pale, hazy sky open up above an endless vista into a huge valley far, far off in the distance below.  The highway suddenly took a dip and began a smooth, steady descent towards the lowlands.  I flew down the slope at a maniacal speed, the adrenaline racing through my veins as I kept suit with ever growing evening rush hour traffic pouring down the mountainside towards the city.  For once in Latin America fate seemed to have known that I was coming and paved a wide, tasteful shoulder, and as I arced speedily yet gracefully through the gentle curves ever lower, a roaring explosion of thunder crashed behind me.  I glanced nervously over my left shoulder and saw the entire upper mountainside obscured in brooding black clouds, rolling impatiently after me.  

    The race was on.  I knew that although in some parts of the world these types of storms pass quickly and violently, here in Central America this could be the harkening of a murderous, thrashing squall that might rage for hours on end, long into the dark of night.  A blinding, strobe-like flash illuminated the dramatic panorama that wrapped around me – the sallow grey sky of inevitability stretching out over the valley to my right and the threateningly inky mountainside drawing ever nearer on my right.  And then, with another shuddering crack, as though two trucks had slammed into each other at high speed behind me, the rains began.  Massive, juicy droplets pelted down against my skin, splattering like tiny water-balloons as they exploded on the roadside all around.  The world was quickly transformed and now that the cloud cover had enveloped me, a veil of darkness draped over the road ahead.  Cars sloshed by, wipers furiously whipping back and forth.  I knew that I had to get off this road, the rain had become sharp and painful, I could barely see through the torrent as it fired ceaselessly at my eyes, and the traffic alongside me continued to bounce along treacherously in the rising waters.  As I neared a trough at the bottom of the hill, I spotted a slightly overhanging corrugated steel roof alongside a glass walled building and veered off of the highway in its direction.  A moment later I hopped off the bike, pushed it up against the wall and pressed myself backwards, nearer to the building, to avoid the wind-blown rain which was still spattering against the foundation in endless diagonal sheets.  I huddled there for a few minuted before noticing that a woman inside the windows was waving her arms at me, signaling for me to come inside and seek shelter from the storm.

    Once I had managed to shove my loaded bicycle up the chunky front step and through the door, it was immediately apparent that the luxury of conversation was not an option.  The deafening sound of raindrops pummeling against the corrugated steel roof  high above reverberated throughout the wide open office of what appeared to be an auto wreckage shop.  I joined the employees, two men and the woman who had invited me inside, as we stood trapped inside the apocalyptic din, staring blankly in awe at the tumultuous downpour and thrashing  trees through the wide glass walls.  Yet this lasted for only a few more minutes before the course of the storm radically shifted.  Suddenly a sound like thousands of rocks being fired against steel sounded above us and outside the window the world went white.  Marbles of hail poured down from the heavens, crashing against the scene on the highway before us, almost instantly shutting the world down and jolting the endless line of traffic to a halt.  The roaring pounding was almost unbearable as it shattered on the roof in a chaotic frenzy.  Endless minutes passed and the pellets of ice began to pile up on the ground before us.  But then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the hail disappeared and was instantly replaced by cascading raindrops once again.  By this point I had sat down and gotten myself comfortable, it didn’t look like this would be over any time soon. The next hour dragged by and although I had hoped to call Alvaro, I knew that it was completely impossible in all this noise.  And then the rain decided to come inside.

    At first it was just a long, thin finger of moisture snaking along the concrete floor, but moments later it had widened and began to migrate outward.  I lifted my feet onto the chair beside me as the water level began to rise.  One of the employees had found a broom and was desperately trying to sweep the flood away, but to no avail I wondered just how much longer this would go on as I stared at the shining pool rising below me. But finally the storm outside began to wane and slowly drew from its previous fury to a smug drizzle.  The highway timidly grew to life again, dragging along painfully slowly and igniting a distant memory of the misery of being stuck in city traffic.  Yet I knew nothing of traffic now, and as I was impatient to forge into the Central American metropolis, I gestured a thank you to my hosts and returned to the dripping world outside.

    Now, with my raincoat tightly zipped and a renewed vigor, I steered back onto the roadside.  Zipping by the idling vehicles, I made my way along the highway, soon spotting the first signs for city exits.  I knew that I was not far now, and with a vague notion of the city layout before me, I weaved rapidly through the crawling traffic – now I was back on my turf.  The nostalgia of racing through the city streets of New York, Boston, Atlanta – it all raced back to me and I couldn’t help but smile wryly as I knew all of the motorist glared at me from behind the next car’s taillights.  Mentally I was counting down the streets from the huge plaques above the road and as I neared Alvaro’s side of the city I finally spotted it, the Obelisko (I think you can figure out the translation on that one).  The roadways here were a chaotic knot of underpasses and median islands, but I knew that somehow I had to join the traffic on the other side of the obelisk which curved off to my left.  I followed down the busy four lane roadway until I finally reached a left hand u-turn gap in the median and whipped around, backtracking towards my destination.  Once past the obelisk yet again, I followed around and then took my turn, conveniently pulling up on the street outside of what appeared to be a mall – exactly where Alvaro had instructed me to meet him.  I headed for the awning alongside the building’s exterior, propped my bike up against a bench and tried dialing Alvaro’s number.  When I finally got through I relayed my location (in front of the Hooters – yes, sadly they have Hooters here too) and he told me that he should be there in about forty minutes.  

    So there I was, after several months of the wilderness and small villages of Guatemala and Southern Mexico, wearing the same three outfits day in and day out, and now standing outside of a mall with forty minutes to kill.  So what do you think I wanted to do?  Well, sadly that little bubble of hope was quickly popped when I remember that I had a bicycle loaded with everything I owned sitting on the sidewalk outside – and in Guatemala City nonetheless.  But the Guess store did have a big window that faced right out to the sidewalk…  Alright, so I decided to indulge myself, although I do think that the salespeople probably found it a bit odd that I milled about in the same corner of the store the entire time, suspiciously glancing out the window every few moments.  But even within these confines, after busting my ass though the endless mountains of Guatemala, I knew I deserved some kind of reward.   And so, moments later I was exiting the store, the proud owner of a precioso new tank top, and continuing to wait for Alvaro.

    But hours passed and still no sign of my Guatemalan friend.  By this point I was growing more and more fearful of the ominously lingering dark clouds and knew that it wouldn’t be long before the storm regained strength and stranded me here with my unwieldy two wheeled beast for the night.  I tried calling Alvaro, but after hopelessly ringing on and on for several minutes I remembered that I had his work number, and judging by the time he was certain to be out of there by now. Since Alvaro had given me his address, I decided that the best plan now would be to head for the house and just hope to rendez-vous there.  So, mounting the bicycle yet again, I began wallowing through the still bumper to bumper traffic to cross town.  Fortunately I had mapped my route well and was able to consistently squeeze through the tight lanes of traffic, and with only fifteen minutes I was already on the street where the house should be.  I pulled up onto the sidewalk and out of the way of passing car to have a look at the house numbers, but it appeared that there were none.  Hmm, this could be a predicament.  I  stood there and stared about, but only for a brief moment, as suddenly someone was calling out to me.  It was Alvaro’s mother, my savior!  I had finally arrived – thank goodness for the latin american family!

    A warm and inviting lady, Alvaro’s Mom welcomed me then led me inside and directed me up to the room where I would be staying.  She told me that Alvaro’s cell phone was not working at the moment and that apparently he had gotten stuck in the rain and didn’t have a car – and its virtually impossible to get a cab in Central America when its raining like this.  She also told me that another friend of Alvaro’s was staying at the house and that we could hang out until her son returned.  So I headed upstairs to get settled in and met Brendon, a traveler from Australia who had just come from a journey around the world, passing through the United States, most of Europe, and Asia.  Knackered from my day’s wild and unprecedented course of event, I was more than happy to plop down on the other bed and pass the time away in friendly conversation with my new friend.  

    After an hour of chatting, Alvaro’s mother called us downstairs, informing us that she had prepared some cheese quesadillas to tide us over until the missing link returned from the rainstorm.  When we arrived downstairs my heart went out to the poor woman.  As I had expected, the rains had struck up again with a vengeance, and so forceful was the downpour that the kitchen was flooding.  The matron of the house stood by the kitchen door sweeping vigorously in an attempt to keep the water from spilling out into the living room and motioned towards the steaming plate which was sitting on the countertop, insisting that we go ahead and eat.  We headed for the dining room with our quesadillas but along the way got distracted by the sound of horns outside and after setting the plate down decided to go investigate.  Opening the front door and heading out the the huge gate at the front of the house, we peeked outside and saw that hundreds of headlights trailed off towards the city, reflecting in the wavering water which was brimming up to their doors.  Yes, apparently I had arrived at the right time, because the three foot deep water certainly wouldn’t have been any fun to ride through.  After thoroughly observing the scene before us, we decided that we’d had enough rain and headed back inside for some queso.  

    As we sat at the dinner table eating, we heard the front door open, and around the corner came Alvaro.  He was completely soaked, literally dripping from his work clothes and excused himself while he went upstairs to dry off and change.  When he returned, dinner was ready and we all sat down together, Alvaro furnishing a bottle of Belizean rum which he had brought back from his recent trip to the Caribbean coast.  Although I was thoroughly enjoying the conversation, shortly after dinner I felt that I could barely keep my eyes open anymore after all of the day’s excitement and said goodnight to the guys before heading upstairs and falling onto the waiting mattress.  The following day I was up early, thanking my host for his hospitality and saying my farewells, then heading off towards the TICA bus terminal way on the other side of the city.  I knew that it wouldn’t be long before I saw my dear friend’s Kevin and Willie in Costa Rica, and I could hardly wait.  The only thing that separated us now were the mountains of Central America and two short days.

Plummeting into Lago de Atitlan

For the first time in my life I understood where the expression “a white knuckle ride” had come from, as I dismally noted the pallid complexion of my clenched fists at the periphery of my tunnel of vision.  My eyes squinted tight against the fat, pummeling raindrops that burned them as I strained to focus on the tightly wound band of road that clung to the cliffside.  But as I felt the tendons in my wrist throb and my fingers searing from tension, all I heard was a liquid squealing as the rubber of my brake-pads cried out in hopeless desperation.  I was still hurtling at almost full speed towards the low metal guardrails, with just murky gray fog beyond the precipice, and I had almost no control over my rapid descent into the unknown below.  And as I flew forward I wondered just how exactly I had gotten myself into this fiasco in the first place.

That morning when I left Xéla (Quetzaltenango) I must admit that although I was excited to finally be heading towards the fabled Lago de Atitlan, of which I had heard marvelous stories ever since my first weeks in Mexico, but my spirits had also been dampened by the relentless torrents of the Guatemalan monsoon season.  There was no doubt that the mysterious and ethereal air which hung to the fog enshrouded mountains enticed me and led me forward, yet I also felt a dismal sense of uncertainty about what lay beyond each curve in the narrow highland road and, deeper within me, a sense of absolute isolation from the anything that I had ever known before.  For some time I pedaled farther and farther higher, up and above Xéla and into the clouds, but there were too many factors fighting against me.  The path seemed to be plagued by intermittent, and often overlapping, waves of impenetrable fog, completely destroyed roadway under construction, blind hairpin turns, and merciless downpours.  Between these obstacles and my painstakingly slow uphill pace, I realized that there was no chance that I would ever make it to Panajachel that day, as I had told my soon to be host Bob that I would.  This was a good time for a little roadside assistance, so I soon found myself at a strategic point to flag down a chicken bus and was soon loading up and on my way to Panajachel in style.

Well, I suppose style is a subjective term, seeing as how I was now crowded into an old fashioned American school bus packed with indigenous Guatemalan campesinos and their livestock, reggaeton blaring on the bus’ stereo system, with my bicycle and all of my worldly possessions precariously balanced on the roof rack as we wailed around endless loops and valleys.  Nevertheless, based on the relative fact that only moments earlier I had been cold, rain-soaked, fragile, and hopeless, this experience was magically transformed into a luxury limo through the third world.  It wasn’t long before we were arriving at los Encuentros – I had missed my stop five minutes earlier, but this was perfectly satisfactory as well.  I knew that it was only a brief slog from here to the lake and I figured that if it was a lake, hopefully it would be downhill.  So a popped off the bus, reassembled my conestoga wagon, and was soon gracefully sliding down the slick, shiny roads in the light drizzle towards Panajachel.

As I turned off of the main thoroughfare and onto the side road to the lake, green hillocks and tourist signs along the side of the road began to greet me.  Well, in at least one way this was a good sign, I wasn’t far.  The rain picked up slightly and I decided to pull over and don my slicker, but I figured that being this near to my destination, I had may as well keep on and hopefully beat any heavier afternoon downpours before they reached maximum intensity and left me stranded only a few miles away from a warm shower (I hoped) and a dry change of clothes.  So onward it was, and not long thereafter the road began to angle downwards more sharply and I whizzed into a sheet of fog.  From one moment to the next buckets of water were suddenly thrown down from the heavens and I found myself in a rather inconvenient circumstance – hurtingly at breakneck pace into the unknown.  The pale, misty silhouettes of low concrete buildings faded into view and the road channeled in between the foot high curbs, flowing and churning with the inundation of rainfall.  My tires gurgled as they sliced through the deep water, throwing waves out on either side of their path.

As I rounded street-corners and wound through the town, I hoped that this was the town of Panajachel and that I had almost descended as far as I could go, but somehow my intuition told me otherwise.  Passing by what quickly became apparent was the last cluster of edifices in this village, I saw it, just the downward sloping bare metal guardrail skirting a white curtain of fog which no doubt stretched mysteriously towards infinity.  I was still very, very high up, and I had a funny feeling that I was about to make my way to the bottom in a hurry.  The roller-coaster had begun and I was just along for the ride at this point.  My palms ached, my bicycle swayed flimsily as I rounded the cliff-sides, and I feared that at any moment I would either be sent careening over one of the futile guardrails or my tires would slide out from under me, throwing me mercilessly scraping and rolling down the paved chasm before me.  But hey, there wasn’t much that I could do about it at this point, so I just laughed psychotically to myself, tried desperately to dodge the weaving cars the materialized from the mists, and hoped that if I did go over, it would all be over quickly.

Fortunately though, it looked like my charisma and charm had won Lady Luck over after all, because after a breathless, ten-minute sky-diving style plummet I breached the clouds, the rain petered off, and a vast, shimmering blue lake revealed its grandeur near below.  I couldn’t see much else, as beyond the nearby shore all was still bathed in fog, but I saw that I was close, and I saw the little village of Panajachel clustered along the lakes banks, calling me softly towards relief.  Thank God!

Ok, so as the road leveled out near the outskirts of the town, I pulled along the side of the road and whipped out my cell phone to give Bob a quick call and let him know I had arrived.  After a too many rings (just for suspense) he picked up and in his most surprised voice exclaimed that he didn’t realize I was still coming!  Apparently since he had not heard from me that morning (although we’d spoken the night before), he assumed that I’d decided to stop somewhere en route to the lake  and wouldn’t be arriving that day… so he had invited another young lady to take the spare bedroom.  That wench!  How dare she encroach on my space!  There was no way that I would let this atrocity go unpunished.  Yet to my relief, Bob followed my stating that it was no problem, we would figure out some way to fit us all in, and that I should come on over.  So after a quick explanation of the route, I was off again, trundling along up little slopes and past store fronts, making my way to his cliffside cottage.

Another ten minutes later I was pulling up to the turnoff for the house, perched atop a hill and overlooking the serene azure splendor below.  I hopped off the saddle and rolled my bike down the steep, cobblestone (ick) pathway through the trees to the house somewhere underneath.  It was a quaint little cottage, tucked into the verdant growth of the shore, about fifty feet above the waterline.  There was a small gate with a door and after announcing myself, I heard a chipper voice welcoming me and the door opened wide.  And there was Bob.  Quite a character indeed, a long straggly beard, round Harry Potter spectacles, and grinning face awaited me and we shook hands, him ushering me in.  The entire side of the flat was a magnificent covered balcony overlooking Atitlan, and now that the gray mists had begun to dissipate, the grandeur of the volcanoes which flanked the opposite shore rose majestically above the shimmering waters.

I laid my bicycle up against the railing of the balcony and Bob told me that I could bring it into the spare bedroom, and mentioned that if I didn’t mind, Seri and I could share the room.  And as I entered, there she was, the girl that had stolen my four star hotel bedroom.  We were introduced and exchanged pleasantries, she sedately and I haggardly, after the trials of the day.  She was from Switzerland and Bob had met her in town earlier that day, looking for a place to stay.  After dropping my things beside the bed, Bob and I retired back out to the balcony chatting while Seri remained inside searching for something from her pack.  I didn’t last long though, before I broke down and asked Bob if I could hit the showers and put on some fresh underwear, as my bits and pieces were undoubtedly in a very small, cold state of affairs.

Once I emerged from the luxurious, magnificent, marvelous, delicious, hot hot hot, high pressure shower (I hadn’t seen anything like this in MONTHS) on the far end of the balcony, I gushed to Bob about what a great job he’d done with the plumbing and then tactfully led into my subliminal hinting regarding how terribly late it was and that I was so sorry that I was holding everyone up for lunch (although no one else seemed to be very hungry but me).  Well we’d soon settled that issue and I headed into the bedroom to put on my dry algodon clothes.  Funnily enough, it didn’t take Seri and I very long to warm up to one another, as I was still in a state of post near-life-and-death-experience delirium and chatting randomly about anything and everything, while skimming down to my bare backside while I suited up for lunch.  Fortunately, Bob had a little old fashioned ride to get us down into town and I didn’t have to wait long to get down to business and get eatin’.

Over the next two days Seri and I became the best of friends and went everywhere together.  Seri was a surfer from Switzerland (yeah, I didn’t know they existed either) who had started her journey eight months earlier from the bottom of South America – hugging the Pacific coastline in search of buenas ondas (no, but literally, good waves).  She was the perfect complement to me, her lugging around a surfboard and I with my bicycle.  That first day we window shopped (ok, a little more along the lines of getting naked inside of thatched kiosks on the side of the street to try on clothes in front of little old indigenous ladies), wandered the town, and chatted it up into the evening.  And that night, like all the rest of our nights together, Seri and I fell asleep in bed together after joking and laughing for hours.

Yet it was the following day was when Seri and I truly bonded, somewhat of another near-death experience that we shared (wow, two in the space of one day! yeah, welcome to my life).  I’m not sure which one of us had this ridiculous idea (ok, it was me), but somehow it was proposed that we should swim from our end of the lake to the other – hey, it didn’t look that far.  Meanwhile, over an our later as we found ourselves only reaching the very middle of the lake and suffering from early signs of hypothermia and muscular exhaustion, we had the difficult decision to make of whether to keep on going and pray that we could get a water-taxi to take two half-naked gringos back to their side of the lake, or to turn back.  So wouldn’t ya know it, there we were again, doggy paddlin’ it back to Bob’s house.  And the way back was most certainly torture – I was just hoping that Seri had the energy to make it all the way back, because it was questionable as to whether I could have helped her out very much in my condition – thank goodness she’s a surfer.  

Well, when we were finally back on dry land, showered, and thawed out, Seri was on a mission, it was indigenous culture photo-shoot day, and no local was to be left unscathed.  Armed with lollipops and our discreet pocket digitals, we set out to get the perfect shots.  Santa Katarina was our destination, a small, little visited cinder-block village about fifteen minutes down-shore.  As we arrived into town we put on our National Geographic explorer game faces and began strolling around town like we were locals (I’m not sure if we fooled anyone, but hey, what else could we do?).  The theme in this town was blues and purples, and host a host of endless embroidery options beyond.  Although the boys, as with almost all remote civilizations that I’ve encountered, didn’t have as much to offer to our cameras, the women and girls were decked out in all their distinctive glamor, and as we finally made our way out of town, comparing shots, we were thoroughly satisfied with our day’s work.

The following day we had decided to make the lancha (long-boat) trip to San Pedro la Laguna, on the other side of the lake, and we were up early and on our way to the docks.  After a nightmarish experience of trying to purchase, pack, and send (aaaaarrrrggghhh) parcels of gifts to friends back home, we finally reached the other side of town and made the arduous trip down to the jetty (moreso because nothing was built for rolling around bicycle tires on – steps and walls and rutted mud streets).  Yet thankfully, we didn’t have to wait long, and within minutes we were skeeting across the placid waves, the spray splashing across our faces, as we stared into the distance mesmerized at the pristine green tinged silhouettes of the mountain ridges that skirted the shore.  About forty minutes later we were pulling in to harbor.

As we disembarked the lancha and hauled our ungainly equipment up the high stone steps from the docks, seedy looking characters lurked off to our sides murmuring under their breath to us, “weed…. kayaks….”  Hmmm, interesting.  But we were all good – I don’t think it would have been very healthy for Seri and I to have laughed much more than we usually did anyway.  We made our way to the right at the main intersection ahead and made our way towards a cheap hostel that someone who recommended to us.  Did I say cheap?  At about four dollars for our own private room, it was a real bargain.  Ok, so it wasn’t exactly first class, but it did have (somewhat) hot water and a spectacular view.  Then, to pass the time away we set out to explore the the neighborhood and see what this infamous town was all about.

However, a few hours later we had soon discovered that, yes, we were indeed in the off-season.  It was more like a ghost town than the party central which everyone had described to us, but to be quite honest with you that was just fine by us.  We were here in search of rest and relaxation, and quite happy to be in one another’s company.  As such, most of the following two days was devoted to getting up early, heading down to the lake for a chillingly exhilarating swim, bumming around town taking photos, soaking in hot baths, and eating whenever possible.  Unfortunately, the fact that none of the ATMs in town worked for the first twenty-four hours put a little bit of a damper on this, and the first night we found ourselves cooking rice and vegetables with tomato sauce in our room with my camping burner – ok, a little ghetto.

We had only planned to spend two days in San Pedro and then on the third day zip out for a day trip to the town of Santiago Atitlan before returning and heading to San Marcos la Laguna for the night, but it didn’t quite work out that way.  After a boat ride of over an hour, we finally reached the village, and if Seri thought it was good shootin’ in Santa Katarina, she hadn’t seen Santiago Atitlan yet.  The town was literally crawling with bustling indigenous people, coming and going from the market and just going about daily life.  It was more than she could stand and we were soon faux posing for portraits for one another while the other took shots over their shoulder.  However, after several hours of this and of searching for some snazzy embroidered shorts for me (which I ended up leaving in Costa Rica anyway – I mean really, where was I planning on wearing these things?) while haggling endlessly, we made our way back to the docks and the boat to San Pedro.  By the time we finally arrived back in town we both agreed that it had grown far too late to both taking the trip to San Marcos and decided to spend another night where we were, heading to pizza night at a local hippy staple called the Buddha.

The following day it was finally time to head on, and after some cliff diving with the young Guatemalan boys of the town and a fruity breakfast by the docks, we found ourselves sitting in a heap of our bicycle, surfboard, and luggage on the dock, eating vodka-soaked watermelon with my pocket-knife (when we got bored the night before we’d sat for about two hours injecting liquor into it using a syringe, but when we finally finished we were too tired to stay up and wait for it to soak in and eat it).  It was a sad day, as unfortunately the truth was that fate was cruel and as we had it, Seri was to go North and follow her journey, while I was to continue Southwards.  We had had such wonderful times together there at the lake and we decided to savor every moment that we could together, catching the bus up from Panajachel to los Encuentros, where she would indelibly be off to Xéla, and I to Antigua.

We didn’t realize where we were until it was too late, when abruptly the bus slowed almost to a stop and the rear door of the bus was flung open by several small Guatemalan men.  The yelled “Antigua, Antigua!” and before I knew what was happening, I saw my bicycle and bags with great haste heave down from the roof-rack and hustled over to another bus which had its back hatch to us and was already slowly moving away.  Oh hells bells!  I’d better get on that bus!  And so, within the space of thirty seconds I grabbed Seri, hugged her tight in my arms, kissed her cheek one last time and took a running jump out of the back of the bus, sprinting towards the back of the other bus and jumping up into the doorway just as it was picking up speed.  As the hatch began to close behind me I suddenly thought one more time of Seri and spun around to say goodbye, only to see her face pressed close to the glass of the window of the other bus, mouthing the words “hasta luego” and slowly waving goodbye.

Uphill Both Ways in the Fog – the Road to Xéla

After two nights of rest in Huehuetenango, I had just about had my fill of the nondescript little Guatemalan city, and was ready to forge onward to the beauty of the lofty highlands.  I remounted my steed and pedaled out of town, through clouds of thick black exhaust which sputtered out from behind trucks and buses which roared by.  As I’d grown accustomed to since arriving in the mountains of Chiapas several weeks before, the sky was a patchwork of artistically strewn, silver lined, bubbly clouds against pale blue.  Silver lining eh?  Well, perhaps my luck was about to change, perhaps today would be the day that I would race headfirst up the towering spires of the Guatemalan mountains, through crisp breezes and dazzling blue skies of early afternoon.  Perhaps I would arrive triumphantly at the awe-inspiring summit, throw my arms into the air, arch my head backwards and shout out to the world in glorious conquest, revitalized and rejuvenated by the fruits of my determination.  Ok, well, I guess that’s why dreaming is sometimes better than reality.

So, as usual, I set off with a feeling of determination – but also with the lead-weighted soreness of my resentfully over-worked legs.  After navigating my way out of the little roller-coaster hills of Huehue, the road began to flatten out and I hoped that perhaps this would be the majority of the ride and the great uphill climbs that everyone had warned me of would just be a short blip towards the end of the days journey.  It was amazing how green the landscape returned once leaving the city, a theme which would become quite common over the next few weeks traveling through Central America.  I suppose I didn’t realize just how far I had already ascended since crossing the border from Mexico, but as I took in the scenery around me it appeared that the flora had all gone from steamy, lush tropical palms to somber, monochrome pine forests.  Yet, as I was leisurely ambling along, the road suddenly rounded a bend and fell gracefully downward, disappearing as it wound into the thick tree-cover below.  The altitude continued to drop for some time and at first all I could think to myself was just how glad I was that I was going in this direction.  However, my ephemeral moment of optimism fled once I broke through the tree cover and saw the endlessly looming mountains off in the distance.  I didn’t have to guess that my path would lead me up and over these mountains, I already knew the sadistic pattern that fate seemed to have lined up for me – surely this was no exception.

I finally did reach the trough between my carefree slalom and the beginning of eternity.  At first the incline was so gradual that I questioned whether perhaps the highway would find some intricate pattern of valleys carved through the mountain bases which I couldn’t see.  This carried on for almost the next two hours.  But once I had ridden up high enough to follow the high ridge of the mountain which I had been climbing, I realized that this was just the warm up.  Sinisterly swirling dark gray clouds licked along the massive mountaintop arising off to my left, obscuring its true stature.  This was about to get interesting.  The temperature had also begun to grow chilly and the scent of rain hung thick in the air.  I weaved unwilling into the mountain’s foreboding gravitational pull and not long after a slow, sad pattering had begun to soak through the back of my shirt.  I decided that this was as good a time as any to stop for lunch and hope for the weather to pass, and for once, I happened to be passing a restaurant just as the thought dawned.  So I sat to dine alone in the empty four tabled restaurant, open on one side with hens clucking around me in the empty silence of the rain and a mangy dog lingering around like Eddie’s stomach, not knowing when it would next get fed.

I was very quickly receiving a crash course in just what a difference an international border can make between two adjacent worlds.  It was as though I had taken my bicycle and ridden off of the high mesa of Mexico’s culinary beauty and over the cliff descending into the abyss of Central America’s bleak offerings.  I wondered just what cut of meat I might be dining on as I tried to saw through the rigid, charred creature before me – was it too late to turn back?  Finished and satisfied… well, satiated, I noticed that the rain had tapered off to an insolent drizzle and decided that this was as good a time as ever to head on.  The road just continually wound ever higher along the mountainside, soon disappearing into the mist.  As I rode towards it, I could actually see the foggy clouds sliding UP the mountainside as if coming for me.  I reached for my final drops of adrenaline, using the personified threat to drive me forward, but soon realized that it was losing battle.  My energy drained, my knees began to buckle, and then, like a wave of shivering cold, I pedaled right into the white veil which had thrown itself before me, enveloping me in an ethereally dull world of pale, hazy silhouettes.

From high above me in the surreally invisible world I thought that I heard the muffled laugh of children, almost as though a distant memory was manifesting itself in the hills.  Off to my left side I saw only whiteness beyond the edge of the road, as though the world dropped away beyond existence.  The incline of the road grated against my determination as I seemed to osmose like molasses upward.  Spectral forms partially emerged from the mist, their features swathed in obscurity, but vaguely recognizable as the indigenous campesinos with their wide-brimmed straw hats and side-sheathed machetes.  Twice did I stop to rest and to inquire how much longer my torture would last – the first time receiving an answer of about five kilometers, and an hour of riding later, receiving an answer of twenty kilometers.  Well, I guess I should have remembered to replace the battery in my odometer back in Mexico after all.  My journey had all but exhausted me, and in this dismal gray world I wasn’t sure just how much more I could take.  My breaks were becoming more frequent and my average distance per hour felt as though it was dropping rapidly.  When I finally decided that I wasn’t sure if I could go on, I pulled over to the side of a road to a little tienda, hoping that replenishing myself with something sweet would give me the burst of energy that I needed, but as I sat on the front step and chatted with the owner, he pointed to the road around the bend and said that I was there.  This was the summit of the road and from here on it was almost all downhill to Cuatro Caminos and Xéla.  Of course, I couldn’t really see quite that far beyond the cloud covered street, but I felt a pang of optimism, thanked the store owner, and prayed that this guy knew what he was talking about.

Moments later I was whizzing down the slopes, the wind in my hair, noting that the day was growing uncomfortably late for a bicycle ride.  By this point I had broken free from the swirling mists, but the weather was frigid and the sky drained completely of its color.  I pulled aside to find my jacket to brace against the cold air that rushed by me now, longing for the feel of warm water showering down on my face and a cozy bed to crawl into.  At first I was just descending in short legs, from one ridge-top to another, but once I crossed the final threshold, a marvelous vista opened up off the my left, a smoothly painted fertile green valley, with patchworks of fields clinging to the mountainsides.  At this point I began soaring downwards so quickly that all I could do was grip my handlebars as tightly as possible and cast short glances over my shoulder at the panorama.  However, the majority of the time I was focused forward and as I descended into the fields, little children in sweaters shouting and rolling in the grass along the roadsides called out to me as I passed by.  It was as if I was looking through a window into another world, it felt like Autumn in some past era – children still playing outside, as opposed to desolate American streets, conquered by television and the internet.  

I coasted in  my bubble of warm euphoria through this magically tranquil place, in some ways only wishing that I could relinquish my race and what I knew about the world to instead join their simplicity.  But truly, deeply, I knew that even this life was not that simple and that I had another destiny to fulfill.  It wasn’t long before I rose once again atop a low ridge and was leaving the peaceful valley below.  But on the other side I soon began yet another descent and this time I could see the sparkling lights of a populous civilization down below, nothing like the green hills that I had just passed through.  The day was beginning to fade, but I knew that this would be Cuatro Caminos, and I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that it was only a short way beyond to Xéla.  And to my great relief, not long after, I had passed the chaotic town of Cuatro Caminos, I was bumping along pot-holed roads and into the city limits of Xéla.  I cycled towards the central plaza of the town and after a round of questioning, had finally located the Black Cat Hostel, what would soon become my home for the next week while seeking refuge from the endless rains of Guatemala.

Fear & Mystery in Guatemala

Saying goodbye to Caesar and Anna after a week of raucous socializing, adventurous excursions, and unforgettable memories was no easy task.  We had managed to do just about everything under the sun during my time in Comitan.  From our visits to las Cascadas de Chiflon and los Lagos de Montebello to polishing off bottles of cheap tequila and belly-dancing in jangling turkish accessories.  So when the time came to jump back on the bike and head for the fabled country of Guatemala, a land that had always been shrouded in a veil of mystery and exoticism in my mind, I was both smitten with intrigue yet also wistful at the thought of saying goodbye to my wonderfully sweet and quirky new friends.

Anna and Caesar had both warned me that there had been numerous roadside robberies along a particular stretch of the road from Comitan to the Guatemala border and insisted that I take the colectivo to avoid that area.  So, after hugging Anna, struggling awkwardly to get my wide-load bicycle out of her front door and down the steep front step, I began the jarring cobble-stone ride out to the main road on the other side of the center of town.  I had soon arrived at the colectivo station, and after a short wait they had my bicycle belted tightly to the front of the van and we were on our way.  It was a relatively short ride, and as we approached Mexico’s final frontier, I climbed down and began to reload my bags onto the bike.  Again, I had been experiencing the almost intolerable affliction of tumbling panniers jumping off my my rear rack while going over speed bumps or potholes in the roads, so as I loaded the bags on I decided to try a new strategy.  I had acquired some black electrical tape while in Comitan and wrapped a thick layer around the bars of the rear rack underneath where the pannier clips normally sat.  I hoped that the new layer of insulation would reduce vibration and bouncing while crossing rough and uneven terrain, and now, all I could do was forge onwards and hope for the best as I drew nearer to entering a new country which I knew almost nothing about.

It was several kilometers from the exit customs on the Mexican side of the border to the entry to Guatemala, and straight uphill the entire way.  At first the road sloped up rather gently, but within the next ten minutes it was a steep climb, the road perched perilously into the side of the mountainside and a vista of the new terrain that I was to face stretching out off to my side.  Towering cloud wrapped mountains jutted out from the wet, green valleys far below.  As I rode onward, all that I could see before me was the highway stretching ever higher and twisting up into the thick cloud cover.  Although daunted and uncertain of what lay before me, I also felt a tingling of unbridled excitement at this mystical and almost surreal landscape that I was now entering.  I pedaled intrepidly forward, neither racing uphill impatiently nor idling along lazily, and knew that it wouldn’t be long before I would be officially stamped in to the beginning of my Central American journey.  As I finally saw the sign which I had been awaiting, bidding me farewell from Mexico, I also happened to notice hundreds of buzzards crowded menacingly into the blackened skeleton of a towering, leafless tree, sadistically following me with their eyes as I passed along.  A wave of anxiety swept over my boy at the unfortunate omen – but then I remembered that I don’t belief in superstition, or, at least, it’s probably best not to on a journey like this.

But then I turned to look back at the road ahead and began to see a small cluster of buildings rising out from the mountainside.  Speed bumps, gate arms, and hawkers dotted the scene, this must certainly be the border crossing for my entry to Guatemala.  Fortunately, it was not difficult to locate the immigration office and after a few terse words with the officials inside, I was officially accepted into the country.  I returned outside to my bicycle, only to be accosted by an overly friendly gentleman who was more than happy to trade my Mexican pesos for his Guatemalan quetzales.  Although I knew that I had been slightly swindled, I had only exchanged a very small amount of cash and was anxious to continue on with my riding.  It was already getting to be early afternoon and I wanted to cover as much ground as possible today, hopefully finding a nice comfortable place to spend the evening, as the sky looked threateningly unpredictable.  I wove up through the haphazard two and three story edifices which were shoved right up against the road, casting dark shadows across the narrow path before me.  But it was only a small village, and within a few minutes I was breaking free from its chaotic grip and emerging, once again, out onto the towering mountainside, climbing ever higher.

I continued to rise for some short time thereafter, but then, unexpectedly, the road crested and began to slope downward.  Down, down, down, my bicycle sliced along through the moist underbrush which spilled out from the roadsides.  It was beautiful, well, the scenery too, but especially that feeling of cutting through the mists that rose ethereally from the pavement and the satisfaction of knowing that I was now in Guatemala.  I had escaped the United States, lived vibrantly through Mexico, and now I was on to a new chapter of my voyage.  My legs pumped forward with a renewed vigor, propelling me deeper and deeper into the mountains that surrounded me.  Then, as I looked far off towards the distance ahead, I began to feel like Frodo Baggins viewing his path through almost impassible terrain to Mount Doom.  A massive cobalt silhouetted ravine swallowed the highway before me as ominous black clouds swirled above.  This was the way to Huehuetenango?  Oh man, what had I gotten myself in to.  But there was no turning back now, and all I could do was smile and laugh inwardly at the rarity of my situation and wonder just how many people would ever see this world the way that I did right then or feel the true awe and intimidation that these cliffs inspired within me.

As I was engulfed in the gloom that lay deep at the base of the towering cliffs on either side, a ferocious cappuccino colored river roared off to my right.  For the next several hours I and the river would become well acquainted as we followed the carved valley for endless miles together.  I knew at the start of my day that it would be only a matter of time before the wrath of the dramatic blackened sky above was unleashed upon me, and then there it was.  The rains showered down in a heavy drizzle, quickly soaking through my cycling tunic and leaving a glistening sheen on the snaking road that disappeared around the contours of the ravine.  A constant uphill gradient beckoned me slowly deeper and deeper, and with it almost all signs of civilization seemed to fade away.  The already murky day began to give way to the obscurity of night and all around me bleak outlines of jagged mountain ranges glared down at me.  Fear and uncertainty began to seep through my blood.  I had been searching for a hotel, a guesthouse, a campsite, anything, for the past several hours, but to my chagrin it was all fruitless.  The ferocious river deep below me on one side and towering cliffs on the other completely precluded the option of camping, and as the rains persisted and the darkness settled, I could find no one in the surrounding landscape to ask for assistance. 

I carried on desperately, thinking to myself, well, here I am, doing exactly the one thing that I had been told not to do in Central America – riding my bicycle at night.  And not only was a riding at night, but through a pitch black, almost haunted landscape, never knowing what was around the next bend or just how far the drop was underneath the invisibly towering bridge I was crossing as I heard the river thrashing as if miles below.  I was wet, I was cold, my muscles burned and cried out for reprieve, hunger welled up in me and reminded me that I had not eaten since leaving Comitan that morning, and I wondered if perhaps those buzzards back at the border had been more than just coincidence.  By this point I had switched on my little LED bicycle light, but against the misty, pea soup obscurity, it seemed to do me little good.  Then, my heart jumped into my throat.  Was I really seeing this?  Off to my left in the pitch black darkness were more than a dozen motorcycles with Guatemalan men sitting on them – just sitting there…waiting.  Dear God I hoped they weren’t waiting for me, I pedaled along gripping my handlebars tightly and hardly breathing.  But after fearful minutes I didn’t hear any motors or see any lights racing after me.  I began to breath normally again but now with a renewed uncertainty and anxiety to add to my other woes.

The early evening dwindled away and I wondered, would I have to go all the way to Huehuetenango before I could find some place warm and dry to escape the now chilly mountain air.  But deep within myself I knew that I had come this far and that I would be fine.  It couldn’t possibly get much worse that this.  But why is that, every time that you’re in a difficult situation and you have a thought like this, things somehow really do manage to go downhill (and sadly, only in a figurative sense).  I rounded a turn and flames blazed eerily out of the gloom.  As I neared the fire along the roadside I felt completely caught off guard, what could this possibly be??  And then there were faces!  In the flickering reddish light the dark, chiseled features of the indigenous mountain natives were outlined in a liquid light and my mind raced as to what could possibly be going on here.  My rationality told me that it was probably best not to stop and find out, so I mustered up the strength to boost my speed once again and delve deeper into the mysterious night.  But there were other inexplicable fires.  As I rode forward I began to see that they dotted the roadside every several hundred meters – what kind of strange and ancient ritual was this?  Furthermore, off in the inky silhouettes of the distant mountains, I noticed tiny flames weaving slowly along the hillsides.  I wasn’t sure just what mysterious horror movie I had just stepped into, but I most certainly hoped that it wouldn’t have a traditional ending.

But, as with most things in life, these sights began to seem somewhat typical after I had been witnessing them for some time, and hunger and weariness began to eclipse my fear.  Perhaps it would even be better to be offered up as a human sacrifice rather than having to carry on in these unbearable conditions.  I began to see a few small huts along the sides of the road up ahead.  Unfortunately, none seemed to have any lights on, and perhaps were even without electricity, as one appeared to be lit by foreboding candlelight as I passed by.  But up ahead I saw a single light on the side of the rode, slicing into the darkness and thought to myself, perhaps this is salvation.  It was not long before I realized that it was a little tienda, a small square window in the side of a stout concrete building, selling nothing more than packaged snacks and sodas.  But one was or another, this was it, I was done, there would be no more riding today.  I went to the window and timidly yelled “hola,” as I didn’t see anyone inside.  Moments later a short indigenous man cautiously emerged and greeted me.  I queried him as to where we were, if there were any hotels or places to spend the night nearby, or even a place with prepared food, but apparently were were still in the middle of nowhere and the rest of the answers were all negatives.  Regardless of my plight, being that I am still Paul, the first thing that I could think of was satisfying the burning from within that was coming from my stomach, and then, perhaps once I had taken care of my stomach, I could begin thinking lucidly again.

So, I purchased a few small snacks, some taco flavored Guatemalan chips called Tortrix and a large bottle of water, and sad pathetically on a low concrete ledge while I ate.  Meanwhile, another man had come out and was talking to the first in a language that I had never heard before and I had a sneaking suspicion that I was the topic of conversation.  After I had finished my snacks, I could do nothing more than sit there and stare out blankly into the darkness of night, supposedly thinking, but in fact just wallowing in exhaustion.  And then the first man addressed me.  He said that he had spoken to his brother and that he was offering me a bed in his home, asking whether I would like to stay there.  Well of course!  What luck, not only was I done riding for the night, but I would also have a bed to sleep in.  So with little delay we were then walking towards his home, a half a block down the road, my wheeling my laden bicycle beside me.  The house was a squat cinderblock affair, built into the hillside along the road.  As we walked up, I saw the man go up ahead of me into the open front room of the house to speak with his family – I waited outside.  One by one new members of the family appeared to curiously see who this stranger was that had appeared and would now be spending the night.  They were a pleasantly inquisitive group, about ten in all, the women all wearing brightly sewn dresses and shawls, typical of that region.  I quickly learned that they were of Mam descent and that this was also the name of the language which they were speaking, and although we could not converse directly with one another, the first gentleman whom I had met at the tienda earlier was able to translate as they excitedly posed questions to him.

They led me up to a single room which sat on the roof of the house and was only accessible by either a ladder from down below or a door that led outside, facing the street.  As I sat down on the bed, completely worn out and wishing that I could just lay down to rest, I knew that this would probably look terribly rude and instead sat on the bed chatting with the family for almost another hour.  Despite my tiredness, they were such warm and smiling company and I couldn’t help but enjoy their welcome, and eventually the conversation did wind down.  We said goodnight to one another, I closed the door, and almost instantly fell onto the scratchy composite fiber blankets, drifting off to sleep.

I was awakened in the morning by, yes, roosters.  Of course, I probably could have slept a few more hours, as I knew that it was very early, but when you’re sleeping in the home of an indigenous group in Guatemala, you’d hate to be a bad representative for all of your people and let them think that you’re all so terribly lazy (when in fact its really just me).  So I gingerly raised myself up out of bed on my beyond sore legs and shuffled over to the glass-less window to peer out at just where exactly I had arrived to in the gloom of the previous night.  Out back, dense coffee groves wound up into the hillside and two women hung freshly washed laundry out to dry on a low clothesline.  It was an altogether peaceful and serene setting to welcome me to a new day, and after collecting myself I decided that I would go out and enjoy the day – or something like that, seeing as how it was back to the bike.  So I emerged from the room out into the sunlight and as rolled by beast down to the road and glanced around for my host, he just happened to come ambling towards me.  I whole-heartedly thanked him for saving my life before, wished him and his family all the best, and set off once again.  Today would not be a long ride, it was only about thirty kilometers left to Huehue, and if it hadn’t been for the stiffening of my muscles from the previous day’s ride, it would have been a wonderfully pleasant journey.  Not to say that it wasn’t quite pleasant, but it was most certainly a trial as well.

The road seemed to be continually uphill (a fact that I would soon learn was characteristically Guatemala), and progress was quite slow.  Yet, the landscapes that surrounded me were quite breathtaking, as fertile green fields wrapped around the mountainsides like twisting mosaic patchwork quilts, and the dark, fluffy clouds contrasted against bright rays of sunlight that filtered through them.  I continued on, enjoying the scenery, and knew that I was most certainly not far from Huehue now, when the heavens once again opened up and bucketed down on me.  But this was not like the pathetic, dragging showers of yesterday, this time it was a mini monsoon.  Even geared up in my raincoat, there was little reprieve for my waterlogged sneakers and the soaked shorts which clung to my thighs.  Yet, as with all things in life, mood seems to be the deciding factor on how I chose to respond to this turn of events, and rather than ride along begrudgingly, I surrendered myself to the wetness and felt a rush of exhilaration.  The road had now finally gone from endless uphill to undulating, windy hills through pastureland, and I raced forward at full speed, the raindrops spattering incessantly against my skin in little bursts.  However, it the sun was not far above these clouds, and as it rained the lush fields around me seemed to glitter as the sun illuminated each individual raindrop in the radiant scene that surrounded me.

When the storm finally subsided, I was just approaching the first sign directing me off of the main road and towards Huehuetenango.  I was almost there, after all of the previous day’s harrowing trials, my first social contact with the Mam culture, the morning’s cleansing rains, and almost twenty-four hours in Guatemala.  And so I rode towards the town center to search for my new host in Huehue and all the time wondering whether these wild and fantastical events since crossing the border were just unusual coincidence, or whether this was only foreshadowing what other unpredictable and unforgettable adventures were to come.

La Ultima Subida en Mexico

    The wind whipped in through the narrowly opened sliding glass window in the back of the colectivo van as we raced along narrow, winding mountain roads that climbed ever higher into the mountains of Chiapas.  I had neared the threshold of exhaustion during my earlier ride through the steep initial ascent in over one hundred degree temperatures on bicycle, and had therefore, after several torturous hours, decided on alternate transport.  I was still a long way from San Cristobal de las Casas, and since I had told Erendira’s newphew, Geovanni, that I would be arriving that evening, I knew that this was also the only mode that would deliver me to the fabled mountain city in time.

    Only a few minutes earlier, I had stood on the roadside at the turn for Misol-Ha, the late afternoon sun blazing down upon me, soaking me in my own sweat and ever increasing my conviction that a colectivo was my wisest alternative.  A friendly Chiapas native ambled up in his indigo collared shirt and black denim pants tucked in to high top rubber boots.  As we waited, he told me that he had a parcel of land here near Misol-Ha, but lived in a nearby town down the road.  Before planting a new field of corn, they would raze a portion of their parcel to clear the land and leave them with fertile soil in which to grow their crops – which explained all the smoldering fields I had passed by earlier in the day.  We continued conversing for the next half an hour, but when the colectivo still did not arrive, he decided that he would just walk the remaining distance back to his village.  So, I continued waiting, and hoping that with my transport would come relief from the stagnant heat.  Then finally, I saw it, a long van with a sign for Ocosingo in the front window, careening down the road in my direction.  I flagged it down and the driver smiled and nodded as he pulled over.  I had disassembled my cargo from my bicycle and before he had even opened his door, was already lifting my bike up above my head and heaving it onto the roof rack of the vehicle.   A moment later he had come around to help me and climbed up the narrow ladder on the back of the van while I hoisted my remaining panniers and duffle up to his waiting hands.  He lashed all of my luggage on tightly and a few moments later we were off.

    At first, when the fan had stopped and I had prepared to board, I wondered if there was indeed any seat available for me.  Through the windows, all I could see was shoulder to shoulder men, women and children.  But the driver assured me that we could all squeeze in, and as I flung open the heavy sliding door and leaned in to look for my seat, I still felt somewhat perplexed.  But then I noticed that in the fourth row, all the way in the back, there was a slight gap between two of the four boys that were sitting there.  I realized that this was my only option and began literally climbing over bodies and seats to get to the back of the van.  However, in this part of the world, just because somebody hasn’t found their seat yet doesn’t mean that the bus doesn’t start driving, and as I was writhing through the second row, the van pulled in to gear and I was almost sent rolling in to the lap of a nursing young mother next to me, who clearly didn’t need another big baby sitting in her lap.  But I quickly regained my balanced and continued back to my spot, somehow managing to spin my body around and maneuver myself down onto the seat, my hips sides of my waist firmly up against either gentleman next to me.  Ironically, after riding through blistering waves of heat and living in a perpetual sheen of sticky humidity, this was like luxury to me, and the feel of the gusting air passing through the opened window brought me the most satisfying form of relief.

    As we continued on, the van made periodic stops along the roadside, and whereas I had thought that it was completely impossible for us to take on any more passengers, it seemed that no one was getting off any time soon.  New arrivals embarked, by the singles and by the family.  There were soon children leaning up against the side windows of the van and almost sitting on my lap.  A woman with a cardboard box containing a chicken joined us, and a man clutching a bundle of palm fronds to his chest.  Other ladies in brightly colored dresses and tunics had loaded their large, blanket covered baskets onto the rooftop with the aid of the driver, and all in all, we had become quite an efficient little convoy, speeding ever higher towards the clouds.  And clouds there were, it seemed that whereas I had ridden through nothing but clear, blue, relentless skies, now the horizon before us had grown into a hazy, orangish dark grey behind the silhouettes of the wavy mountain ridges which surrounded us.  Thunder crashed and it seemed as if the whole earth around us trembled in its wake.  Then suddenly, the premonition came alive.  Almost as though a dam way above us had been split wide open, the waters poured forth.  Fat, splattering raindrops thudded down against the top of the van and outside the roadsides were soon flooding and brown waves of muddy water washed across the street.  Surprisingly, whereas this sudden change in weather might have appeared daunting and inconvenient to others, I hadn’t seen real rain in months, and I was reveling in the cleansing that it was bring to my soul.  Yet, I didn’t realize that this was the beginning of a new and overwhelming chapter of my voyage, and as the following days would unfold  I would find myself feeling less and less fondly towards this new climate.

    But for now, I was content.  I had always loved this brash, unpredictable tropical-esque storms and as the canopy surrounding the highway thrashed about, and waterfalls were born, spewing waves of water down from the mountainside high above, I could only stare out in awe.  A number of times we rocked to an almost complete halt as the driver would spot a downed tree in the road just ahead and uninhibitedly weave around it, dipping down into the shoulder of the soft roadside.  The torrents of rain came in alternating waves, and inbetween these waves, thick, cloud-like fog would rise up from the road below and completely obscure the path before us in the darkening night.  We continued on like this for the next couple of hours, and finally, at long last, began to see the sporadic lights of civilization in a valley ahead and far below us.  As we approached and began to enter Ocosingo, the rains again raged ever harder and in the midst of it, our colectivo was pulling in to the bus station.  Fortunately, there was a narrow overhang of corrugated steel above where we had parked, but one or two paces away from the van was a steadily soaking sheet of rainwater pouring down from the canopy above.  The back of the van stuck out from the shelter, and unfortunately, so did part of my luggage and bicycle on the roof above.  I asked the driver if he could reposition the van, reversing out of the space and then backing in, so as to offer me shelter while I climbed atop to get my things.  And thankfully, he did.  As I waited, another driver pestered me – “San Cristobal? San Cristobal?.”  Yes for crying out loud!  But I need my damn bags first, buddy.  Eventually, the panniers, duffle, bike and all was down and I was sprinting through the rain towards another shuttle, the driver hauling my other bags and finally we were stuffing it all in to his van.  Of course, as I would soon discover, colectivos and vans are always all too happy to not only have a gringo on board, but especially one with a particularly awkward piece of luggage for which they could charge an additional fee.  But at this point, I really didn’t care any more.  I paid, I got in, and we departed for the city of San Cristobal de Las Casas, only a few short hours away.

    I had called Geovanni on the way up, and when I arrived in San Cristobal, he had informed me to meet him in the town plaza, as he was nearby and his mother had a stand along the side of the plaza selling typical sweets of the Chiapas region during a festival that was going on that weekend.  When I stepped out of the van in the high mountains of the town, the first thing that immediately struck me was the temperature  It was freezing!!  Here I was coming from unbearable heat and wearing only a sleeveless shirt and synthetic shorts, and now I was standing in the freezing cold beneath the incessant rain.  Fortunately for me, the rain wasn’t anywhere near as heavy now as it had been earlier, and right there in the bus station parking lot I opened up my bags and began pulling out warmer clothes to wear.  Once I had layered myself with another pair of thicker shorts and a long sleeved shirt, I was ready to begin moving and hoped that as I cycled along my body temperature would also rise.  I turned on to the bumpy cobblestone streets towards the town center and after a few blocks had arrived and gave Geovanni a quick call.  From a few feet away someone called my name, and as I looked up, there was Geovanni, with a pretty young lady named Sayram, his sweet and friendly girlfriend.  We greeted one another and then began walking towards the kiosk which Geo’s mother was attending to alongside the plaza.  It was fantastic, within only a few moments of arriving, I was already meeting half of the family and being welcomed in with open arms.  Geo’s father was also there, and between the two boisterous and off the cuff parents, I knew that I was in good hands as Geo told me that I would be staying in their house a couple of blocks from his place.  After we had all gotten acquainted, we headed towards their home a short distance northeast of the plaza to drop off my bike and belongings before we headed out to enjoy a Saturday night in San Cristobal.

    Geo and Say are the type of people who will listen intently to everything that you have to say and always seem to have either wonderful insight or a comical interjection to complete the thought.  They were perfect company after a day of bicycle and colectivo commuting, and for our evening entertainment we headed out to hit a few local and quite bohemian bars.  I quickly discovered that San Cristobal was quite a hippy/rasta haven and after a few entertaining bars and enough Bob Marley and Manu Chau to last me a week, we were out on the street near the square eating some post beer tacos – I love Mexico.  And what a fantastic week I spent in this little city in the clouds with my new friends.  Although it rained every day, sometimes almost all day, and although I found myself setting bowls all over my little room to catch the raindrops during the flooding downpours, somewhat reminiscent of Winnie the Pooh, I absolutely adored the company of my new friends.  Geo had a pizza joint just down the street from the gorgeous Templo de Santo Domingo, and when we weren’t hanging out there eating free pizza and subs, Say I and were out exploring the museum of mayan medicine, climbing the Cerro de San Cristobal, or roaming around the city in search of a steaming cup of local Chiapas mountain coffee.  All in all, it was a phenomenal stay, and on my last full day before my departure, Say, Geo, his mother, and I, all headed out to the much rumored village of San Juan Chamula nearby – which was also where my new title was born, San Pablo Chamula de la Posh (I’ll explain that in a moment).

    So off we went, and amazingly, a deliciously blue sky pocked with marshmellowy white clouds greeted us as we set off for the market to sample some local chalupas before catching a colectivo to San Juan Chamula.  The chalupas were yummy, real yummy.  Little tostadas layers with pulled roast chicken, shaved veggies, and dark, rich beet on top.  Then we found the vans and loaded up, of course, as I was now becoming accustomed to, alongside a throng of friendly, brightly clothed and leathery skinned indigenous folks.  It was only a short twenty minute voyage up to the town, and we were dropped on the outskirts, with the civilization in the bowl like valley beyond.  We strolled down towards the central plaza, stopping in little stores along the way to peruse their wares and try on local outfits that looked quite amusing on non-natives.  And eventually, yes, we made it to the town center.  For hundreds of meters, all the way across, the plaza was stuffed with stands and kiosks selling all sorts of local handicrafts and fresh produce.  We meandered towards the church on the far side, the main allure for almost all who come to discover the town of San Juan Chamula.  Yes, this was the church where ancient mayan worship and christianity came together, and of course, as is always the trend here, there was a cover charge.  But no biggie, I covered the expenses for my little group of friends who had come only to accompany me and to provide wonderful company, and shortly thereafter we were within the church.  All around us, thousands of candles burned, native men and women kneeled on the floor which was covered in a carpet o fresh pine straw, praying to saints which flanked the walls.  Some had bottles of Coca-Cola (sadly, a part of their religious rituals) and also the potent local sugar alcohol of posh.  We explored the premises for a time and Geo even questioned one of the priests as to some of the traditions which he had never himself known of or understood.  We left the church pensive and satisfied – and also ready to try some posh!  And so we did. Just outside of the wall which surrounded the church courtyard was one gentleman with a little stand where he was selling locally brewed posh, and we were more than happy to support his endeavors.  First we sipped on pure posh, but I quickly decided that this wasn’t for me and opted for posh with nanciye, a local fruit, of which I don’t know the english translation.  Then finally, after a few little cups to brighten our day, we headed towards the vans and back towards San Cristobal.

    The next day was bittersweet, as I spent my last few hours with Say and Geo, shopping at the artesian markets by the Templo de Santo Domingo in the morning, but knowing that by afternoon I would be on my way closer to the Guatemala border and leaving my wonderful friends behind.  But alas, so is the life of a hobo like myself, and after yet another goodbye, I was off, cycling out towards the main road to Comitan and to my new friend Anna’s home, where later that evening we would be dining on sumptuous italian cuisine and embarking on what was to become an outlandish week-long birthday celebration.

Discovering Tabasco

    The morning after touring the cane fields of Lerdo de Tejada, Goyo had insisted on giving me a ride up to the hilly Tuxtlas, because of the treacherous and windy roads ahead.  The ride wasn’t long, and we departed from Lerdo at eight in the morning, arriving in San Andres Tuxtla about forty minutes later.  It was chilly, foggy and damp as Goyo helped me to remove my bicycle and equipment from the back of his SUV.  I sincerely thanked him for his time and hospitality, and once again set off into the mists, riding up the hills into obscurity.  Yet it was a rather pleasant and relaxing journey, and I knew that not long ahead I would arrive in the lakeside resort town of Catemaco, where I could find some breakfast before continuing along on my journey.  As I entered the modestly sized town, I headed for the centro, hoping to find absorb a bit of the culture during my short stay.  I found a hotel along the Zocalo which was serving breakfast, had wifi, and had a wide veranda on which to dine and decided that this was as good a spot as any.  As I enjoyed my breakfast of chiliquiles (spelled something like that), the young lady sitting at the next table and I struck up a conversation.  Her name was Ana and she was on assignment in Catemaco working with the parks and natural reserved in the area, although living in Mexico City.  We chatted as we finished up her breakfast, and she let me know that she would be traveling to South America within the next several months, and that perhaps if we were in the same area at the same time we might meet up.  With this we exchanged e-mail addresses and then she was on her way to a meeting.

    I finished not long after, made a quick stroll down to the lakefront to do some sightseeing, and then wanting to take advantage of my early morning start and cover as much distance as possible, soon after set off to continue on towards the next state of Tabasco.  The ride that day was gorgeous, at first hauling up large uphill stretches in the morning mists through the moist forests.  Then, as the afternoon approached, the mists began to burn away and I found myself racing through primitive little roadside villages nestled into the foliage.  At this point the road ahead had turned into a nice, steady downhill stretch and I took full advantage of the reprieve.  After some time the landscape flattened out into gentle rolling hills and the temperatures began to rise until everything around me seemed to waver in the afternoon heat.  Nonetheless, I was covering a fantastic amount of ground and was hoping that by the end of the day I could reach the town of Minititlan in the southern tip of Veracruz.  But as the afternoon wore on, the dusty heat and hundreds of topes (speed-bumps) began to aggravate and tire me.  As I pedaled along through bumper to bumper traffic on the one lane highway, slowly idling over the endless topes, I saw one particularly craggy and protruding one just ahead, but as my tire hit it the bicycle bounced upward quickly and then back down with a shudder.  My pannier holding all of my possessions had popped off the of the rear rack, smashed into the ground behind, and was now rolling along the highway towards incoming car tires.  Argh!  I didn’t need this right now!  I was exhausted, frustrated, and just wanted my shower and to rest.  I pulled the bike over, laid it on the ground and sprinted back for the bag on the edge of the roadway.  After another ten minutes and much struggling, I finally managed to re-secure my equipment and continued on towards Minititlan.  Then, finally, after one incredibly long, sweaty day of riding, I entered the town, found a hotel near the center, and decided to call it a day.

    For breakfast the following morning I hunted down a panaderia for some fresh baked bread and only a few blocks farther down found a large container of assorted, sliced tropical fruit and fresh squeezed orange juice for only a dollar each.  Once I had replenished my energy it was back to the road, and whereas the beginning of the trip was filled with beautifully lush hills, the latter part of the day turned into flat plains of marsh and farmland.  Again, the sun beat down against my skin, and although I made a valiant effort to reach Villahermosa that day, as the sun began to sink and I found no place suitable to camp, I though it best to search for some assistance.  I was only a few miles away from the city and managed to flag down a pickup to bring me in the final stretch, since my body ached and I thought it better than riding in the darkness.  Although I didn’t have a place lined up in which to stay in Villahermosa, I decided that I would find a place to use the internet and search for a cheap hostel or hotel.  My driver dropped me off at a Sanborn’s cafe on the West side of town and as I was just finishing getting my things out of the back of the pickup and out onto the sidewalk, a friendly voice greeted me.  Her name was Erendira, and when she saw the bicycle and all of the equipment her curiosity had peaked.  Her friend Carlos also came out to join us and we all chatted for a while in the humid evening heat.  I told her about my trip and she asked me where I was staying that evening.  When they discovered that I was searching for a place to stay, they offered to let me stay at Carlos’ apartment nearby and after a few minutes we began piling my things into the back of his little coupe and I was riding my bicycle behind them to the apartment.

    The next few days were spent with my wonderful new friends, heading to the bowling alley to watch Carlos and his family’s team compete, sleeping in an air-conditioned room (which was almost a necessity in Villahermosa), and exploring the city.  One day we went and got dinner at a little seafood restaurant in the Malecon neighborhood, which only a few months earlier had been completely flooded during the torrential downpours of the rainy season.  However, now, most of the area head been somewhat repaired, and we sat down to enjoy camarrones empanizadas and camarrone empanadas (which yes, are quite different – one is fried shrimp and the other is shrimp in empanadas).  It was all quite delicious, and during dinner we had decided to take a trip in a pochimovi, the Villahermosa term for a tuktuk.  We raced around the small streets nearby and along the sandbagged riverfront, dodging and weaving through other pochimovis as we passed.  Once the ride was over, we migrated towards the other side of the river to explore the zona centro of the city, pausing at frequent intervals for campy photo ops.  After that, Erendira had to head to her salsa class, although on the way we stopped from some eskinos, somewhat similar to a strawberry milkshake, and a Villahermosa trademark.  Carlos and I decided to join Erendira for the salsa class, but only as observers, watching the class as the instructor counted “cuatro, cinco, seis… uno, dos, tres,” over and over again.  Carlos and I had thought that Erendira would be exhausted after her class, but instead she insisted that we head to the other side of town to try some marquesitas, another Villahermosa treat.  At this point I was quite full since we had stopped several times to forage for food, but I thought that I should at least try the marquesitas now that we were there.  They turned out to be very yummy, essentially freshly prepared crepes with the toppings of your choice, rolled into a cylinder, and cooling off to a nice crispy texture.  All in all it was quite a full day, and since Erendira had lost her keys, we retired to Carlos’ apartment for a few more hours, chatting and waiting for Erendira’s sister to return with her keys.

    The next day I slept in (although Carlos had to get up for work at six, after only a few very short hours of sleep), and when Carlos returned around lunchtime, he said that he had gotten the rest of the day off to go watch the football game that day (although maybe it was because his grandmother was sick… I can’t remember for certain).  So we headed down to a local pub filled with big-screen T.V.s on the main strip in town.  However, I had plans to meet up with my friend Daniel from CouchSurfing for lunch, so during the first half of the game I dipped out and headed a few blocks away to Daniel’s printing business to meet he and his wife Lorena.  The two turned out to be incredibly pleasant and outgoing, showing me around the workshop first and then Daniel and I heading out to a restaurant nearby for some typical cuisine of Villahermosa.  Afterwards, we headed over to Lorena’s family’s house to meet her sisters and mother.  When we arrived, the house was right in the middle of town and abuzz with the teenage children coming and going, the sisters and mother sitting on the front porch chatting, and friends coming to visit.  They all welcomed me warmly and I sat to join in the conversation and soon felt like family.  They insisted that I come to stay at their place that evening and the following morning Daniel would take me and another young lady who was coming to visit, out to a beautiful place near Tapijulapa, in the Southern hills of Tabasco.  Not long after, we were headed over to Carlos’ place in Daniel’s van with half of the family coming along for company, where I went up and lugged all of my things down the four flights of stairs, making plans to meet up with Carlos the following day for dinner.  When we returned to the other house, Lorena’s sisters Cecilia and Louisa took me out to a local taco restauran which was one of the best in town.  As we sat and enjoyed our gringas, al pastor tacos, and jamaica, I got to know them a little better and we were all laughing like old friends.  Afterwards, we headed back to the house and retired to our rooms for the evening.

    When I awoke in the morning, Lorena’s mother had prepared me a fantastic breakfast of fresh papaya juice with chorizo scrambled eggs and steaming tortillas.  Not long after, Lorena arrived to take me down the print-shop to meet up with Daniel for the trip to Tapijulapa.  She also brought ReDeat with her, a sweet girl from Ethiopia who had been living in Pennsylvania for most of her life.  ReDeat had already been out to the area near Tapijulapa and fallen in love with it – this time she wanted to go back and look for a job there for the rest of the summer.  So that morning, Daniel, ReDeat and I made the hour long drive out to the countryside and as we began to ascend into the rolling hills near the northern border of Chiapas, the landscape became thicker and leafier.  When we finally arrived, we disembarked and walked down to a river at the bottom of the hill to await a lancha (longboat), that would come to pick us up and carry us down the river to the jungle resort where ReDeat was seeking employment.  It was a beautifully blue skied day, and only a few minutes after embarking on the lancha and speeding down the river the motor died and our captain used a long wooden pole to push the boat downstream through the shallow riverbed.  Not long after, we arrived at the docks and hopped off, making our way up the hill and through little wooden plank fjorded rivers, low hanging canopies, and finally out into an open grassy courtyard, filled with small cabanas and green tie-dyed tropical foliage.  We went in to the main office and sat for a while during ReDeat’s interview, and after some coaxing, it looked like she had landed the job.  Afterwards, we decided to tour the vast property, strolling down little trails through the woods, spotting peacocks, and then hiking out to the nearby waterfalls for a dip.  We stripped down to our bathing suits underneath the cascading crystal waters of the falls and bathed for a few hours in the cool river waters beneath the thick treetops above.  Of course, it didn’t take long for me to get hungry and suggest that we go find lunch, so again we packed up our things and made our way back to the van, this time utilizing a treacherous looking Indiana Jones style rope bridge over the river, which I couldn’t resist rocking precipitously back and forth to tease ReDeat as we crossed the brown waters from a hundred feet above.  For lunch we made our way to the town of Tapijulapa, which was a sleepy little red and white painted village with terra-cotta roofed cottages.  We ate empanadas and tortas to quench our hunger, and when we had finished, embarked on the journey back to the city.

    That evening, Cecilia, Carlos and I met up for a quick dinner out at the taco stands near Carlos’ apartment and for me to say goodbye to Carlos, as I would be heading out the following morning.  We sat out on the street-side in plastic lawn chairs as we ate and once we had finished Carlos drove us back across town to Cecilia’s house where we said goodnight.  Cecilia and I sat up chatting in the living room for a short while and I was so glad to have met such a wonderfully fun and witty person as her during my time in Villahermosa.  In the morning, Louisa took me to search for a bicycle store for some parts for my ride, but unfortunately these parts don’t seem to be very common south of the U.S. border.  After a fruitless search, she dropped me off on the outskirts of town and I continued my journey towards Palenque.  After cycling for some time, then taking a short ride across a vast, dusty construction zone, I eventually made it to the turn off for Palenque and knew that I was in the final stretch.  I rode through the lush green fields for some time and then finally arrived in the town of Palenque, found a hostel and called it a night.

    When morning dawned I carried my bike down the stairs to the street and hopped on to make the short voyage out to the ruins of Palenque, about a half an hour away.  It was a hilly little road, with the mountains of Chiapas looming off to the left side as I pedaled along.  The last stretch was a steep uphill climb, and as I pulled into a clearing at the top, I saw the tourist vans and indigena kiosks scattered around the parking lot.  I purchased a ticket for the ruins, a bottle of water, and headed in to explore my second set of ruins in Mexico, but this time, Mayan.  It was a beautiful site, with temples built into the mountainside, throughout the fields, overlooking the plains below, and tucked into the dense jungle nearby.  However, my plan was to tour the ruins and still be back at the hotel by checkout time, so after a few hours I checked my watch and decided that it was time to return to the town.  Once I arrived, I repacked my things and prepared for the daunting task of riding up in to the mountains of Chiapas.  For several hours I rode, straight uphill on windy roads cut alongside the steep mountains, in scalding, intolerable heat.  I forged on, but know that under these conditions I could not continue for much longer.  When I saw the sign for the waterfalls of Misol-Ha, I didn’t even hesitate as I turned the handlebars in the direction of the side road, thinking only of cold, delicious water.  At the entrance to the falls, I asked a security guard if he would watch my mount and almost ran down to the waterfall at the end of the road, peeled my sweat soaked clothes off and dove in to the refreshing mountain pool at the bottom of the crashing waters.  I swam around for some time, trying to decide what my next move would be, and when I met a few other travelers basking in the sun on the huge rocks beside the pool, they told me that the colectivo shuttles stop on the sides of the main road and run to Ocosingo, then to San Cristobal de las Casas.  Before leaving, I joined them to explore the pitch black caves below the waterfall which were filled with the roar of yet another unseen waterfall inside the mountainside.  Then finally, it was time to go, and I returned to my bike to ride back out to the main road and pray for a colectivo to deliver me from the skin melting heat to the chilly fabled highlands of San Cristobal.

Reaching a Slow Boil

    The first change that I noticed as I flew swiftly down from the highlands of Xalapa was the dramatic rise in temperature.  Whereas the morning had dawned cool and overcast in Xalapa, as I approached the low coastal plains I could almost feel my skin melting as the blinding sunlight pervaded the landscape.  However, it was my first day back on my chariot in over two weeks and I was well rested and anxious to arrive in the Port of Veracruz, my next destination.  And only one flat tire and a short five and a half hour ride later, I was there.  After taking one wrong turn on a road which had apparently been detoured, I redirected and was passing quickly in to the town center.  Fortunately, Aldo had gifted me a map of Veracruz before I left Xalapa and as I neared Paulina’s neighborhood, only a few blocks southeast of the centro, I consulted the map to check my cross streets.  At this point in time I wasn’t quite familiar with the word callejon, but as I rode the last two blocks to her apartment, I quickly realized that it meant alleyway, by the tiny little street that was wedged in between the clustered two story buildings on both sides – and only a half a block from the boardwalk along the ocean.

    When I arrived and called Paulina from downstairs, she told me that she would be right out, and after waiting at the foot of the stairs beneath her second story apartment, a sweet, and welcoming voice called down to me.  Finally, Paulina, the girl that I had been corresponding with online for the past several weeks and couldn’t wait to meet!  And she was even more adorable and sweet in person than I could have imagined.  Paulina worked as an announcer for one of the popular radio stations in Veracruz and listening to her deliciously witty and smooth words was a pleasure unto itself.  Once I had made the three trips up the stairs to lug first my equipment, and then the bike up, Paulina and I quickly got acquainted.  We had plans to head to the Zocalo that evening, so I didn’t waste any time in finding the shower (as you can probably imagine the state I was in after riding all day in that heat) and about an hour after I had arrived we were already hopping into her car and headed for the center of town.  When we arrived, we found a table amidst the rows of outdoor seating, surrounded by live musicians in every direction, playing all varieties of Mexican music.  It was a Saturday night and quite a lively atmosphere, and only moments after we sat down, her friends began to arrive, one by one.  By the time we were all assembled, there were five of us in all, and although they had all eaten, they were happy to sit and enjoy a beer with me while I tried one of the tortas which Paulina recommended (which quickly became my favorite dish – like a huge improvement on what americans call a sandwich, and even usually made with fresh baked bread).  I had soon assimilated into the group of friends, who apparently all worked for the radio station, and after we finished our drinks we headed out to hit the bars.  That night found us dancing and rolling in laughter around a table with two bottles of rum where Carlos and I quickly took a liking to one another’s senses’ of humor.

    For the next several days, I lounged around Veracruz in the stifling heat, just relaxing and not really having the motivation to do absolutely anything as the temperatures crossed the boiling point, the winds died to a dull stillness, and the humidity soaked through every new outfit as it touched my skin.  And although Paulina was both working all day and taking classes in the evening, Carlos’ schedule was much more open, as he was only taking a few classes and working sporadically.  Consequently, we managed to laze around the city together, heading to the beach one day, out to his friend Marling’s house on another, me tagging along to a birthday party that Carlos was singing at, drinking Micheladas (beer with salsa-like spices and a type of tomato juice) at a pool on the boardwalk by Paulina’s apartment, and heading to the movie theater at the Plaza de las Americas in Boca del Rio on my last day there.  All in all it was quite a languid, and although unbearably hot, nevertheless pleasant week spent in Veracruz.  But as the days rolled by all that I could think about was relief, and that meant getting out of the fire.

    So, finally, I left.  On my last morning there, Carlos came by and we sliced up cantaloupe, apples, bananas and pears, and breakfasted on them alongside some delicious sweet breads (no, not that kind of sweet bread).  Then we said our goodbyes and I was back on the road and sweatin’ it out.  But, the one relief of riding is that you create your own wind as you go, plus, you’re so completely soaked in sweat that hygiene seems like less of an issue – oh joy.  It wasn’t far to my first destination, and after a five hour ride I was arriving in the tiny little port town of Alvarado nestled alongside a high ridge which was wedged between the ocean and a wide open bay.  I hadn’t originally planned to spend the night there in Alvarado, but as this town was the first of three in a string of contacts which my mother’s friend Maria had helped to put me in touch with, and after a feeling the my skin smoldering in the bright afternoon sun for most of the day, I was ready for relief.  When I arrived at the town hall and found Maria’s friend, we chatted briefly, and although he was in the middle of his work-day, he was able to point me towards a nearby budget hotel.  And although this was around four in the afternoon, there wasn’t really much more of a story to Alvarado – I arrived in the hotel room, showered, and basically collapsed on the bed from heat exhaustion.  And with the exception of waking briefly after a few hours to find dinner and a bottle of ice cold water (no, of course the hotel didn’t have air conditioning!), it was back to sleep again until the following morning.

    When I awoke the next morning, I had only one task to complete before leaving town, and that was to find a local laboratorio and see if they couldn’t tell me just what exactly it was that had kept me in and out of sickness for the past several weeks (which I’ve mostly omitted from this journal, as they haven’t particularly been pleasant experiences and I think I do enough complaining about the part where I’m on a bicycle in the hot sun anyway).  Well, so there I went with my little sample in a lab cup, walking down the street of a little Mexican port town in search of the lab.  Didn’t take too long though, and fortunately the kindly lady who owned the lab told me that she could have my results for me in just a few hours.  When I returned I discovered that I had not one, but two little friends living inside of me and couple of days later, after consulting my references, I began a new regiment of medication.

    That afternoon I rode onward, and although it was not on my route, Tlacotalpan was a little town only a few miles inland from the coast which had come highly recommended to me, and in which I would find the second friend in my human scavenger hunt.  And what a pleasure it was to head towards Tlacotalpan.  After I crossed the high bridge which turned away from the coastal ridge at a right angle and gently sloped down to the coastal plains amidst endless fields and a wide river on the horizon, I was greeted by a perfectly flat, gracefully curving road.  The road ran along the deliciously sparkling, azure blue river, flanked by palm fronds and low, grassy, spring-green vegetation on all sides.  As I drew towards the end of the eight mile stretch in to Tlacotalpan, I began to see the brightly painted little structures of the town beyond a short stretch of palm stands.  The town appeared perfectly relaxed and sleepy, and again, although I had only planned to make a side excursion for the day and then return to my route, I found myself quite enchanted and in the mood to pass away the afternoon in leisure and had soon decided to stay a while.  It didn’t take me long to find “Paleta Pepe,” a kindly older gentleman whom I chatted with for a while in the shade of his paleteria on the corner of the lovely little town zocalo.  As we chatted, I enjoyed the lime paleta (like what american’s call a popsicle, but hand made, and yes, more delicious haha) which he had offered me, and as we finished our conversation he was able to point me in the direction of a nearby guest-house, which I would never have been able to find on my own, and which turned out to be quite a boon as the town’s hotel prices were highly overinflated (and the guest-house was wonderfully comfortable, and gave me yet another opportunity to practice my spanish with the sweet and inquisitive family with whom I spent the night).  The afternoon found me reading beneath the umbrella of a quaint little arched veranda cafe alongside the town plaza, sipping coffee and hand-squeezed lemonade well into the evening.  Once I had also finished off a yummy pierna torta, I strolled back through the dim and tranquil little streets to my home for the night, amidst the rolling squeaks of hundreds of tiny geckos which clung to the sides of the shadowed pastel houses.

    I awoke refreshed and ready for my ride the next day and after finding a fantastic little spot only a few blocks away for my breakfast (which was apparently quite popular with the locals), I was headed back towards the coastal highway and the road to Lerdo de Tejada.  By now I had grown quite accustomed to the heat, and although there had been a wonderful breeze in Tlacotalpan, I didn’t seem to mind the humid haze as I cheerfully road along the ridge, with the view of the gentle river way down below off to my right.  After a few hours I had descended down into a wide, flat field region and was making wonderful progress.  By early afternoon I had already reached Lerdo and began the hunt for the third and final member of my search.  Finally, after searching with some difficulty, I located the hotel which “Goyo” ran and was greeted with a warm welcome, as he had been expecting me for some weeks.  After a few minutes of getting acquainted, we were joined by his wife and I parked my bike inside as we boarded their car to head for a nearby seafood restaurant.  And what a restaurant it was!  I had the most fantastic ensalada de camarones (shrimp salad), not like a leafy green salad, but instead a dish of heaps of tiny little river shrimp in a creamy dressing with tortilla chips – yummm, I can still taste them now.  After lunch we headed back to drop of Goyo’s wife and then out to Maria’s family’s farm for a tour of the fields.  And a terrific tour it was.  After off-roading for several miles through the hilly green fields, we began to drive through high sugar cane fields, some still green and lush, others scorched and harvested.  Goyo explained the harvesting process to me and then we drove around to another side of the rancho where healthy cows grazed in verdant fields alongside a wide, beautiful lake at the foot of a low hillside.  We chatted for a while and then headed back towards town.  But on the way we spotted a makeshift outdoor bar, perched atop the pinnacle of a steep hill, made from just a few suspended tarps and slanted corrugated steel strips perched atop wooden pillars, and with bougainvillea and other shrubs for the walls.  Ah yes, this was the perfect bar, like a Corona ad, miles away from the ordinary, and with a leisurely view out across the rolling, tree lined fields off to the horizon.  As we continued our conversation at the little bar and enjoyed mini bottles of Sol, chickens pecked about in the loose sand around our feet and a group of three field workers laughed jovially at one of the only two other table on the hilltop.  The ambience and the beverages had put us in a delightfully relaxed state, and as we hopped back into the pickup and bumped along through the fields I felt glad to have made yet another friend in a far away place and was grateful for yet another one of the new worlds which I had been given the opportunity to peer into.

The Return to Veracruz

    After returning from my stroll through Coyoacan, I was greeted by David at his apartment.  It was early evening and he had a friend named Lydia who would be arriving at the bus station shortly, coming from Acapulco.  We just had enough time for a quick beer before heading out to meet her at the Toscaña station on the South side of the city.  When we pulled up to the station, the traffic was swarming around the front entrance, so David pulled his car up along the sidewalk further down the street and I hopped out to go find Lydia.  After only a few minutes of searching, I quickly found the only tall blond girl in the building and yelled out her name across the crowd.  From the first moment of meeting, we began conversation as if we had known one another for years.  Lydia was living in Brooklyn, New York, and had come down to Mexico with her friends for a break from the city and, like me, had found a view into another amazing world.  She had a completely laid back and comical aura about her, and although I had been enjoying mingling with the people of Mexico City, it was refreshing to have someone from back in my old town to cut up with, and so we did.

    We headed for Lydia’s hotel on the Northeast side of the city, near Condesa, and after she had settled in and changed for the evening, we headed out to search for some entertainment.  Unfortunately, as it was a Sunday night, and the night before Cinco de Mayo, downtown was a bit of a ghost-town, so we thought we would check out the Zona Rosa.  As we navigated through the little streets of the normally busy neighborhood, we soon found that it was the same story here.  However, as we walked down the quiet streets, we heard the thumping sound of fast paced salsa music floating down from the second story of corner building nearby.  Ready for a drink and not too optimistic about our options, we readily redirected in the direction of the music and were soon upstairs, sipping incredibly weak cocktails (which turned out to just be pineapple juice) and subsequently opening Pandora’s Box – tequila shots.  After a few drinks and raucous laughter, it was time for some dancing, and as the little rainbow of disco lights wheeled about the dance floor in the dark bar, Lydia made her best effort at showing me her Dirty Dancing moves.  And indeed, we were quite a spectacle as we both struggled to lead and bounced along to the quickly increasing tempo of the kitchy latin music blaring around us.  Another few hours of this and it was time to head out and get some sleep.  Fortunately, I hadn’t hit it too hard with the alcohol, and not long after, I was back at the apartment and out for the count.

    When I awoke the following morning, bright sunlight streamed in through the sheer white curtains draped in front of the wide glass windows of the fourth floor apartment.  I heard conversation in the living room and assumed that, as had become the custom since arriving in the D.F., it was probably somewhere around noon.  Feeling somewhat groggy and ready for a shower, I grabbed a change of clothes and headed out to the bathroom.  When I opened the door to the living room, I was greeted by two new faces, Couchsurfing friends who had come in from Guatemala that morning.  Genevieve and Mateo had been traveling together for the past two months and were returning to Mexico City after their voyage before heading home.  Although I wasn’t quite ready for conversation this abruptly after waking up, we all introduced ourselves and I continued on to the shower, hoping that a good rinse would wake me up and put me more in the mood for socializing.  Fortunately, I was right, and after I had cleaned up and dressed, I sat in the living room with the new arrivals and we began to get acquainted.  Genevieve had been living in San Francisco for the past several years and had a genuinely lively personality, conversation flowing flowing forth from her without inhibition.  And the somewhat quieter Mateo was from Quebec, but had been traveling for the past three years.  He maintained a wizened silence a great deal of the time, but was completely amicable and walked the streets of Mexico City without shoes for the entirety of his stay.  By the time we had all gotten to know one another, the afternoon was already begin to dwindle away, and as David had some errands to run, the other three of us prepared for our day’s excursion.

    First we headed for the markets near downtown to search for leather and fabrics for Genevieve’s burgeoning purse making career.  We pushed through the bustling street, crowded with tented kiosks, wheeled vendor carts, and throngs of locals, ducking into side alleys behind the tents to discover covert fabric stores.  After a few hours of searching and battling crowds, we decided for a change of scenery and headed for the Plaza de las Tres Culturas (after a brief stop to search for a Skype microphone, making the metro connections somewhat of a hassle).  When we emerged from the metro station on the north side of the city, an eerily still and quiet park greeted us ahead, not particularly pleasing to the eye, and complemented by a somber pale gray sky looming beyond.  After asking for directions to the Plaza, it was only a few minutes longer before we found the intersection we were looking for.  As we crossed the elevate pedestrian bridge over a major thoroughfare, the Plaza came in to view on the other side – and although filled with history, somewhat aesthetically less appealing than I had expected.  We roamed around the site for the next hour or so, passing along the periphery of the ancient pre-hispanic ruins, slowly pacing through the old gothic cathedral, commenting on the rather dull, late 20th century architecture, and finally making our way back towards the metro station after a stop for some vegetarian pizza.  That evening, when we returned to the apartment, David and Lydia were there to greet us and we lolled around, chatting, listening to music, and occasionally breaking into dance when the right beat struck us.  As we grew weary, we planned to meet up to head to the witch’s market of Sonora the next day, and wrapped up our long day of exploration.

    About an hour after waking up we were already arriving at Sonora that following morning, as both Lydia and Genevieve had to catch their flights back home that afternoon.  Our little party of travelers ducked and weaved through the narrow market alleyways, spotting skulls, mystic herbs, candles, and eery undead statues around every corner.  However, it was a quick visit, and although we had intended to find some tasty insects to sample, we had apparently come to the wrong part of the market and were already heading back to catch the metro before accomplishing our goal.  Soon thereafter we were saying our goodbyes to Lydia at the station, and already planning the next time that we would meet – hopefully in South America in the next few months.  Genevieve, Mateo, and I headed back to the apartment where Genevieve finished packing before Mateo escorted her out to the airport.  Feeling a wave of exhaustion sweep over me, I deemed this a perfect opportunity to take a quick nap in the relaxing afternoon warmth and amber haze of Mexico City.  When I awoke several hours later, it was to the sound of Mateo’s voice out on the street several floors below, asking if I could let him in to the building.  We decided to cook at home that evening, and took a stroll out to the nearby markets, buying heaps of fresh produce, baked breads, and stopping for a quick paleta on the way back.  The menu for the evening was a delicious vege-pasta, and as we sliced tomatoes, zucchinis, and carrots, we had ample time to catch up on one another’s lives – where we had come from, the crossroads of our lives, and where we saw ourselves down the road.  As we finished cooking dinner and the pasta sat steaming away in a large bowl on the living room table, David returned and we sat to enjoy dinner together.  Afterwards, I headed out to meet up with Rafael and catch up on the news from his out of town trip over the weekend, as well as some unusually comical conversation.

    On Wednesday I figured I would stroll around Condesa and Roma by day, so as to enjoy the picturesque streets by sunlight.  Several hours and a number of shops later, I was ready for a change of scenery and found myself meandering down Paseo de la Reforma to Chapultepec Forest, the Central Park of Mexico City.  I mingled with crowds of tourists making their way down the cobblestoned paths to the zoo in the hot afternoon air, admiring the view of the city over the emerald colored lagoons on my way.  As I spotted the Castle of Chapultepec up on the hill nearby, I decided to make that my next destination.  Not long after, I was chugging along up the spiral walkway that wound up the hill to the summit.  When I arrived, I was pleasantly surprised by the gorgeously intricate detail-work of the magnificent castle, and the black and white checkerboard courtyards that wrapped around the structure.  The views from the balconies over the city wrapped around in every direction and helped me to piece together the jigsaw puzzle of neighborhoods that I was now finally starting to become familiar with.  By now the afternoon sun had left me feeling rather sticky and with a thin layer of perspiration soaking through my clothes, and as I made my way back to the metro station, I chatted with a new friend that I had made while exploring the castle.  Unfortunately, some of the trains in the D.F. haven’t quite discovered the beauty of air conditioning in public transit, and it was quite a sweaty and crowded ride back to Portales.  By the time I had climbed up the four flights of stairs to the apartment, I was quite ready for a shower and started to get ready before heading out for some drinks and dinner in Condesa that evening.

    When I met up with Rafael several hours later, we both agreed that a few sips of mezcal would be a fun way to start out the night.  We took a stroll down to the nearby mezcal bar which we had visited the week before and, once the potent little liquor had painted big smiles on our faces, we headed to a nearby restaurant to meet up with some friends for dinner.  Unfortunately, by this time I had started to feel a little under the weather, and as I tried to focus to piece together some of the fast paced conversation at dinner, I hoped that my stomach would soon start to feel better and allow me to enjoy the rest of my evening.  But alas, it was not to be, and when we headed out for a few drinks at a bar shortly thereafter, my clock began ticking before the point that I knew it was most definitely time to go.  That night and the next day were spent almost completely bedridden, as I battled yet another bout of unfortunate stomach issues, and began yet another regimen of meds in the hopes of finally solving the issue.  Fortunately, Rafael’s maid was in that day and was more than gracious enough to take care of me, cooking a light lunch and making sure that I was attended to.  That evening was spent lazing around Rafael’s apartment, troubleshooting a cantankerous Apple TV installation, and passing away the hours with several episodes of Nip Tuck.

    The next morning it was finally time for me to get myself in gear and get out of the D.F., and after Rafael headed to the airport for Cancun, I made my way to the TAPO bus station to catch my ride back to Xalapa.  By early afternoon I was on an ADO bus back to the highlands of Veracruz, and six and a half hours later was finally disembarking the bus in the chilly evening air.  I headed down to the Palacio Municipal by the Xalapa Zocalo to meet up with Aldo, who was still at work, and pick up a set of keys for the apartment from him.  We briefly caught up on the events of the past two weeks as we stood in the Palacio courtyard, the live music of a Friday night wafting across the Zocalo towards us.  Then I headed back to the apartment, where I began packing for my departure the following morning.  

    As usual, the next day saw me taking much longer to get my bike loaded up and ready to head of town than I had planned, but around midday I was bidding farewell to Aldo, thanking him sincerely for his wonderful hospitality, and then pedalling towards the highway to the Port of Veracruz.  As I sped along the hours of downhill roadway towards the coast, I though back over the incredible past two and a half weeks that I had spent in Xalapa and Mexico City and felt that I was finally beginning to understand and be welcomed into Mexican Culture.  What I had seen so far and the fascinating and eclectic friends that I had made had whet my appetite for adventure and new social encounters, and as I neared the hot and humid coast I could only hope that life would bring another wave of sights and unusual characters into my world.

Maravilloso Mexico

    Alright, so if you must know, life is absolutely amazing right now.  Of all of the decisions that I could have made with my life right now, I couldn’t have chosen one that gives me more satisfaction, excitement, and beauty every single day.  Although at times I do struggle mercilessly with the arduous riding and oppressive heat, and although I have encountered moments of solitude and loneliness, it is all far better than the dissatisfaction and frustration that I felt with the society and and American life before I left for my journey.  If this is the third world, then maybe being first is very overrated.

    So, were to begin?  Right where I left off, I suppose.  After descending from the hills of Papantla and reaching Costa Esmeralda in Northern Veracruz, I encountered two gentlemen on the beach who had passed in their truck while I was riding along on the highway.  I had spent several days riding incessantly and through some rather sweltering weather, and when they offered me a ride up into the high hills of Xalapa, I eagerly accepted.  Moments later I was in the back of their pickup with my bicycle and speeding off to the cool higher altitude.  The day after I arrived in Xalapa the sun was shining and the air felt fresh and pure.  I met with my new friend Aldo, from CouchSurfing, who proved to be a fantastic host and ambassador to the city.  Aldo truly loves his town and made himself completely available to show me everything that he could in the time that I was there.  I quickly took to his scrupulous nature and playful manner, and before long we were joking like old friends and putting forth our best effort at trading languages.  He invited me to lunch with his friends at the home of Doña Vicky, who cooked us an amazing four course meal and took me on a tour of her beautiful backyard, filled with various types of exotic flowers and flora.  We walked the city, meandering through beautiful and lush parks at dusk, tasting chicharrones, elotes, mole, and other delicious Mexican dishes.  We hiked our way through the thick green canopy to the top of a hill beside the city, passing recreations of Aztec statues, visiting the tiny natural museum, seeing hawks falcons, and finally arriving at the summit to enjoy a magnificent view of the city spread out around us far below in the mist.  Although one of my days there was spent completely bedridden due to an unfortunate illness, Aldo attentively took care of me, cooking a delicious chicken soup, serving me fresh fruit, and making sure that I took my medications on time.  And when I found myself alone while Aldo was at work, I found satisfaction in roaming the quaint streets of Xalapa, winding up the colorful and bustling Diamond Alley, and wiling away the hours in local cafes.  By the time I was finally planning to head to Mexico City, it was difficult to say goodbye, although I knew that I would see him once I returned to Xalapa.

    I had opted to catch a bus to Mexico City, rather than ride my bike, because almost everyone I had encountered had warned me of the treacherous traffic and insidious crime that permeated the city.  Although I never did find the city to be at all dangerous (at least not in any of the places that I went), it seem to turn out to be the right decision to leave the bike behind, although it would have been heaps of fun to ride through the pinball machine streets of the D.F. (Distrito Federal, what everyone here calls Mexico City).  I had really only intended to visit Mexico City for four days, but after falling completely in love with its many faces and never seeming to find enough time to see all of its gorgeous and fascinating faces, I found myself lingering on for much longer.

    Upon arriving in the D.F., I caught the Metro (train) to the apartment of my host, David.  David lived in an area of the city called Portales, a few kilometers south of downtown.  The neighborhood was lively and had all of the amenities that any visitor could ask for within a block or two – groceries, taco and torta stands, fruterias, bakeries, etc. (umm, yes, all of the amenities that Paul ever needs generally have to do with food…).  David himself turned out to be an amazingly welcoming and outgoing person, not only sacrificing his time to help me find a place to fix my camera within a few moments of meeting him, but also sharing an entire world of experience, language, and travel with me.  We instantly became very comfortable around one another and complemented each other well in our desires to learn one anothers’ languages.  I also met David’s cousin Rodrigo, with whom he lived, and his romantic interest, Samantha, whom had come from Australia to visit Mexico City and had found herself staying for several months.  That evening I also met beautiful Cecilia, the girl with the smile that could make anyone feel welcomed, and surrounded by my new and wonderful friends we headed out for a night of laughter, cochinada tacos, gringas, and salsa dancing at at a ridiculously fun and sleazy salsa bar called Barbazul.  

    The following day I found myself tagging along with Rodrigo and Samantha for a delicious breakfast (of which I think the dishes were called chancles, or some other synonym for sandal in Spanish) and to the overwhelmingly abundant Jaimaica Market, while we searched for gifts and props for Rodrigo’s sister’s birthday.  The market was filled with endlessly bright colors, millions of flowers, enough fresh fruit to put Whole Foods to shame, candy, piñatas, freshly butchered meats, and endless other goods.  We wandered around for several hours, and then headed to the historic district to search for silver wire, with which Samantha intended to design a set of entwined amber earrings for Rodrigo’s sister.  As we drove through the little streets surrounding the zona central, I was absolutely enchanted with the lovely myriad of old European architecture which stretched throughout the area and looked forward to the next few days when I would return to stroll the streets at a more leisurely pace.  When we returned to the apartment, the two had plans of their own and I was ready for a little relaxation and decided to stick around the apartment and do some reading.

    Later that evening, I headed out to meet a new friend for the first time, Rafael.  Showering and putting on a fresh outfit (thanks to Aldo’s washing machine!), I walked the ten blocks down the tranquil evening streets of Portales to the metro station.  After of course missing a train right as I was entering the station, I waited several minutes and was soon headed towards Condesa and yet another side of the city which I had not yet seen.  When I emerged from the Patriotismo metro station I was slightly disoriented (as one often is when in a foreign city), but after walking a few blocks Rafael came out to meet me on the street and we made our way towards some local bars for a little taste of D.F. nightlife.  Although Lady Luck didn’t seem to be on our side at first, as the first two spots that we headed to were just closing, and the next two were completely inundated due to the Dia de los Niños (a national holiday in Mexico, where it seems most of the city was off work the next day), the streets of Condesa were delightfully serene and lovely, and Rafael proved to be a witty and intellectually stimulating character to converse with (especially for a traveller who had experienced social withdrawal after spending far too much time in Tamaulipas).  After several strikes, we finally found a hip and glitzy little bar with dark stained wood paneling and stylish victorian furniture where we were able to weasel our way in.  For the next several hours we laughed, sipped some rather novel cocktails, and I met a few of Rafael’s somewhat colorful friends.  All in all the evening was declared a complete success.

    The following morning I headed out to explore the historic district at my own pace, and after strolling the streets around the Zocalo, admiring the lavish architecture, I was met by Rafael, who showed me a fantastic little downtown cafe for lunch.  Afterwards we headed for the Torre Latinoamericana for panoramic a panoramic view over Mexico City.  Once we had descended and lingered about the Alameda to enjoy the scenery, we returned to Condesa for the evening.  After relaxing at Rafael’s apartment briefly, we decided that a taste of mezcal would be a fun diversion and soon thereafter were in a tiny and vibrant mezcal bar, sipping the potent little shots alongside a few cervezas and Oaxaca cheeses.  We had plans to meet some of Rafael’s friends at a restaurant a few blocks away, and once we had boosted our mood with a few drinks, we headed that way.  Once we arrived, we were greeted by a lively and deliciously entertaining group of companions for fantastic conversation and a glimpse into the wonderful circle of friends which Rafael had accumulated.  The next several hours were spent dining amidst vivacious laughter at a sidewalk table out in the relaxingly mellow evening atmosphere of Condesa.

    The following morning Rafael left for a weekend trip to Miami and I found myself once again searching for diversion amidst the massively intimidating options of Mexico City.  I decided to head back to the Alameda where we had left off and to visit the Palacio de las Bellas Artes.  The building itself was an architectural masterpiece, and although I only spent a brief while within its galleries, exploring the historic national video exhibit and murals, I was quite content to marvel at the building’s design.  Afterwards I found myself leisurely ambling past the fountains and courtyards of the Alameda in the direction of Paseo de la Reforma.  Once on the wide avenue, I stopped into a few artisan markets and took care of a few overdue errands, while stopping to photograph the tasteful monuments which decorated the central islands of the street.  After a few hours I had stumbled into the Zona Rosa and enjoyed its colorful pedestrian walkways, passing my innumerable restaurants, edgy clothing stores, and raucously blaring bars.  The day had begun to turn to dusk and I began to feel the pangs social longing as people passed by me amidst friends and jovial conversation, and I hoped that David would soon be returning from his day’s tasks so that we could meet up for an evening of diversion.  Upon calling him, he informed me that he would head my way in an hour to pick me up and search for some excitement.  I found a quiet restaurant tucked away in an alley off the street and decided to stop in for a beer and some reading while I waited.

    When David pulled up along Calle Londres, we decided to head downtown to a hipster hangout called Patrick Miller.  We stopped for a quick bite at a restaurant around the corner first, and moments later were standing in line outside of the popular urban venue amidst a rather eclectic crowd.  At last, we reached the front of the line and headed inside where David and I grabbed a few beers and joined the crowds in a voyeuristic circle amongst locals watching pairs of club-goers dance to 80’s electro remixes.  Once we had had our fill of cheap beer and laser lights, we decided to head to another spot to meet with David’s friend Valeria and her companion.  We arrived at the hole in the wall bar where high energy Mexican jams spilled out onto the sidewalk, and were soon inside the shoulder to shoulder crowd ordering buckets of beer and bouncing to the wild music as I pretended to hear what my group of friends were saying as I nodded my head and laughed whenever it seemed appropriate.  Finally, circa four in the morning and completely exhausted, we headed back to the apartment where I soon passed out after my long day of adventure.

    Needless to say, I awoke some time in the afternoon the next day, and lacking the motivation to explore far from the apartment, I decided relax for a while.  David had gone to pick up a friend of his from San Francisco who was soon planning to move to Cuernavaca, and when they returned we decided that we would head out to pick up David’s little brother on the North side of the city and then drive to the canals of Xochimilco on the South end.  Well, this plan was all good and well, but after battling Mexico City traffic for several hours, the day was already beginning to dwindle away as we headed back south, and when we neared Portales, our appetites had grown and we opted to pass back by the apartment to cook dinner before heading anywhere else.  David prepared a fantastic vegetable penne which his friend from Italy had shown him while visiting, and we all sat at the table in the living room as dusk descended upon the endless city in hazy hues of pink and pale cobalt outside of the wide glass windows of David’s fifth floor apartment.  After dinner the rest of my company decided to head to the cinema to watch Iron Man, but not being much of a movie buff myself I was content to stay at the apartment and do some reading.  However, as is typical with me, after several hours the party had not returned and I was growing restless.  So of course, being a Saturday night in an alluring foreign city, I decided to get myself cleaned up and go look for some trouble.

    I emerged from the Insurgentes metro station unsure of where exactly I was going or what the night had in store for me, but honestly believing that I would show up at some bar, wander around alone for twenty minutes, get bored, and then head back to the apartment – having satisfied my curiosity.  But after discovering a somewhat happening looking bar, waiting in line for almost a half an hour, and paying a cover charge reminiscent of Manhattan, I had no choice but to stay and live it up.  Fortunately, once I had acquired a cocktail and wandered up to the third floor rooftop deck, I soon met with two hilarious young ladies from a city just north of Mexico and found myself lost in conversation and out on the dance floor until the early hours of the morning.  

    When I awoke the next day, right around lunchtime (Mexican lunchtime) I mentally checked my list of places that I had yet to visit in the D.F. and decided that the bohemian neighborhood of Coyoacan would be just the ticket for some Sunday afternoon leisure.  Finding myself in no hurry and no direct metro route to Coyoacan, I began walking southwest, and about half an hour later I had stumbled upon Frida Kahlo’s famous blue house.  I popped into the now converted museum to enjoy the ample art and history, stopping especially extensively to admire my favorite piece, a timeline of Mexican history through Frida Kahlo’s eyes.  Upon completing my tour and passing out of the tranquil blue courtyard, I followed the adjacent street south towards the heart of Coyoacan and found a cozy cafe, where I felt it was only prudent to stop in and sample some of the renowned coffee which the neighborhood is famous for.  Fortunately, the cafe was also equipped with wireless and I was able to while away a few hours catching up on the inevitabilities of life.  When I finally packed up and continued my tour of the quaint city streets, a somber sunset had bathed the rooftops in dull, fiery tones and the long shadows of the buildings clustered close to the street set a languid mood in the early evening.  I waded through a crowd gathered around a rock performance by the Zocalo and made my way a few more blocks south, peeking into warmly lit cafes and restaurants before ducking down peaceful tree-lined alleyways and then making my way back to the apartment.  It was an entirely romantic evening, and although I only had myself for company, the sense of timelessness and endless distance from the world that I had left behind was enough to bring me pure contentment.

El Tajin to la Costa Esmeralda

    The morning dawned pale and humid in the wide, grassy field outside of el Tajin.  I felt sticky and lethargic, and as I knew that the ruins would not be open to visitors until nine in the morning, I felt no particular rush to sit upright and begin packing my equipment.  However, only a few minutes after I had awoken and lay there in my half daze, staring up at the misty sky, the sound of a loud motor began to grow nearer to my site.  As I leaned towards one of the clear screen windows of the tent, I saw that a huge tour bus was pulling up and reversing to park only several hundred feet from my tent.  Oh great, this was just what I needed, like having an audience to watch me as I drag myself out of my tent in my not so glamorous morning state.  Well, at least I had shaved my head before I left the US.

    As several more tour busses began to pull up and park parallel to the first, nearer and nearer to my tent, it became somewhat less enjoyable to continue lying in my tent as the hundreds of tourists pouring out of the busses loitered around staring at my odd little casita.  So it was up and at em, and shortly I had dressed and packed my things.  Since I would be exploring the ruins, I opted to wear cotton clothing rather than my “sporty” synthetic cycling outfit, so as to not look too out of place.  I rolled my bike towards the front gates shortly before nine and found a security guard to ask where I could safely leave my bike.  He pointed to a spot nearby and told me that he would keep his eye on it, and as he brandished his ominous rifle, I felt that the bike would probably be safe here.  I squeezed through massive groups of school children and waited patiently in line for the ticket booth.  Once I had my little ticket stub, I headed over to the gates just as they were allowing visitors and passed through.  At first, I waded amongst the hundreds of children as a tour guide barely in earshot rambled on about something or other about the park, but then I decided that rather than stand here and desperately attempt to understand what he was saying, I would go off on my own.

    I skirted the side of the tour group and passed forward towards the ruins, strolling farther into the hazy, muted silence beyond the guide.  Up ahead, the grounds were deserted and I rather enjoyed the solitude and the opportunity to truly admire the ancient structures surrounding me and stare pensively as I dreamed of the ancient civilizations and how this place might once have been.  The ruins were quite expansive and I found myself wandering around for quite some time, always searching for the perfect picture angle and taking the time to bask in the inspiration around me.  The next two hours dwindled away there in el Tajin, but at last I had looped through the compound and saw that it was almost time for the Voladores show out by the front gates.  Although I wasn’t sure exactly what the show was, I knew that it had something to do with men in traditional garb performing some kind of acrobatics from atop a pole several hundred feet high.  When neared the performance area, I passed by a small tourist information stand and the young ladies there told me that the show wasn’t actually for another half an hour.  The two girls turned out to be incredibly helpful and I enjoyed spending some time recounting my journey to them, of which they were quite fascinated.  Then, before the show started, I figured that I would head over to one of the nearby food kiosks for a quick meal and found a little canopied area and some tacos.  As I sat and ate, a cute little niña who looked like she was possessed, writhed around on the floor near my feet, dramatically muttering something in spanish over and over again, in between glances over to me to see if I was paying attention.  I rather enjoyed the diversion as I sat and ate, and too be honest with you, it was more entertaining than the show which I was to see thereafter.  

    When I finished my lunch, I returned to the Voladore spectator area just as the show was beginning.  Five men in bright tunics with little fringed caps perched high atop the edges of a tiny platform at the top of the towering pole while one of them stood hunched in the center playing a small, faerie-like flute.  I gathered amongst all of the other tourists to wait and see what incredible spectacle was to come, and as I did, another man in one of the tunics passed through the crowd collecting donations.  Like a responsible viewer, I threw several pesos into the hat and waited for the show to get fully underway.  As I sat and waited and waited, the sweat soaking through my shirt in the balmy noonday heat, I hoped that the performance would soon commence so that I could begin making some progress for the day, at least enough to hopefully reach Xalapa on the following evening.  Finally, after about twenty minutes, the man collecting donations had approached everyone and the show began.  The Voladores atop the platform gently slipped backwards from their tower, feet coiled in a long yellow rope, arms outstretched to their sides, and slowly spun ever lower around the pole.  I waited for the acrobatics to begin and some kind of breathtaking climax… but it never came.  The four men just continued to slip towards the ground torturously slowly while the one atop the platform continued playing his flute.  Finally, the reached the floor below, and that was it, the show was over.  Hunh, I think I just got swindled…

    So anyway, as you can see, I don’t particularly recommend the show, a bit overrated in my opinion.  Anyway, it was time to go, so I went and grabbed my bike and headed for the road.  I decided that since Papantla appeared to be only a few short miles away on the map, I would just keep my cotton clothing on until I reached the town and then change once there.  Unfortunately, this turned out to be a big mistake, as I soon saw a massive hill rising to my left, and a moment later spotted a sign with an arrow pointing directly towards it in the direction of Papantla.  I thought to myself, perhaps the road will simply skirt around the hill, but no, it insisted on going straight up.  I plodded along, seriously struggling, and literally pouring down sweat, my shirt completely saturated and stuck to my skin.  Alright, so wearing those clothes was a big mistake, and I was going to have to find a place to wash my only two outfits very quickly once I reached Xalapa.  Oh, how arduous was that hill, and finally, as I thought that I was approaching the halfway point of the climb (although I wasn’t sure since the road snaked around the summit) I could take no more!  I dismounted from the bicycle and pathetically pushed it up the steep incline.  Wow, now I really realized just how ridiculously heavy the beast was.  It was actually almost more difficult to leverage all my weight into pushing the bike than it was to just pedal.  But my legs were sore and my knees needed a break in order to continue riding farther that day.  So on I went.  And yes, as you’ve probably suspected, once I rounded one of the side winding loops of the hill, I saw that the road was actually carved through the summit of the current hill and continued ever higher into an adjacent hill which had been concealed from below.  Up ahead I spotted a sign and thought to myself, at last, I must be near Papantla!  But once I got near enough to read it, I saw that it in fact had the names of two completely different towns and pointed towards the only route ahead.  I began to panic – what if I had come al this way up for nothing!  What if I had read the sign back at the foothills incorrectly and Papantla had been straight ahead!  In the smoldering afternoon waves of heat it was difficult to be sure of anything any more, and I simply longed to see the little town and be done with the miserable hill.  I saw a motorcycle approaching around the bend before me and flagged him down to ask whether this was the right way or not.  As he stopped and I questioned him, he indeed agreed that I was headed in the right direction and I breathed a sigh of relief.

    Much to my satisfaction, the town really was just over that last crest, and once I had managed to reach the other side, the road began to descend gently and I began to see the little houses at the periphery of the village.  A few moments later I was riding down tiny, windy streets with bright buildings build almost right up to the pot-hole pocked pavement.  I careened along slowly, looking for the signs that would most certainly point me in the direction of the Centro and finally spotted one.  Sadly, it pointed up a hill to my right, after I had already been crusining downwards.  And these were no ordinary hills, the town was cozily perched into the steep mountainsides, and I opted to again dismount and instead push the bike through town, especially since the narrow passes were not quite so accommodating for both a wide-load bicycle and an automobile.  But I was almost there and felt slightly more relaxed now that I was in the urban center.  As I neared the busier section of the town, I stopped dead in my tracks.  What was that I smelled?  A bakery, my weakness!  And not just any ol’ bakery, as there are tons in Mexico, but one which exuded an especially sumptuous aroma.  I found myself irresistibly drawn in and moments later had leaned up my bike and was inside with my little metal tray and tongs, heaping all kinds of little buns, cookies, and other baked goods onto the tray.  Once I was satisfied, I headed over to the register, payed the mere thirty pesos for the massive bag and returned to the street.  I pushed myself further up the hill and at the crest, I saw another street off to my left, and down below, the zocalo.  Yay!  I had made it!

    And what a fantastic place it was, like a relaxing, social oasis of indulgence.  People strolled about casually, ice cream carts with little bells pushed along the streets, and brightly colored tiendas wrapped around the square.  A high terra cotta colored church loomed off to the side of the square while wide, leafy trees within the plaza provided amble shade and small bands of musicians turned out pleasing tunes to complete the atmosphere.  Yes, this was a welcome sight after the past few days of arduous riding and not particularly lively towns that I had passed through.  Unfortunately, I had already set my goal for the day and had to be halfway down the Costa Esmeralda by nightfall.  So I sat, enjoyed my bread, had a small cup of ice cream and a bottle of water, then reluctantly began to lead my bike back to the street out of town.  After asking a few different people along the way for directions out to the main road, I finally found it and began to journey back to the coast.  Fortunately, since I had climbed to such a high elevation over the past few days, the remainder of the journey was mostly downhill.  However, not all downhill.  At times the road would suddenly skyrocket upwards and weary legs would just spin incessantly as I put the bike into low gear and tugged along.  At one point I reached the peak of one such hill and stopped for a large, chilled bottle of water.  The quaint restaurant was empty at that hour of the early afternoon, but as I walked in, I saw that there were no walls on three sides and the dining room looked out over the entire wide open verdant valley down below, almost to the coast.  A cool, floating breeze wafter by, cooling me as I sat briefly to recuperate.

    When I returned to my bike, I forged ahead over hills and under forested canopies.  Yet, not long after, I saw a sign for Gutierrez Zamora and knew that it would not be long now.  I reached the outskirts of the town and continued riding, not wanted to stop and lose my momentum.  After crossing the wide rive on the far side of the town, the road ahead began to flatten out and I hoped that this was the beginning of the coastal plain leading out to Costa Esmeralda.  I passed over several more small bridges fording tiny creeks, and after some time I began to spot sporadic stands of tall palms.  This particular form of flora had a distinctive coastal look to it and I quickened my pace in anticipation.  At long last, the palms went from a sporadic sighting to a long endless string stretched along the horizon.  No doubt this was it.  I saw the sign off to my side welcoming me to Costa Esmeralda and ached to see the ocean and stop for a real meal.  At the first turn off towards the water I pulled off the main road and only several hundred feet ahead saw the white sandy beaches.  I pushed the bike through the impeding sands until I was at the top of the dune and then laid it up against a small wall.  The mystically delicious azure blue waves in front of my lapped gently against the beach and disappeared endlessly off in the distance.  Ah, paradise!

    As I practically dragged my bedraggled carcass towards the sparkling waters, like a desperado towards a oasis mirage, I was hailed by two smiling gentlemen not far down the beach.  One appeared to be somewhat older while the other, about my age.  I began chatting with them and they told me that they had seen me riding earlier in the day.  I told them about my trip and that I was headed to Xalapa.  They told me that they too would be headed that way on business, and offered me a ride in the back of their truck!  Oh what sweet sweet temptation!  I knew that the road to Xalapa would be an incessantly hilly and steep route and considered it for a moment.  Then finally, rationality and the desire to reach civilization (and a shower and washing machine) conquered my pride and I accepted.  A few moments later we were headed to a small roadside restaurant along the beach strip for a quick bite.  Afterwards, they helped me load my bicycle into the back of their spacious wooden fenced truck bed, laid out some blankets for me, and we were off!  I can’t even begin to describe how incredible it felt to lay back there, with the tarp canopy over the railing pulled back halfway, rustling in the wind as we sped towards the cool hills of Xalapa.  Yes, this was the way to travel, Mexican’s have got it figured out.  You can save the boxed in, oppressively air-conditioned, smooth riding luxury cars for the US – I’d rather be alive and out in the open air, on the way to new and enchanting places.