|
[transcribed journal notes — slightly corrected & expanded — written as a stream-of-consciousness travelogue, hence the curious style — you've been warned]
DIA VIENTE DOS:
Wednesday 9 March 2005, Sta Francisca Romana
San Cristobal de Las Casas, Chiapas - afternoon.
We evacuated from Hotel La Noria (no food or drink allowed in rooms) this morning, chased after for the key and TV remote while we reloaded the car. We walked to a nearby joint for desayuna (breakfast) -- a breastfeeding Maya vendor came to pitch her wares, the fat suckling baby staring at me like a gnostic gnome as we said, "No, no!"
At the English-language bookshop La Pared, thanks to the gracious efforts of the proprietor, we connected with a part-time ex-pat (expatriate) with a casita (condo apartment) to rent. The beautiful place will be available in 8 days, and we'll take it for a month at a great price, about US$10 per day.
But that's then and this is now, and we have to get from now to then. So we stomped around town some more, returned to a great hostel we found last night, and took a large colonial room (with a fine north view of garden and mountains) for the interim, at US$16.50 per day including desayunas. This is the Posada Mexico at #16 Dr Felipe Flores, a real gem on a large property (the front half of which was recently a private school).
The bookstore proprietor told us recent horror stories of travel in Guatemala. We may reconsider continuing south. OLD HANDS here tell us San Cristobal le Las Casas (SCLC) is safe. And in the bookstore we ran into an unknown neighbor, Cecile from Bisbee. Will somebody from Amador County pop up next?
Road-weary, we're clean and resting. We're invited to a small cocktail party given by our landlady-to-be, just a block downhill from our hostel. Gosh, we're worming our way (or being sucked) into the ex-pat culture already!
NIGHTTIME: The "cocktail party" turned out to be a gorgeous patio gathering, four hours with 30 people, most of SCLC's US ex-pat community, so we were told. We learned much more than I can (or would want to) record here, including varying opinions on yesterday's scary incident (from "that happens all the time" to "they never threaten anyone") and the Zaps themselves (from "but they're so oppressed" to "they should all be shot") and travel in Guatemala (from "take a bus" to "rent a Guat car" to "don't go"). We met teachers, artists, volunteers, merchants, old farts and young tykes, whatever. We had fun.
Meanwhile, tonight (tomorrow noon really) marks the end of our third week in Mexico (and my first digestive annoyance). We've been on the road almost every day, except briefly during 4 nights in Chachalacas and 4 nights in Palenque. That part's over. For the next few weeks, most major attractions will be within walking distance -- old and colorful buildings, great views, etc. Many experiences will be internal (do digestive upsets count?) Internet access will be tediously constant. We'll easily get back to our stay-six-months budget and still sample one or two eateries per day.
Ah yes, the food. We'll be cooking our own (and we've already been advised/warned about which market stalls to seek or avoid) and we'll be chomping at many establishments. We're told that comedors here aren't stratified by price -- good and bad may cost about the same. Our latest good one: after the party we walked around the corner to Real Guadelupe for a bite and found El Gato Gordo (The Fat Cat), decorated with hip anime wall-renderings and old revolutionary images and psychedelia and all manner of funky crafts, and serving superb cheap food late into the night. And old jazz and rock music, no blaring TV!
Ah, well. Entries in this journal may become sporadic and spotty over the next 5+ weeks. Or I may expound upon culture, politics. whatever. ?Quien sabe?
|
|
DIA VIENTE TRES:
Friday 11 March 2005, San Constantino
San Cristobal de Las Casas (SCLC) - morning.
Yesterday was a down day. We rested, walked around, rested. Early afternoon we walked into the huge, ancient Templo y Ex-Convento de Santo Domingo and the equally huge textile artesans' market that occupies its grounds. In stall after stall, the same blindingly beautiful fabrics, the same trivial crafted products. Wandering Mayan vendors, young children to old crones, hector us to buy the same trivial crafts. All very much like the market spaces in Guatemala, of which Chiapas is historically and culturally a part.
And in front of the church, young girls pulling a scam we'd been warned about. It works like this: outsiders are approached by neatly dressed schoolgirls holding paper lists, questionaires. It's a school project. What does the victim thing about an array of issues? After answering, a 'contribution' is demanded. Refusal to donate may produce screamed insults or even physical attacks. I don't want to be stabbed with a pencil, eh?
BREAK-IN: A fine morning today, except for the break-in. Somewhere around oh-dark-hundred hours we heard a warbling sound. Maureen peered out our barred-and-shuttered street window, said it was a car alarm down the street. And sometime later we were rudely rousted by our own car's honk-honk alarm. I dashed out, turned it off, checked the car -- it seemed OK, except for the bent antenna.
But at breakfast time the night watchman knocked on our door, holding a plate of tempered glass. A rear window panel had been popped out. No real damage and nothing missing, but we'll need it repaired and we'll need to park off the street. We haven't put down a deposit on the casita yet -- we need to find if it has secure parking, else we'll have yet ANOTHER change of plans. Or maybe not.
MID-AFTERNOON: We were directed to a car glass shop this morning -- repair took 1/2 hour, cost 50 pesos (US$4.50). We put down the deposit on the casita, were directed to a secure parking lot, then drove around the edges of this high urban valley and stomped around town some more. Otherwise, nothing to report.
Maureen suggests that I write an article about driving in SCLC. The old town is laid out mostly as a grid, with very little in the way of hills to obstruct traffic. But the streets are narrow and often one-way, and they change names regularly. Some pedestrian streets and some multi-block edifices, and some adjacent streets being one-way in the same direction, just add spice to the driver's day, as do all the usual impediments in Mexican roads. Oh yeah, and street signs (supposedly painted on walls) are often missing or contradictory or obsolete. Any accurate account of a point-to-point drive would sound like free verse, with the names of politicans and generals, and dates and directions and colors and conditions, arrayed like random poetic refrigerator magnets.
At least such an account could be written here. In some places, it would all be fantasy.
|
THE RANT:
Consider some of the events of recent days. Consider the hectoring vendors -- we are now more likely to brush aside all vendors who approach us, rather than possibly be subjected to verbal abuse. Consider the 'questionaires' scam -- we are now more likely to avoid anyone approaching us carrying a clipboard, no matter what their inquiry of cause. Consider those at-the-tope vendors who use little girls to pull up a rope to block the road -- we're now more likely to ignore all roadside vendors, and to drive right throught the ropes. The first or second such encounter may net a few pesos from us, but that's all, EVER. None others will ever get our trade. Thus a few greedy and/or desperate Mayas do all they can to turn us from their people.
And consider that roadblock, the holdup, the death threat. We had perviously felt rather sympathetic to the Zapatistas, to their struggle for indigenous rights against the powerful government and military, the wealthy absentee landlords holdig them in virtual slavery. No more. Our sympathy evaporated when we were told we could be killed. So we're buying no Zap dolls or toys or literature, patronizing no Zap cafes or cinemas or festivals. Fuck'em. A small group may profit from us (and other travelers) just once, but they certainly don't encourage us to place ourselves where we will undergo such an experience again. Do their people and their cause benefit by rousing our antagonism? Ha. Fuck'em.
|
DIA VIENTE CUATRO:
Saturday 12 March 2005, San Gregorio de Nissa
San Cristobal de Las Casas (SCLC), Chiapas - night.
This morning came the finding of cheaper long-term parking near our new digs, then a drive out to the indigenous villages of San Juan de Chamula and San Andres de Zinacatan, to reconnoiter. In Chamula they threw out the last Catholic priest in 1854; they worship the Sun, and John the Baptist. In Zinacatan they follow the Vatican and are much friendlier.
En route we picked up a hitchhiking Argentine couple; he's an architect, she's a programmer. In Zinacatan we talked with bicycling Mitch, a journalist from Berkeley; and Maureen bought a fine huiple, and I, a couple small pots.
Then back to SCLC for resting etc. At night at at the nearby Templo del Carmen Cultural Center, we caught the last of a superb music-dance performance. Then loud music in the zocalo, and at the hostel. (Management says they break the rules just one night a year.) And I sat and played guitar with Michael from Berlin. Otherwise, nothing to report.
DIA VIENTE CINCO:
Sunday 13 March 2005, San Rodrigo, Solomon
San Cristobal de Las Casas (SCLC) - evening.
We're low on tequila. I went to a tienda for a half-liter of sweet 30% aguardiente -- just 6 pesos in Palenque but 10 pesos here. Have I been gringo-gouged?
YESTERDAY: Ok, so there WAS more to report yesterday. Our 30-kilometer trip to San Juan de Chamula and San Andres de Zinacatan was pure recon, ahead of the tour buses. (Actually we plan to go in a few days with a small guided group, to get the full story; and then return again later on our own, for more of the ambiance.)
We're warned that because of the tour groups, these villagers are testy. TAKE NO PICTURES OF PEOPLE in Chamula -- their faith holds that photography steals souls, say the guidebooks. We stopped in Chamula to snap a shot of the church and were immediately swarmed by small boys offering guidance and protection, a stereotypical scene. A much smaller swarm in Zinacatan, and much easier to shake them.
In the evening I played my mandolin and the guitar of Michael from Berlin. He told of he and his girlfriend being burgled at a beachfront hostel by a "junkie couple", and of catching them and demanding their belongings back. Then cops (or paramilitaries?) became involved, and started beating the thieves. Michael said he had to bribe the ?cops? to stop beating the very people who had stolen his stuff. That was on his last trip to Mexico. This time, just two weeks ago, his beachfront hotel burnt down, taking his passport and money etc. Bad karma?
TODAY: We set off this morning for another indigenous village. Tenejapa is 35 klicks from SCLC, sits atop the Chiapan highlands, doesn't attract tour groups, and supposedly has a large Sunday market that attracts folks from all over the backcountry. All true, except that maybe our timing was off re: the market. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
We climbed east into the volcanic mountains surrounding SCLC, drove through a seemingly solid suburban set of villages. Brightly painted concrete, mad taxis, garden plots, bare wood houses (Maureen says some of this looks like old Alaska), and the usual roadside menagerie of tethered turkeys and burros and pigs, goats and sheep and horses, chickens and dogs and chupacabras. (Well, maybe not the last).
Mayan women are washing clothes in a trickling creek. Some guys are running a carwash in another trickling creek. At any remote cluster of houses there's a guy with an ice cream push cart, surrounded by a cluster of yelling kids.
Still climbing, we pass the village of Romerillo -- its famed panteon (cemetary) is on a low hill, a field of simple tombstones overlooked by a string of immense, more-than-telephone-pole-sized crosses, all painted green and blue with white designs.
And eventually we reach Tenejapa, set in a low wide spot in the rocks. The centro is filled with (tarped) market stalls and trucks and a two-ferris-wheel carny. We cut down a side street, park next to continuous bare-wood houses built into vertical basalt cliffs. The cliff faces are black and pungent with wood smoke; firewood is stored in vertical crevasses. Little kids look at us and smile shyly; one boy keeps saying "hello." Later, when we leave, we say "goodbye" and he says "hello."
We stroll around the concrete town, down streets lined with produce vendors, some meat sellers, a truckload of factory blankets, an alleyway of tee-shirts. But everything in the plaza is tarped shut. Hmmm. We walk up to the entrance of the church and stop. At the far end, some sort of ceremony involving clouds of incense. A husky-looking man in traditional garb walks over and stops, facing us, not frowning. We nod and leave.
CITYSCAPE: Back in SCLC we drive to the two "temple mounts" on the east and west ends of town, Cerro Guadelupe and San Cristobal, and look down on the valley-filling city that's crawling up all visible hillsides. Our 1985 guidebook said the population then was was 45,000 -- current estimates (depending on who's calculating) put it at either 140,000 or 240,000. That's either 3x or 5x growth in 20 years. Business is great for those making and applying concrete and cinderblock.
Mitch (the SFBG journalist we met yesterday) recommended the Casa de Pan, near the textile artisans market. We lunched there -- organic and extremely tasty and atmospheric but a little pricey for budget living. Young kids came in, selling stuff -- the first guy with a flock of clay animalitos snagged 45 pesos from us for four of them, Little Daniel of SCLC said he made'em himself. I think there are schools for such fabrication.
Afternoon: rain, resting, etc. Evening: Out through the coolth for thin boutique pizza, then down to the zocalo. Crowds swarm from the adjacent cathedral. Smaller groups stroll the plaza; in its center, a 2-story lacey ironwork bandstand. Upstairs there, some cafe tables and a live marimba band. Woody music floats in the trees, over the flowers, trapped by surrounding buildings. A terribly lovely evening.
ADDENDUM: Goats are very important here, and not just for milk and meat. Women from some villages wear long fuzzy black goathair skirts; men from other villages wear long vests or jackets of the same, or long bleached mohair (or white wool) ponchos. Women from some villages wear long multicolor ribbons woven into their hair; men from some villages wear such ribbons hanging in their hats.
In some villages, only the civic-religious leaders may wear certain vests or jackets or hats, and they also wear long chains of medallions, their badges of office. Such guys usually have new boots too. Treat these fellows with GREAT respect.
In San Juan de Chamula, not only are there no Catholic priests (and the bishop is only allowed into town once a month, for baptisms and weddings and funerals), they also have little use for government doctors. (There are free federal clinics and hospitals all over Mexico.) The church is a hospital; the shamans are curanderos, healers. I don't know who counts the survival rates.
DIA VIENTE SEIS:
Monday 14 March 2005, Santa Matilde
San Cristobal de Las Casas (SCLC) - morning.
POLITICS:
The following comments are based on brief readings, on conversations with Mexicans and Mexican-Americans and US/Euro expats, on exposure to Mexico for only a few weeks. I make no guarantees as to the accuracy or consistency of anything.
The political scene is dominated by three parties: the PRI (which ruled the country since the 1911-1930 revolution); the PAN (the party of current Presidente Vicente Fox); and the PRD. PRI still runs the congress and most of the states; they are conservative, in that they seek the maintenance of the status quo, and continuation and expansion of their power. PAN is the right-wing opposition, seeking a greater role for private business. PRD is the left-wing opposition, seeking more social programs and greater democracy.
Democracy (as practiced in Europe or in local US politics) has very little place in Mexico. Villages, towns, municipos (counties-parishes) are aligned with specific parties and delivered en-bloc. Democracy depends on education and honest counts, both of which are still sorely lacking here.
The Mexican government is totally fucked. The Mexican government has no idea how to bring the country into the 21st century, says a middle-class Mexican. Leaders with power (the "dinosaurs" of the PRI) do only that which will increase their own power and wealth and pleasure. The people are irrelevant, except as a power base; the indigenous are despicable.
ZAPATISTAS:
The Zapatistas (actually the Ejercito Zapatista de Liberacion Nacional, or EZLM, somewhat derisively known as Los Zaps) arose to fight for the rights of indigenous Maya peoples, brutally oppressed by landlords and the military. Zaps are heroic liberators. Zaps are cowards and thieves. A Zap is anyone wearing a bandana or (black) ski-mask. Zap me!
Zaps stole (or allegedly stole) an ecotourism resort from its US owners, and stole lands from local ranchers, says a US expat. Villages known as Zap strongholds are surrounded by military or paramilitary forces; the people are rarely allowed to enter or leave, says a Mexican-American NGO worker. The military does or doesn't deal with the Zaps.
Zap autonomous zones are regions of pure anarchy; the federal government reaction is to totally ignore the situation, says an educated Mexican. The government seeks to contain the dissidents and expel any known foreign activists. Foreign sympathizers are invited in to spend money. The state government tries to appease the people by naming schools and roads after Zapata. The state government is or isn't infiltrated by Zap supporters.
The Zaps are or aren't aligned with or against any particular Catholic or Protestant or Muslim groups. The Zaps are or aren't supported by the CIA or Cuba or China or Iran or the Raelians. Zapata would or wouldn't be a Zapatista today.
Zap toys, dolls, art, cinema and literature are very popular among the dispossessed and international sympathizers and tourists seeking gaudy souvenirs. Zap leaders are grubbing for power and money, same as all other politicos in Mexico. The situation re: the Zaps is much more complicated than I know.
Zap art: Rag dolls and horsemen and teddy bears, all with black ski masks or bandanas covering their faces. Barbie dolls and action figures with black ski masks. Zapalupe: images of the Virgin of Guadelupe with a colorful bandana covering her face. Paintings and posters and sculptures of glorious masked figures. Et cetera. And that's just visual stuff.
CORRECTION:
In my report on the roadblock incident the other day, I misspoke myself. I wrote, "Maureen raised her voice." That should have been, "Voices were raised." Maureen did nothing to provoke those holding us, nothing to endanger us. I mostly kept my mouth shut too, except to ask, "Why are you doing this? What do you want?"
But I nearly did something foolish. I thought to jump out of the car, to wave my arms and shout, to make myself visible to those lined up in their vehicles snaking back from either side of the roadblock, to make it known that there was A SITUATION here, and to possibly get them out to confront the roadblockers. Would that have been foolish? Would it have worked? ?Quien sabe? (Who knows?)
DIA VIENTE SIETE:
Monday 14 March 2005, Santa Matilde
San Cristobal de Las Casas (SCLC) - afternoon.
Our current parking situation is such that the car is in a (supposedly) secure lot by night and on the street by day. Thus we are encouraged to drive, to be out and about, be there the slightest excuse. Today's excuse was to find the post office (all the maps and books are wrong), and the resultant excursion took us 35 klicks south to Ametenango (the place of wet-nurses), famous for its women making animalia pottery. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Walking across the posada's courtyard for breakfast, we encountered a friend of management, selling amber jewelry. Maureen went hog-wild. Only 2/3 of a day's budget.
EXCURSION: We drove south on the PanAmerican Highway, rising to perhaps 8000 feet -- Alaska de Chiapas -- into forests of tall jackpines, spome portion of which was cleared for cornfields and infantry bases. In this Alaska, along the roadsides outside the towns, are Mayan women doing laundry in tiny tricklets of streams. Everywhere.
The animals are hirsute here: hairy cattle, hairy goats and sheep, hairy pigs. Puercos peludos!! The new villages of Betania (Bethany) and Belem (Bethelehem) look like protestant settlements in this land of saints and generals and conquered Indians.
Then downhill, past the Grutas (grottoes) de San Cristobal (saved for another day) and through the small thin city of Teopisca, 3 kilometers long by 30 meters wide, to its suburb of Ametenango, crawling back up the hills. This place was disappointing. Tour buses stop here; indifferent artesans are set up behind parking bays in concrete palapas with their overpriced, imperfect wares arrayed for inspection from van windows. (The animalitos we got yesterday seem of the same provenance, but better-made.) Some sellers set their goods on their porches up the hill, with lesser variety and more desperation. Not guild members?
Returning from Teopisca, we saw a turnoff marked LAGUNA y CEUVA (lake and cave). We bit. After a few klicks the cave road degenerated dangerously; the laguna road led to a small dusty resevoir amid drought-burnt hills.
But at their fork was a panteon (cemetary), an amazing extensive necropolis. Maureen thought it was old; I thought it bespoke a very prosperous community. Many of the crypts were bright new small houses or more fanciful structures (towers, polygons, apparent professional offices, etc.) Many of these looked considerably more substantial and expensive than most of the housing we've seen for the living. It's good to be dead here.
Back up in the high country, atop the continental divide, we saw our first cows on the highway. And horses. And international buses dodging goats. In the canyons to the west-south, is that smoke, or fog from the Pacific, or from great lake Preso Angostura?
EVENING: Oops. I had a little driving booboo. Luckily, no extensive damage, and nothing reported to anybody. But I'll be glad when we can leave the car parked in one place for days at a time.
I've mentioned that traffic here is nearly chaotic, and police traffic enforcement seems nearly nonexistant. The streets seem filled with cars, but many of those are cabs; the number of vehicles per capita is very low, as this is still a poor country. So rather than enforce laws (that everyone ignores) from patrol cars, we see numerous levels of private, city, and state cops afoot on the streets, keeping the peace. City police stroll around with M-16s on their backs. Federal troops sometimes roll through in HumVees. Pickups swoop by, cops in the back, ready to jump out should the need arise.
To the extent that such armed (para)military forces are so evident, Mexico feels like a police state. But there doesn't seem to be a lot of effort spent in actually enacting and enforcing laws. The US is also a police state, and is much more micromanaged. Think about it; think about who's watching you, and to what end. Think about who controls what you see and read and hear. Would I rather reside in Mexico than the US? Not really. But many freedoms in The Land Of The Free are severely curtailed. Think about it.
|
NOTED:
* Who joins the Mexican Army? I've wondered for awhile if there are certain classes, clans, other groups, who disproportionately occupy the enlisted ranks and NCO cadres and officer corps. I know this is so in other lands. I'll have to ask about the situation here.
* Let Us Now Praise Great Eateries: Most nights we walk around a quiet corner to El Gato Gordo (The Fat Cat) to dine well, cheap. Tasty and affordable food for vegetarians and carnivores alike, in a great environment. That's why it's busy most of the time.
* Chicken Delight: Mexican and USAnian chickens do not taste the same. Chickens here are thinner, less greasy, tastier, less homogeneous. I think they're mostly free-range, without the bonus price exacted in the US. Being roasted over charcoal on roadside grills makes a difference too. But even supermarket rotisserie chickens taste different. Hmmm.
* Let Us Now Praise Great Posadas: The Posada La Merced in Antigua was great (if a trifle cramped and pricey). Pedro's guesthouse in Chichicastenango, the Posada El Arco, was great. And our hostel in SCLC, the Posada Mexico, is also great, in no small part due to the spirit and effort of the women who keep this place running. Muchas gracias, senoras!
* Ah, The Sounds Of The Streets. Motorcycles (and some other vehicles) without noticable mufflers. Trucks loaded with propane cannisters, draggings chains loaded with metal plates, to ground any possible static charges. And the sound trucks. Free speech is alive and well here, where any product or ideology can be loudly broadcast. And then there are the guys with loud stereos pumping music down the concrete canyons. Huh? What did you say?
* RINTH-TINTH-TINTH (and you DON'T want to know where that came from, so don't ask) (well okay, we were looking out over purple fields of amarinth, and one thing led to another...) (But if that's really amaranth, then a terrible mistake has been made.)
|
DIA VIENTE OCHO:
Wednesday 16 March 2005, San Heriberto
San Cristobal de Las Casas (SCLC) - morning.
Yesterday was another down day -- chatting and walking and resting, etc. Talking with an Old Gringo about our roadblock situation, I'm told that the mere sight of a cellphone can dissolve many roadblocks. Hmmm??? Otherwise, nothing to report.
VEGETARIANS, etc
Observed in Central America, et al
ALIMENTARY, MY DEAR FLOTSAM: One can tell whether a local eatery hopes to attract internationals-hipsters, by the presense of alleged vegetarian selections on the menu. (I say alleged, because one comedor with such a menu featured lentil soup with bits of ham, and much rice is fried in chicken fat.) Impoverished locals may indeed subsist on vegetarian fare such as elotes (solid corn tamales) and beans and whatever vegs they can toss into the pot, but such folk aren't patronizing eateries in town. So vegetarian entries on the bill-of-fare merely invite foreign travelers and Mexican hipsters -- often successfully (and with premium prices), and often with extremely tasty offerings.
(A cynic might say that vegetarian entrees MUST be prepared from the freshest, brightest ingredients, in the tastiest, most appealing ways, in order to get people to eat the stuff.)
Then there's the matter of WHO is a vegetarian, and what kind. A Mexican-American artist announces that she's a vergetarian, then mentions that local diets include certain insects and worms and other terrestrial invertebrates. (Aquatic invertebrates such as shrimp, crawfish, clams, lobster etc are common fare, eh?) Asked if she's ever tasted them, she says no, she's a vegetarian. But she eats cheeze omelets and tofu and drinks beer. (The bacteria that ferment cheeze and beer and tofu and soy sauce are animals too.)
Among those who care, identity as a vegetarian is rather like announcing that one is a 'christian.' We need to know what kind, and why? Xians may be Prods, or Cat-Lickers, or Orthodoxoi, or Jack or Bull Mormons, or of any of multitudes of sects that barely recognize each other. Vegetatians may be Vegan (eats no animal products), or ovo-lacto veg'ns (eats eggs and milk products, but not animals that they can see without a microscope), or ovo-lacto-piscean (eats eggs, milk and seafood), or ovo-lacto-piscean-avian (eats eggs-milk-fish-birds, but no red meat), or breathatarian (subsists on air and sunshine); or they may be macrobiotic and specialize in brown-rice-and-tofu or nuts-and-berries-and-honey (oops, honey is another animal product).
The motivation is also important. One may be veg'ian by economic necessity, by religious conviction, for health reasons, or by political or moral choice. Veg'ianism repudiates animal exploitation, promotes increased utilization of farm resources (much water and energy and vegetable protein is wasted in producing animal protein), reduces environmental damage, reduces intake of damaging animal fats, etc.
But then why do veg'ians light up cigarettes? And why is it moral for animals to eat humans, but not vice-versa?
I could go on, but it's early, and I don't want to put myself off my hearty breakfast bowl of granola with soy milk. And I've mentioned our liking El Gato Gordo, just around the corner in San Cristóbal de las Casas, Chiapas, Mexico. Their budget comida corrida (menu of the day) is exclusively of cheap, tasty vegetarian items. Ah, more cheeze-stuffed peppers tonight! Dinner for two bucks!
AFTERNOON: This morning we determined to circumnavigate SCLC on its "peripheral beltway," the caminos perifericos. We'd already driven portions thereof in our last few days' wanderings. But now we have a MAP, so we're especially dangerous.
We set out eastbound on a nearby street that the map shows as a main thoroughfare. Uh, yeah. It quickly turned into one bumpy lane, crawling midway along the steep side of Cerro Guadelupe. Immediately below was the shallow agricultural valley of the Rio Fogotico, just slight urbanization creeping up its far side. The valley was orchards, fields, goats or sheep grazing, indigenous women washing clothes in tricking rivulets and narrow irrigation canals. And above us, dense concrete urbanity. Every couple hundred feet we passed a named and signed callejon (alleyway), actually a steep stone stairway to the heights, and bumped across its accompanying runoff channel. Those stairs are *SO* Bisbee, eh?
Pavement ended; the road turned rough and rocky; I assured Maureen that I was practicing for Guatemala driving. Then we reached the periferico, two paved laned winding through these eastern hills. Mostly raw steep forest here, with occasional new concrete villages.
We wound down into flatter, more settled areas we'd seen before, the structures wither Western-frontier timberwork or Mediterranean-hamlet concrete. A side road rose steeply; we followed it up to a new indigenous village, the tile-roofed buildings and rough byways and bun-haired shepherdesses taking us to China or Nepal or Tajikistan or... ???
ARTESANIAS: This being a slow day and a short tour, we drove a few miles west up the PanAmerican Highway, back up into the piney wood mountains encircling SCLC. We found a wide roadside with concrete palapas for artisans, possibly the village of Nachig, and fondled the (same old animalia pottery and woven textile) wares. A vendor's young grandson cried for fear upon seeing me. (Maybe I should shave soon.) Maureen fell for a beautiful floral hand-weaving; I bought (for 30 pesos) a red clay piggy bank emblazoned with the name and logo of a local futbol team, the Toluca Diablos Rojos (Red Devels). There probably ain't another one like it in Bisbee.
(As we watch local TV news covering futbolers actually kicking something constantly, we wonder: Why is US/NFL football called football when a foot hardly ever touches the ball?)
MEMORIALS: We drove a few klicks more, about to where the highway starts dropping precipitously into Tuxtla Gutierrez, the state capitol. Signs warned of dangerous curves, and at the worst we found a steep deep embankment dropping off thousands of feet, topped with 18 memorial shrines of widely varying design and ingenuity. One bore the name of a doctor; one was faded into illegibility; all those I could read were dated 2 December 2002. A bus plunge? Head-on between two collectivo vans? ?Quien sabe?
(A collectivo is a sort of combination bus-taxi, usually a small van running a set route. Passengers flag down a collectivo anywhere on the route, get off anywhere, pay a pittance for the distance. A preferred method of local transit.)
Back on the periferico, we cruised the developed north and west and east edges of SCLS, then back up into the rough east foothills. Many quarries here; they're clawing away at these mountains, tearing them down to build the city and suburbs.
EVENING: This is our last night at Posada Mexico. Tomorrow we move into our new digs at #38 Diego Dugelay. Our quarters here are #1, on the street corner, with 2-foot thick walls. The main room is a 5-meter cube -- yeah, the ceiling really is 16 feet above the tiled floor. The street window is shuttered and barred; the other window looks across the courtyard garden to the northern mountains. An anteroom, 2x3 meters, makes an excellent office (yeah, we brought folding chairs and table). The bathroom runs alongside, but is two feet shorter, the width of the massive beam across the doorway. Perhaps that 2 feet is just lost space, more adobe. Or maybe something (or somebody) is hidden there. ?Quien sabe?
We'll miss the people, the free internet (when it works), the free breakfast, the view. We won't miss the street noise, guests whoopping it up at midnight, the lack of hot water at night. The tiki bar next to the computer-library is gone. They're converting the TV room into a comedor; we're invited back to try out their savory fare in a couple weeks. We'll surely do that.
Tomorrow marks the end of our first month on this journey -- a short month. Three weeks on the road, one week here in Posada Mexico; the next month at Diego Dugelay (the owners have a fancy name for our casita, I'll dig it up sometime). We haven't yet given up on driving to Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, etc. We shall see what happens, and when.
|
NOTED:
* Chiapas is named after the chia plant (mint family), whose seed is famed as an energy food, gut goo, and improvised bandage or serviette.
* Among the listed illustrious men of Chiapas is Belizario Dominguez, who either killed or was killed by Presidente Madero; I'm not sure of the translation.
* The highland road heading east from what I called the Alaska of Chiapas leads to the actual village of Siberia.
* The road south-west from Teopisco to Aquacatenango towards Las Rosas does't look too scary on the road map, but the aero chart shows an elevation drop from 7000 to 2000 feet within about 10 klicks (6 miles). Dramatique!
* Road signs here are so sensible. ALTO means slow down. A red arrow (or white on a red background) means turn or go straight, after slowing down. Any other arrow means go.
* And traffic lights: the green blinks a couple times before quickly turning yellow and red, giving you an extra chance to speed up.
* Pepto-Bismol turns your tongue and excreta black. Try not to worry.
|
