Mexico City. Our adventures in the largest city on earth were of the minor/safe/tourist kind. We went to the Museum of Anthropology and enjoyed the exhibit that our friend Asaf recommended on Teotihuacan. We also sat in front of the mural of "An afternoon in the Alameda," by Diego Rivera, and enjoyed the comfortable seats and low lighting as an opportunity to take a nap as much as to admire the fine mural.
Altogether from the time we left Oaxaca by night bus, we felt the growing realization that our trip was almost over and that we were going to have to head home. Two weeks, the paltry amount of time we budgeted for our trip through Mexico, was not sufficient to explore the country, or even to do justice to a single city. We both want to return, hopefully to spend more time and explore in greater detail this country of stark contrasts between an incredible passion for life, and the ever-present threat of death.
Now back in the United States we are in our own separate worlds, Cat rediscovering New York and getting her apartment in order after a month's absence, while I am in Minnesota, helping my dad make apple butter from our tree and getting ready to go canoe-camping for a week in Canada.
And so this story ends, and others are yet to begin. We are on a threshold between places, awaiting the future yet unable to predict its path. Like the blind woman in Mexico City whom we helped to cross the street, our last day in the country: We are feeling forward tenuously towards what tomorrow may bring, standing together in our separate worlds, in the doorway between going and staying.
Between going and staying the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.
All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can't be touched.
Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.
Time throbbing in my temples repeats
the same unchanging syllable of blood.
The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.
I find myself in the middle of an eye,
watching myself in its blank stare.
The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause.
-Octavio Paz
Thanks all for reading our blog, and if, as is the case, there are any errors or ommissions from this narrative, chalk it up to the fallibility of memory because life is like that.
Love,
Brian Blakely and Catherine Nolet
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Teotihuacan: Place where men become gods
Up with the sun, we headed out by way of the metro to the bus terminal that would take us to Teotihuacan, site of the pre-Aztec city state of over 200,000 people and of the famous Pyramids of the Sun and Moon.
On our bus ride we passed through the eternally growing City of Mexico, sprawling recklessly out onto every available plot of land apparently without end. Cat dozed while I stared out at the graffiti coated barriers bordering the crowded, noisy highway, and trying to imagine the fertile shores of the former lake Texcoco, now a barren desert of sprawling concrete houses. I must have drifted because I awoke to Catherine nudging me, whispering "Listen!" A traveling musician had gotten on the bus and was singing an old Beatles song in Spanish, crooning; "I just called to say I love you..."
We arrived at the archaeological site of Teotihuacan early in the morning, yet still not before the first forty or so tour buses of students. Walking through the parking lot, we stumbled onto a sixty-foot tall cedar trunk, on top of which were four men dressed as Aztecs. These were the "bird men," recreating a ritual of some pre-hispanic culture by spinning down off of the top of their eyre on thick ropes wrapped around their hips, making lazy, ever wider circles as they descended. It seemed very peaceful, and we half wondered if they would let us up to try with them.
Teotihuacan is the name given by the Mexica to the abandoned city fifty miles north of their capital. In Nahuatl it means, "The place where men become gods," and indeed, the Aztecs believed that such a massive site must have been built by superhuman beings, whose remains, they hypothesized, had been buried along the severely rectilinear "Calle de los Muertos," (Street of the Dead) in the structures that bordered the ceremonial path leading to the pyramid of the moon.
Walking the same path that astonished Aztec leaders some six hundred years ago, the same sense of disbelief sinks into you. Not that these structures were built by gods, but that they were built by humans, remains the impossibility. Although nestled in the shadows of enormous mountains, the pyramids remain giants, their squat immensity defiant of a modern purpose yet powerfully suggestive, hinting at a ritualized barbarity that is realized through the rigid mathematics of "primitive" design.
We walked through the subterranean "edeficios superpuestos," where we stood in front of pyramids buried beneath later structures and therefore preserved, and marveled at the faded polychrome paint and stucco covering the dark volanic rock in remnants of their original colors.
To have seen the city at the height of its power, every surface coated in the clean white stucco and then painted according to a sacred color scheme with images of sacred beings, would have been an incredible sight.
Not to get too long-winded, our trip was made particularly amusing by the hordes of vendors selling reproduction Teotihuacano masks and aztec sunstone embroideries, whose technique of selling them was a dramatic show of draping the large blankets over themselves, heads bowed, and then popping them open as tourists walk past, as though the sellers were male birds posturing in some obscure mating dance. Another highly popular product sold at the site is the animal noise making whistle, which can make two sounds. The first is a keening dirge that sounds like a kettle left on the stove in a distant room, and the second, a Jaguar roar that sounds strongly like me clearing my throat in the shower. "Achghuauchhhhh!" The vendors also try to spring this upon the tourists, picking spots about ten meters apart from one another, so that the echoes of the last "Jaguar roar," are still fading when the next "Eagle call," comes... Very highly amusing.
There are two theories as to how and why the city of Teotihuacan was abandoned. The first, that resource depletion coupled with overcrowding led to the city being deprived of a base of goods with which to maintain its top-heavy ruling class. The second, that severe climate change forced the people to abandon the site. What is known clearly is this: Around 800AD, at roughly the same time as the collapse of the Mayan city-states of Palenque, Copan and Tikal, the city of Teotihuacan was almost completely destroyed by a massive fire that left the remains of its buildings, the f0undations to be more exact, scorched black.
Whether the fire was the result of overcrowding and "accidental," like the London Fire of 1666, or a popular rebuttal of the forces that governed Teotihuacan is not known. As with all collapses, the end of the classical age of Teotihuacan corresponded to a complete end in the creation of histories of the city so that when the Aztecs, relative newcomers to the empire game, founded their capital, the city was completely abandoned and barren.
The pyramid of the sun is too big to be real. Cat and I climbed the increasingly steep steps, in the scorching heat of midday, beneath our practical sombrillas. At the summit we nestled in among the crowd of people towards the summit, enjoying the view from the top and being annoyed by a little boy with a noise maker who enjoyed throwing things at his doting parents.
After walking around the site a little while longer, we headed to a comedor where a meal of tacos and two beers provided a welcome antecedent for our trip back to Mexico City. We both passed out on the bus, awakening to get into the metro and head downtown.
On our bus ride we passed through the eternally growing City of Mexico, sprawling recklessly out onto every available plot of land apparently without end. Cat dozed while I stared out at the graffiti coated barriers bordering the crowded, noisy highway, and trying to imagine the fertile shores of the former lake Texcoco, now a barren desert of sprawling concrete houses. I must have drifted because I awoke to Catherine nudging me, whispering "Listen!" A traveling musician had gotten on the bus and was singing an old Beatles song in Spanish, crooning; "I just called to say I love you..."
We arrived at the archaeological site of Teotihuacan early in the morning, yet still not before the first forty or so tour buses of students. Walking through the parking lot, we stumbled onto a sixty-foot tall cedar trunk, on top of which were four men dressed as Aztecs. These were the "bird men," recreating a ritual of some pre-hispanic culture by spinning down off of the top of their eyre on thick ropes wrapped around their hips, making lazy, ever wider circles as they descended. It seemed very peaceful, and we half wondered if they would let us up to try with them.
Teotihuacan is the name given by the Mexica to the abandoned city fifty miles north of their capital. In Nahuatl it means, "The place where men become gods," and indeed, the Aztecs believed that such a massive site must have been built by superhuman beings, whose remains, they hypothesized, had been buried along the severely rectilinear "Calle de los Muertos," (Street of the Dead) in the structures that bordered the ceremonial path leading to the pyramid of the moon.
Walking the same path that astonished Aztec leaders some six hundred years ago, the same sense of disbelief sinks into you. Not that these structures were built by gods, but that they were built by humans, remains the impossibility. Although nestled in the shadows of enormous mountains, the pyramids remain giants, their squat immensity defiant of a modern purpose yet powerfully suggestive, hinting at a ritualized barbarity that is realized through the rigid mathematics of "primitive" design.
We walked through the subterranean "edeficios superpuestos," where we stood in front of pyramids buried beneath later structures and therefore preserved, and marveled at the faded polychrome paint and stucco covering the dark volanic rock in remnants of their original colors.
To have seen the city at the height of its power, every surface coated in the clean white stucco and then painted according to a sacred color scheme with images of sacred beings, would have been an incredible sight.
Not to get too long-winded, our trip was made particularly amusing by the hordes of vendors selling reproduction Teotihuacano masks and aztec sunstone embroideries, whose technique of selling them was a dramatic show of draping the large blankets over themselves, heads bowed, and then popping them open as tourists walk past, as though the sellers were male birds posturing in some obscure mating dance. Another highly popular product sold at the site is the animal noise making whistle, which can make two sounds. The first is a keening dirge that sounds like a kettle left on the stove in a distant room, and the second, a Jaguar roar that sounds strongly like me clearing my throat in the shower. "Achghuauchhhhh!" The vendors also try to spring this upon the tourists, picking spots about ten meters apart from one another, so that the echoes of the last "Jaguar roar," are still fading when the next "Eagle call," comes... Very highly amusing.
There are two theories as to how and why the city of Teotihuacan was abandoned. The first, that resource depletion coupled with overcrowding led to the city being deprived of a base of goods with which to maintain its top-heavy ruling class. The second, that severe climate change forced the people to abandon the site. What is known clearly is this: Around 800AD, at roughly the same time as the collapse of the Mayan city-states of Palenque, Copan and Tikal, the city of Teotihuacan was almost completely destroyed by a massive fire that left the remains of its buildings, the f0undations to be more exact, scorched black.
Whether the fire was the result of overcrowding and "accidental," like the London Fire of 1666, or a popular rebuttal of the forces that governed Teotihuacan is not known. As with all collapses, the end of the classical age of Teotihuacan corresponded to a complete end in the creation of histories of the city so that when the Aztecs, relative newcomers to the empire game, founded their capital, the city was completely abandoned and barren.
The pyramid of the sun is too big to be real. Cat and I climbed the increasingly steep steps, in the scorching heat of midday, beneath our practical sombrillas. At the summit we nestled in among the crowd of people towards the summit, enjoying the view from the top and being annoyed by a little boy with a noise maker who enjoyed throwing things at his doting parents.
After walking around the site a little while longer, we headed to a comedor where a meal of tacos and two beers provided a welcome antecedent for our trip back to Mexico City. We both passed out on the bus, awakening to get into the metro and head downtown.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Mexico, Districto Federal
We left Oaxaca on a midnight bus, eating our last Oaxacan tortas and tlayudas (enormous corn tortillas smothered in beans, avocado and quesillo) at a cart in the park where once there was the Feria de Mezcal. Our bus traveled by the highway all the way to Mexico City, arriving to a freezing cold, wet night in the enormous bus terminal around 5-30AM. We walked through a small market to the metro, and caught a train heading to the home of Carlos, our Couchsurfing partner in Mexico City.
Carlos lives on a quiet dead-end street with a gate at the end, in a brightly painted, pre-WW1 house with his parents and sister. As we waited for the family to wake up, Cat and I talked about what we wanted to see and do in Mexico City, starting with visiting the Casa Azul, where Frida Kahlo was born, painted and lived with Diego Rivera. As we talked travel, the doorway to the house opened and Carlos, a tall DF´er in an Ed Hardy T-shirt, stepped out to go for a walk. Our introduction was, ¨Cool, come on in...¨ and we gladly dropped our bags on the floor, before sacking out on the sofas as promised. I woke up three hours later to Catherine astounding Carlos´s mother with her Spanish. I was in no condition to add my own commentary, and groggily attempted to get out of the sofa where I had created my nest.
But all the same, several showers, papaya, yogurt and granola breakfasts, and well-wishing to the family later, Cat and I were off to explore. Our first stop via metro was the Casa Azul, in the former town and current sprawl of Coyoacan (coyote). Our walk through Coyoacan took us through shady neighborhoods with private courtyards on every house, and an overall impression of wealthy people guarding themselves in the friendliest way possible. . . By building walls.
The museum and former residence of Frida was amazing, with her studio, kitchen and bedroom preserved as she lived in them, and artifacts on display including several of her chest braces, decorated as if by a child with autographs, portraits and well-wishing. Another part of her house was devoted to a gallery of her works, which included interesting portraits that were unfinished, as well as a gallery to Diego Rivera, with one of his final paintings, done while he was dying of cancer in Acapulco, inscribed with an epitaph to the deceased Frida that read, Älthough you have been ashes for the past two years, you live on in my heart.¨
A touching end to a stormy relationship.
After the Casa Azul, we debated finding the museum of pre-Colombian artifacts assembled by Diego, but opted out when realizing how far things are from each other. Plus we had the zocalo of Coyoacan to explore, some more market food to purchase, and a bandaid for my foot (stupid huaraches!). In the park the flavor of summer was abundant with highschoolers getting temporary tattoos and a drunken local official attempting to extort bribes from the tattoo artists to continue their clandestine operations. . . Failed, by the way. He was too drunk.
After the park we were both feeling pretty fried so what did we do but go to the Zocalo (official) to witness the ceremony at the end of the day, where easily eighty to a hundred Mexican military do a procession to the center of the park and lower the flag of Mexico from its position, then carry the whole thing out. This was amazing and occupied us for several minutes, after which we went to see the foundations of the ruined Pyramids of Tenochtitlan, the only reminder, besides the wildly canting buildings and cracking edifices of modern-Mexico City, that the entire city was formerly lake Texcoco, site of the city state Tenochtitlan. We walked around the neighborhood of the Zocalo, admiring the many wrecked buildings and reserving a hostal for our final night in Mexico, with a shuttle early early early to the airport on Saturday morning.
Now, we are heading back to the house of Carlos to find out what is his will, to see if he is interested in going out to eat, cook, or something of the sort, and then, who knows... We are dog tired, and sad that we have to cram it all into a few short days.
Best wishes!
Brian and Catherine
Carlos lives on a quiet dead-end street with a gate at the end, in a brightly painted, pre-WW1 house with his parents and sister. As we waited for the family to wake up, Cat and I talked about what we wanted to see and do in Mexico City, starting with visiting the Casa Azul, where Frida Kahlo was born, painted and lived with Diego Rivera. As we talked travel, the doorway to the house opened and Carlos, a tall DF´er in an Ed Hardy T-shirt, stepped out to go for a walk. Our introduction was, ¨Cool, come on in...¨ and we gladly dropped our bags on the floor, before sacking out on the sofas as promised. I woke up three hours later to Catherine astounding Carlos´s mother with her Spanish. I was in no condition to add my own commentary, and groggily attempted to get out of the sofa where I had created my nest.
But all the same, several showers, papaya, yogurt and granola breakfasts, and well-wishing to the family later, Cat and I were off to explore. Our first stop via metro was the Casa Azul, in the former town and current sprawl of Coyoacan (coyote). Our walk through Coyoacan took us through shady neighborhoods with private courtyards on every house, and an overall impression of wealthy people guarding themselves in the friendliest way possible. . . By building walls.
The museum and former residence of Frida was amazing, with her studio, kitchen and bedroom preserved as she lived in them, and artifacts on display including several of her chest braces, decorated as if by a child with autographs, portraits and well-wishing. Another part of her house was devoted to a gallery of her works, which included interesting portraits that were unfinished, as well as a gallery to Diego Rivera, with one of his final paintings, done while he was dying of cancer in Acapulco, inscribed with an epitaph to the deceased Frida that read, Älthough you have been ashes for the past two years, you live on in my heart.¨
A touching end to a stormy relationship.
After the Casa Azul, we debated finding the museum of pre-Colombian artifacts assembled by Diego, but opted out when realizing how far things are from each other. Plus we had the zocalo of Coyoacan to explore, some more market food to purchase, and a bandaid for my foot (stupid huaraches!). In the park the flavor of summer was abundant with highschoolers getting temporary tattoos and a drunken local official attempting to extort bribes from the tattoo artists to continue their clandestine operations. . . Failed, by the way. He was too drunk.
After the park we were both feeling pretty fried so what did we do but go to the Zocalo (official) to witness the ceremony at the end of the day, where easily eighty to a hundred Mexican military do a procession to the center of the park and lower the flag of Mexico from its position, then carry the whole thing out. This was amazing and occupied us for several minutes, after which we went to see the foundations of the ruined Pyramids of Tenochtitlan, the only reminder, besides the wildly canting buildings and cracking edifices of modern-Mexico City, that the entire city was formerly lake Texcoco, site of the city state Tenochtitlan. We walked around the neighborhood of the Zocalo, admiring the many wrecked buildings and reserving a hostal for our final night in Mexico, with a shuttle early early early to the airport on Saturday morning.
Now, we are heading back to the house of Carlos to find out what is his will, to see if he is interested in going out to eat, cook, or something of the sort, and then, who knows... We are dog tired, and sad that we have to cram it all into a few short days.
Best wishes!
Brian and Catherine
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Oaxaca, Mexico. Land of Mole, Huaraches, and fried Grasshoppers
Oaxaca. In 2006, this city, the capital of the state of Oaxaca and the center of trade for the area, was crippled by a conflict that started when teachers, striking for higher wages and educational supplies, were attacked by over 3500 police and army troops. In the days that followed the initial barrage, the teachers were joined by citizens of Oaxaca, frustrated by the corruption of their government and the over-zealousness of the imported troops. What followed was a siege of this beautiful, peaceful-seeming city that culminated in the burning of many buses, the erection of barricades and the throwing of many molotov cocktails. In short, urban warfare.
But now, three years later, the city is calm again and the tourists are here, particularly for the Guelaguetza, a celebration of the cultures of the region that takes place in the amphitheater above town, and that occurs simultaneously as the Mezcal festival, which celebrates the beloved younger, smokier step-sibling of Tequila by providing a cheap way for thousands of people to get ridiculously drunk off of samples of the stuff.
So Catherine and I arrived in Oaxaca, midafternoon, after a dizzying ride through the mountains that left us both cramped and exhausted. We staked out a hostal that provided clean drinking water, and ditched our bags, then walked back to the Zocalo, the central park where we watched little kids play with the favorite toy of Oaxaca, six foot tall plastic bags with famous cartoon characters drawn on them which the kids blow up and bounce into the air. Mingling with these airborn treats were the light up helicopters being sold by vendors, and the effect, coupled with the backdrop of baroque, colonial churches, was fantastically whimsical and reminiscent of a scene in Alice and Wonderland (albeit one that was ommitted).
Walking through Catherine´s old haunts from a year ago, we stopped in at a Comedor selling tlayudas, the enormous bean and cheese filled street snacks that first made Catherine love Mexico (I think), and then we went to visit the feria de mezcal, where we were offered every kind of mescal thus far invented, and tried only a few before realizing we would be getting very drunk if we continued. All parents listening will be happy to know that we did not.
The following day we drifted into the museum of photography, where we looked through photographs from the occupation of Oaxaca by APPO and the battle with the military. It was hard to believe looking at the photographs, that this was the same city only three years later.
Next we stopped at the beautiful botanical garden attached to the former convent of Santo Domingo, which was first home to a massive convent under the Spanish, then home to the Mexican military (until 1996) during which time the walls of the building were used as target practice... And then it almost became an American style shopping mall, but was instead developed into a beautiful, conscientious garden of local flora from throughout Oaxaca. Cat and I listened intently to the Spanish tour, understanding almost all of what was said, and appreciating the incredible variety of plant life of the region.
The festive atmosphere of the day continued throughout the evening as fireworks lit the sky and we ran into two siblings from Israel who were out clubbing. Cat and I weren´t quite up to it and instead went out to a pub where we listened to Cuban love songs sung by a classy group of musicians, and drank micheladas. Today, we woke up to go up the hill to the ruins of Monte Alban, the third most important (in no order really) of the pre-colombian ruins in central america. Monte Alban was the center of Zapotec society influenced by the Teotihuacaños, and rivaling the distant city state of Tikal in size. The ruins span a huge area on top of the highest point in the valley of Oaxaca city, commanding a 360 degree view of all of the fertile volcanic land and the villages where people were extracted in tribute to the priestly class. We hiked up and down pyramids with our Israeli friends, Abad who lives outside of Mexico City and his sister (whose name I cannot recall) are very interesting and cool, and we had a good time talking about traveling, Israel and life in Mexico.
Afterwards we went to the market where catherine used to go to eat with Lydia, and we all ordered some banging food. Then Cat and I walked through the market, trying delicious cheeses and chocolates, and buying some mezcal, mole (three different types!!!) and some secret shoes... hint hint Craig, hope they had a big enough size.
Now we are checking internet while the band of Oaxaca plays Dixie outside (better than Simon and Garfunkel) and we are going to go Salsa dancing tonight before being whisked off via another night bus to Mexico City, where we are staying with cool dude Carlos and his family near the city center. ¡Viva Mexico!
But now, three years later, the city is calm again and the tourists are here, particularly for the Guelaguetza, a celebration of the cultures of the region that takes place in the amphitheater above town, and that occurs simultaneously as the Mezcal festival, which celebrates the beloved younger, smokier step-sibling of Tequila by providing a cheap way for thousands of people to get ridiculously drunk off of samples of the stuff.
So Catherine and I arrived in Oaxaca, midafternoon, after a dizzying ride through the mountains that left us both cramped and exhausted. We staked out a hostal that provided clean drinking water, and ditched our bags, then walked back to the Zocalo, the central park where we watched little kids play with the favorite toy of Oaxaca, six foot tall plastic bags with famous cartoon characters drawn on them which the kids blow up and bounce into the air. Mingling with these airborn treats were the light up helicopters being sold by vendors, and the effect, coupled with the backdrop of baroque, colonial churches, was fantastically whimsical and reminiscent of a scene in Alice and Wonderland (albeit one that was ommitted).
Walking through Catherine´s old haunts from a year ago, we stopped in at a Comedor selling tlayudas, the enormous bean and cheese filled street snacks that first made Catherine love Mexico (I think), and then we went to visit the feria de mezcal, where we were offered every kind of mescal thus far invented, and tried only a few before realizing we would be getting very drunk if we continued. All parents listening will be happy to know that we did not.
The following day we drifted into the museum of photography, where we looked through photographs from the occupation of Oaxaca by APPO and the battle with the military. It was hard to believe looking at the photographs, that this was the same city only three years later.
Next we stopped at the beautiful botanical garden attached to the former convent of Santo Domingo, which was first home to a massive convent under the Spanish, then home to the Mexican military (until 1996) during which time the walls of the building were used as target practice... And then it almost became an American style shopping mall, but was instead developed into a beautiful, conscientious garden of local flora from throughout Oaxaca. Cat and I listened intently to the Spanish tour, understanding almost all of what was said, and appreciating the incredible variety of plant life of the region.
The festive atmosphere of the day continued throughout the evening as fireworks lit the sky and we ran into two siblings from Israel who were out clubbing. Cat and I weren´t quite up to it and instead went out to a pub where we listened to Cuban love songs sung by a classy group of musicians, and drank micheladas. Today, we woke up to go up the hill to the ruins of Monte Alban, the third most important (in no order really) of the pre-colombian ruins in central america. Monte Alban was the center of Zapotec society influenced by the Teotihuacaños, and rivaling the distant city state of Tikal in size. The ruins span a huge area on top of the highest point in the valley of Oaxaca city, commanding a 360 degree view of all of the fertile volcanic land and the villages where people were extracted in tribute to the priestly class. We hiked up and down pyramids with our Israeli friends, Abad who lives outside of Mexico City and his sister (whose name I cannot recall) are very interesting and cool, and we had a good time talking about traveling, Israel and life in Mexico.
Afterwards we went to the market where catherine used to go to eat with Lydia, and we all ordered some banging food. Then Cat and I walked through the market, trying delicious cheeses and chocolates, and buying some mezcal, mole (three different types!!!) and some secret shoes... hint hint Craig, hope they had a big enough size.
Now we are checking internet while the band of Oaxaca plays Dixie outside (better than Simon and Garfunkel) and we are going to go Salsa dancing tonight before being whisked off via another night bus to Mexico City, where we are staying with cool dude Carlos and his family near the city center. ¡Viva Mexico!
Amazing Mazunte to Oaxaca!!! Appo Vive? No se...
Via San Cristobal in an all-night bus with Whoopie Goldberg´s Sister Act playing loudly, we arrived in the morning to Mazunte, sweltering heat, flip flops, sand and surf. Our second attempt at taxis since our trip began was a rip-off, as our driver demanded 150 pesos, waaaaaay more than he deserved, but we arrived all the same at a posada called Balam Juyuk, perched at the high point overlooking Mazunte beach, a cluster of small thatch-roofed cabañas and a banging restaurant officiated by none other than Emiliano, who must be channeling some of the reckless energy of his namesake Zapato, yet providing a more constructive outlet in amazing, if often delayed until 11PM, food.
Cat and I hunkered down in a screened-in building where our first night, I stuck my arm out the mosquito netting and allowed countless bloodthirsty insects into our little haven to devour poor Catherine, who it turns out is deadly allergic to them. I did not make the same mistake the second night...
Mazunte, with its small community of bungaloes and thatch roofs, is actually a boom town. Compared to Cat´s last visit here, the place has grown by leaps and bounds, despite the economic downturn. New places are everywhere, and everyone it seems is offering rooms to let, regardless of what that means. Our stay with Emiliano was great, punctuated by countless games of backgammon, which Catherine promptly learned and mastered (Grrrr...) and many naps in hammocks and days spent reading our books.
We also, surprise surprise, got to swim a good deal in the Pacific Ocean, which is warm and salty, and wonderfully clean. The waves were great for getting thrown around, though not for body surfing, but we survived all the same. We also went to the ¨Jacuzzi,¨ a tidal pool with a slot opening onto the ocean where waves push in with great force, causing the entire pool to bubble and roil, before being sucked back. It was great except for the little fish nibbling my mosquito bites.
Perhaps the most beautiful part of our stay at the beach happened with our last night´s hike out to Punta Cometa, the peninsula arm that shelters the bay of Mazunte from the open ocean. On the point is a giant Saguaro-type cactus with dozens of ten foot tall arms sprouting from its trunk, and high cliffs that you can hike around to see the waves break against the rocks.
The day before my birthday (July 25th, #26 if we are keeping count), we switched digs to an upscale neighbor of Balam Juyuk where we stayed in the lap of luxury, with our own private bathroom, porch and hammock. Not to mention a fan and room that was completely mosquito-proof.
On the last night of our trip we walked out to the point just before dusk, when the light was getting soft and the western horizon began to glow. As we walked towards the point we could see four donkeys that were being grazed on the sheer cliff edges and huge waves breaking over the rocks. We situated ourselves on a slab of granite that was fractured in the middle all the way down to the water, and delighted ourselves with the huge waves that broke occassionally over our little spot, inundating the crabs that stalked the cliff edge and sending them running for cover.
Walking on from our cliff we came to a beach open to the Southwest, where we were able to see the sunset fill the sky, and turn the waves crimson for a few moments before it passed on, and we walked back in darkness. The next morning we packed and left via a colectivo (pickup truck) for Pachutla, from whence we caught a minibus that took us to Oaxaca, the capital of the state, and one of the most interesting cities I have seen.
Cat and I hunkered down in a screened-in building where our first night, I stuck my arm out the mosquito netting and allowed countless bloodthirsty insects into our little haven to devour poor Catherine, who it turns out is deadly allergic to them. I did not make the same mistake the second night...
Mazunte, with its small community of bungaloes and thatch roofs, is actually a boom town. Compared to Cat´s last visit here, the place has grown by leaps and bounds, despite the economic downturn. New places are everywhere, and everyone it seems is offering rooms to let, regardless of what that means. Our stay with Emiliano was great, punctuated by countless games of backgammon, which Catherine promptly learned and mastered (Grrrr...) and many naps in hammocks and days spent reading our books.
We also, surprise surprise, got to swim a good deal in the Pacific Ocean, which is warm and salty, and wonderfully clean. The waves were great for getting thrown around, though not for body surfing, but we survived all the same. We also went to the ¨Jacuzzi,¨ a tidal pool with a slot opening onto the ocean where waves push in with great force, causing the entire pool to bubble and roil, before being sucked back. It was great except for the little fish nibbling my mosquito bites.
Perhaps the most beautiful part of our stay at the beach happened with our last night´s hike out to Punta Cometa, the peninsula arm that shelters the bay of Mazunte from the open ocean. On the point is a giant Saguaro-type cactus with dozens of ten foot tall arms sprouting from its trunk, and high cliffs that you can hike around to see the waves break against the rocks.
The day before my birthday (July 25th, #26 if we are keeping count), we switched digs to an upscale neighbor of Balam Juyuk where we stayed in the lap of luxury, with our own private bathroom, porch and hammock. Not to mention a fan and room that was completely mosquito-proof.
On the last night of our trip we walked out to the point just before dusk, when the light was getting soft and the western horizon began to glow. As we walked towards the point we could see four donkeys that were being grazed on the sheer cliff edges and huge waves breaking over the rocks. We situated ourselves on a slab of granite that was fractured in the middle all the way down to the water, and delighted ourselves with the huge waves that broke occassionally over our little spot, inundating the crabs that stalked the cliff edge and sending them running for cover.
Walking on from our cliff we came to a beach open to the Southwest, where we were able to see the sunset fill the sky, and turn the waves crimson for a few moments before it passed on, and we walked back in darkness. The next morning we packed and left via a colectivo (pickup truck) for Pachutla, from whence we caught a minibus that took us to Oaxaca, the capital of the state, and one of the most interesting cities I have seen.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
San Cristobal de las Casas
Knocking at the door was our friendly, Chapin driver for the first part of our eight hour journey to San Cristobal de las Casas... It is amazing how eight hours can fly by though, when you are traveling through some of the most beautiful country in the world and you dont have to worry about being the driver and avoiding a) runaway horses and cows, b) chicken buses, and c) steamrollers being loaded into dump trucks. This is of course, among many other roadside hazards that are standard fare on the journey... The hardest part about the trip was the gnawing emptiness inside our taut bellies. It was like forced starvation, we had used all our Quetzales the night before and were hoofing it to Mexico for our next meal.
The border crossing was an experience that was standard, easy, and seemed legitimate. The customs agents at both sides stamped visas for us without blinking, and we were happy to be on our way, guided by bus operators who were efficient and thorough. The landscape changed rapidly when we crossed the border, from steep jagged cliffs covered in lush greenery and a patchwork of small family farms, to massive fields of maize and lowland ranches, overgrazed by fat cattle. . . Just a little bit closer to the good old, US of A. Our minibus began to climb into evergreen forests that looked suspiciously like tree plantations, passing large military bases (like summer camp for soldados!) that were surrounded by bales of concertina wire. Militarization of Chiapas is ubiquitous as they have been fighting a dirty war between the Zapatistas and the government over what was initially a land grab by corrupt bureaucrats against indigenous people, but turned into a revolutionary movement among the indigenous that continues to this day. The landscape became more lush and the air (we guessed, in our AC'ed van) cooler.
About three in the afternoon we pulled into the crossroads for San Cristobal de las Casas, turning onto a narrow cobblestoned roadway that led straight as an arrow towards the park in the center of town, known here as a Zocalo. San Cris presents as a better kept, more lively version of Antigua Guatemala, with people visiting town for the weekend from all over the country, many Europeans, and lots of food to choose from. We walked to a hostal called Posada Mexico, where we were shown to our private room on top of a hill. Spotless rooms and a springy (as in, all springs and no padding) mattress were a welcome sight after eight hours in the bus, and we soon were off to dinner at a place recommended by Sally, Madre Tierra, where Cat got the most interesting crepes ever, filled with an incredibly rich fungus that grows on corn and tastes like heaven... Not to mention the fantastic loaf of whole wheat bread that came with dinner, which we devoured. After dinner we wandered the crowded festive streets, Cat bought some slippers that brought up memories of knit goods from her great-grandmother, and then to Revolucion! for some banging, live reggae music, and two micheladas, aka beers with chili and lime. Mexico really knows how to throw down; In comparison, Guatemala seems like its people are still being oppressed, and there is not the same festive pride that we found in Mexico. . . People here know how to boogy.
We walked around a while, looking at food we were not hungry for (shockingly) and making it back late to the cabaña, where I (-1 for Brian) managed to lock us out of our room, although we had the key... Long story but it ended when the new guy who kept saying, "This is my first day" and the experienced manager made an executive decision NOT to call the boss at 130 am, and instead helped to completely remove the window from our wall. So late though it was, we went to bed happy to be in Mexico, ready for another day of exploring the beautiful city of San Cristobal.
The border crossing was an experience that was standard, easy, and seemed legitimate. The customs agents at both sides stamped visas for us without blinking, and we were happy to be on our way, guided by bus operators who were efficient and thorough. The landscape changed rapidly when we crossed the border, from steep jagged cliffs covered in lush greenery and a patchwork of small family farms, to massive fields of maize and lowland ranches, overgrazed by fat cattle. . . Just a little bit closer to the good old, US of A. Our minibus began to climb into evergreen forests that looked suspiciously like tree plantations, passing large military bases (like summer camp for soldados!) that were surrounded by bales of concertina wire. Militarization of Chiapas is ubiquitous as they have been fighting a dirty war between the Zapatistas and the government over what was initially a land grab by corrupt bureaucrats against indigenous people, but turned into a revolutionary movement among the indigenous that continues to this day. The landscape became more lush and the air (we guessed, in our AC'ed van) cooler.
About three in the afternoon we pulled into the crossroads for San Cristobal de las Casas, turning onto a narrow cobblestoned roadway that led straight as an arrow towards the park in the center of town, known here as a Zocalo. San Cris presents as a better kept, more lively version of Antigua Guatemala, with people visiting town for the weekend from all over the country, many Europeans, and lots of food to choose from. We walked to a hostal called Posada Mexico, where we were shown to our private room on top of a hill. Spotless rooms and a springy (as in, all springs and no padding) mattress were a welcome sight after eight hours in the bus, and we soon were off to dinner at a place recommended by Sally, Madre Tierra, where Cat got the most interesting crepes ever, filled with an incredibly rich fungus that grows on corn and tastes like heaven... Not to mention the fantastic loaf of whole wheat bread that came with dinner, which we devoured. After dinner we wandered the crowded festive streets, Cat bought some slippers that brought up memories of knit goods from her great-grandmother, and then to Revolucion! for some banging, live reggae music, and two micheladas, aka beers with chili and lime. Mexico really knows how to throw down; In comparison, Guatemala seems like its people are still being oppressed, and there is not the same festive pride that we found in Mexico. . . People here know how to boogy.
We walked around a while, looking at food we were not hungry for (shockingly) and making it back late to the cabaña, where I (-1 for Brian) managed to lock us out of our room, although we had the key... Long story but it ended when the new guy who kept saying, "This is my first day" and the experienced manager made an executive decision NOT to call the boss at 130 am, and instead helped to completely remove the window from our wall. So late though it was, we went to bed happy to be in Mexico, ready for another day of exploring the beautiful city of San Cristobal.
Some more about Xela, redundantly wonderful
On Friday we left the Escuela de la Montaña and headed to Xela where we were going to meet up with our friend Amy. After finding her posada, we knocked on the almost unmarked door and were greeted by friendly, ten year old Ikea who told us that Amy had stepped out. Walking away a little bit dejected, we stopped to look at the map to see what crummy hostel we were going to stay in for the night and lo and behold! Amy arrived with a (hey lovebirds!) for us (sorry, quote key broken) and we had a place to stay. The posada is in its third or fourth iteration, first as a stable, then a school, then various uses interspersed with earthquakes which have forever altered its personality- walls end halfway up, or start where they shouldnt, etc... All the same, an awesome place to stay and Amy has a fantastic room with a nice view of the courtyard.
We took Amy out for indian food (!!!) at Sabor de la India, a restaurant at the hilly end of the square, located on a dead end. We sat in the dining room at an enormous table, wondering what Indian would be like in Guatemala. . . Turns out, pretty different from Indian in the USA. Cat ordered palak paneer, a classic that should be pretty straightforward, but came lightly steamed with a spicy, ginger sauce. I ordered and loved my chicken tikka marsala, with thick rich sauce and special cashew rice in yogurt. It was Amy whose meal took the cake as the most bizarre, with Koshka ball curry (or something like that) which gave her the opportunity to develop her language skills by asking (What is in this!).
Awakened early to the alarm clock, Amy going to meet up with friends and climb a volcano picking up trash. . . Got up, made some coffee, realized the kitchen and pila, or outside sink, were super skunky, full of dirty dishes and stagnant, putrid water, and sat down to wait for our shuttle to Mexico, booked the night before at the Black Cat Hostel... We were sitting down at the sofa in the courtyard when we heard the pathetic mewling of a little cat, which had fallen off the roof and was terrified to find that it was lost... It was very sad; the cats parents were up on the roof but we could not reach up to get the cat back to them, much less find the cat, once we let go of it... It ran away and hid under the sofa. Brian decided to take on the filthy Pila and spent a half hour plunging it with the toilet plunger, after which we filled it with clean water, and left feeling heroic, for our minibus...
We took Amy out for indian food (!!!) at Sabor de la India, a restaurant at the hilly end of the square, located on a dead end. We sat in the dining room at an enormous table, wondering what Indian would be like in Guatemala. . . Turns out, pretty different from Indian in the USA. Cat ordered palak paneer, a classic that should be pretty straightforward, but came lightly steamed with a spicy, ginger sauce. I ordered and loved my chicken tikka marsala, with thick rich sauce and special cashew rice in yogurt. It was Amy whose meal took the cake as the most bizarre, with Koshka ball curry (or something like that) which gave her the opportunity to develop her language skills by asking (What is in this!).
Awakened early to the alarm clock, Amy going to meet up with friends and climb a volcano picking up trash. . . Got up, made some coffee, realized the kitchen and pila, or outside sink, were super skunky, full of dirty dishes and stagnant, putrid water, and sat down to wait for our shuttle to Mexico, booked the night before at the Black Cat Hostel... We were sitting down at the sofa in the courtyard when we heard the pathetic mewling of a little cat, which had fallen off the roof and was terrified to find that it was lost... It was very sad; the cats parents were up on the roof but we could not reach up to get the cat back to them, much less find the cat, once we let go of it... It ran away and hid under the sofa. Brian decided to take on the filthy Pila and spent a half hour plunging it with the toilet plunger, after which we filled it with clean water, and left feeling heroic, for our minibus...
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