Climbing to San Cristobal

It was one of those mornings when you start sweating as soon as you crawl out of bed; as soon as you leave the narrow breath of the fan, plugged into the room´s one socket, that makes sleeping in a concrete box bearable at all. I was glad to be heading to the mountains, the promise of cold nights and the return of energy and motivation during the day. The colectivo ride back to Tonola provided a grand view of where we were headed-- impressive green peaks that were obscured by the foothills in town, and for the first time in Mexico I was excited about the coming bus ride. Clouds perched on these mountains, threatening to spill over but seemingly afraid to commit to the heat of the valley below. The constant lightning from the night before left the sky emptied and clear; when the minivan stopped, which it did often to let people off or more likely to cram people in, it was like a solar oven. One child went to sleep in his mother´s lap, a chubby faced baby next to us gripped Melody´s finger-- the nearest handhold on this bumpy ride. People held hands or discussed where they were going and why; back home they´d say this is the kind place you´d raise your kids.

Arriving at the plateau near Tuxtla is like driving over the lip of a volcano. The steep mountainside, green and jungly with good views down toward the Pacific, is replaced by land more akin to lava-- highland desert, hot and dry, with bright red clay. On the other side of the mountain, life is scraggly and harsh; the cows are skinny and the shade is scarce. To reach San Cristobal though, means climbing for several more hours. Close as the crow flies, but world´s apart; past hillsides littere with broken rocks, the bus teetering on the narrow switchbacks, headed ever higher. The trees come back, the rain-- the first we´ve seen-- is daily, and the culture changes completely. Tuxtla´s shopping malls and grown up attitude are gone; here in San Cristobal there are gringos-- also the first we´ve seen-- hippy tourists from the States and Europe, and a strong indigenous culture responsible for the Zapatista uprising of 1994. Health food and hair salons. The pious and the political. Idealism and escapism, world culture collapsing into a locality both resisting and resigned.

Stolen Shoes

To be fair, they weren´t really stolen. They were placed in the trash by our hotel, and then some unknown person took them home from the trash. Why a hotel right on the beach-- where the shower is a plastic bucket and a trash can full of water, no less-- would see as trash a pair of shoes and socks carefully placed out of sight under a bush where the hotel´s paved walkway meets the sand, is beyond me. But such is life when your hotel is family run and the kids are put to work. It could be worse, and maybe it will be. But for now twenty dollars means some new kicks and a good story.

The Markets

Tomatoes; watermelons; tortillas; plums; avocados; cucumbers; bananas; onions; limes; garlic; fresh bread; cilantro; bags of raw vegetables, cauldrons of cooked vegetables; chickens, pickup trucks full of chickens; pig head; pork rinds two feet across; mangos; pineapples; peppers dried and fresh of every kind imaginable; potatoes; radishes; always beef and flies; various spices and occult cures; yogurt and fresh cheeses; eggs; grapes; cantelope; apples; beans; broccoli; tomatillo; prickly pear cactus; cabbage and lettuce; arugla; dried fish and fresh shrimp.

Always a rainbow, pulled fresh from the Earth.

Beneath the Pavement, the Beach

I wouldn´t recommend arriving in Salina Cruz at two in the morning. That goes for many Mexican cities, but some-- like Acuyucan, which we had left five hours previously-- exude a wholesome atmosphere which welcomes you at any hour. Looking at a road map of Mexico in Catemaco, only one bus south presented itself, and from there we knew to look for a bus towards Salina Cruz. Towards being the key word. But as things go in Mexico, the bus showed up late, left even later, and dropped us off in front of a bus pulling out for the Pacific Coast. And so we blindly ran inside, bought tickets and jumped aboard. Only then did I think to ask the driver when would arrive. Only on arriving did I think maybe we should have gotten off earlier, where the highway splits to the East, where people were still up eating and cheap hotels were stones throws away from the terminal. But sometimes you want to tear up the guidebook and take your chances with the unknown.

And so we came to be in Salina Cruz, a town known for oil and not much else. I´ll remember it for its gaudy hotel rooms and being the first time Melody saw the Pacific. It should have been a magic moment, like when we reached the Gulf after hours on a bicycle-- but it couldn´t stand in greater contrast. A pedestrian bridge took us over some littered train tracks, then we signed in with a security guard; the port of Salina dominates much of the coast here and we were to follow a fenced in portion inside the naval compound. The beach itself is blocked on one side by a mountainous pile of concrete rubble, several oil tankers lay right off the coast and a sign prohibited any swimming. It was the only craphole town we had visited yet, and my health followed suite; the first bout of traveller´s sickness in Mexico, moments of razor blades ripping up intestines.

In the end we lost a morning a few pesos, and got back on track with a new plan. I left Salina Cruz upbeat; we made a mistake but it taught me to trust me instincts and to remember that every tomorrow travelling is an unknown.

Vamos a la Playa

Notes from Catemaco: stumbling off a bus at five in the morning and immediately being pressed to visit a black magic witch doctor across the lake; staying with "mom" and "dad" who wouldn´t cut us a deal but talked about all the important people who stayed with them; a fear of crocodiles, and being chased by rowdy cattle; the concrete hobbit house at the end of the trail; the constant chatter of birds; forty plastic chairs set up in the street facing a public bathroom; the oppressive midday heat and the chilly nights that only breach your bedroom at daybreak; riding 40 km to Ibarra, where a massive lagoon meets the gulf; fresh fried fish on the beach where exhaustion implores you to open your wallet; the beauty of sunlight through slow, shallow waves; mountains ringing the water like you´d expect to find in Thailand; a lancha ride across the lagoon with drunk Mexican tourists; the peppery night air as we climb back to Catemaco, not on bicycle, but the in the back of a pirata pickup.

Some memories should be scattered to the wind, seeding stories for another day.

The Starbucks Effect

What is most striking about central Mexico is the lack of diversity. The sky is one shade of blue, the clouds one shade of white, the dirt and grass share a golden hue typical of somewhere as arid as this; one species of tree dots the landscape, broken up only by one species of cactus. It is both dreary and appealing in its simplicity.

Commerce in Mexico can follow this same pattern. At the bus terminal where I write this, there are no less than five "Deli Mart Express" shops within sight of each other. All sell the same products, at the same prices. In the city center earlier, there was a coffee chain stationed on three of four sides of the plaza; only a massive cathedral prevented them from dominating the zocalo. A side street designed for pedestrian shopping leaves you with a feeling of deja vu; passing certain chain stores every block and then turning away and seeing another across the street.

I understand how a barren region might support only a handful of species, but a bustling city of over a million residents? How is it that certain shops can thrive on the traffic from a single block, knowing that a consumer on the next block, or the opposite side of the plaza, has no incentive to come to you? Even if one person owns the chain, wouldn´t it make sense to put any other kind of shop there instead? It worked for Starbucks for a while, but even that empire couldn´t sustain itself. We need economies built like jungles, not deserts.

Burrito?

Sitting in the front seat of a combi, or colectivo (a minibus that acts as a taxi), I had a burning question for our driver. Where are the burritos? This was the first driver who seemed eager to talk to us, and because he spent a year in Denver he spoke English while I replied in Spanish. "Tell me," I said, "My favorite food is the burrito, and I haven´t seen any yet in Mexico. Are they particular to a certain place?" He stared at me blankly. "Burrito?"

I tried to explain it´s like an enchilada, but bigger. "Is it chicken?" he asked, clearly unsure that I was talking about. I told him it could be chicken, or pork or beef, and he laughed. Never heard of it, seemed to be his response. But how is that possible?