After a week at Jose Luis', with the chaos of all the Surfers coming and going from his home, Todd and I decided we should probably give him some space and get a hostel in the city. As everyone filtered out over Sunday and Monday we all exchanged emails, added each other on Facebook and Couchsurfing, and made very loose plans to look for each other further down the road in Central and South America. By Monday night, Todd and I returned to the hostel I spent two nights at back in January, Casa de Gladis.
Todd carries with him a little tarp like contraption called an Origami that acts as a lean-to-like tent for the both of us to feel like we have a home in. For $40 pesos each ($3.50 USD) we camped out in the back patio of the this hostel and propped up our new set up. That night we went out with some friends and I ended up running into a woman, Mercy, who I volunteered for back in January. This opened up interesting situation for the week to come.
Edelo, the art house/cultural center I volunteered at, is a large house with a kitchen and courtyard where they host art shows, drawing classes, and concerts for locals and travelers. I had remembered in Mercy's office she had a bed which I thought peculiar. When I ran into her we spoke in Spanish about her renting her apartment to me for $1,000 pesos per month ($80 USD). I told her my friend would have to be able to stay there as well, so the price went up to $1,600, but she warned me she had only one bed and a large couch.
I've noticed this is quite common in Mexico, or at least here in San Cris, to rent out your apartment for a month or two to travelers as a way to bring in extra income. My biggest observation is that Mexicans tend to be even more capitalistically minded than Americans, probably because there is far less regulation which is both great and can be a problem. Everything and anything can be for sale anywhere if you can do it. Police may hit venders up for a bribe if they are doing something particularly out there, or if a gringo is trying to set up a loose vending stall, but I think all that's factored into the costs of capital.
To continue the story, what I believed I worked out with Mercy was that Todd and I would rent her apartment from her for $1,600 pesos for four weeks. When we actually sealed the deal Todd was uncertain if he'd be staying in Mexico past two weeks, so I thought I'd worked something else out where he'd only pay two weeks with the possibility staying on for the last two weeks as well. It turns out my Spanish in these negotiations was not so good.
We loved the space. It was much closer to town than Jose Luis', it had three rooms, an outdoor space with the kitchen and bathroom each separated from the rest of the house. Our first night we made a grand dinner excited to have a kitchen and place to store bulk food, and afterward Mercy came home. We were a bit confused, but after realizing we would not have the place to ourselves figured we could still make the situation work.
Two days later over breakfast I was talking with Mercy and learned she had a friend coming in from France who would be staying there for the month of March. When I said four sounded a bit crowded she looked confused. Apparently my bad Spanish didn't convey that Todd would have the option to stay on another two weeks, but that he would only be there two and then gone. This didn't at all work for us, so by the end of the day Todd and I just decided to move out then and there. We talked with Mercy and explained the confusion in its totality and clarified how the original deal was not what we'd thought and that we'd like to give her $200 pesos from the total we paid but get the rest back and move out. It fortunately ended well.
That was the basic excitement for the weekend. He and I moved out that day with half our money refunded, the other half to be picked up Monday since it was such an abrupt change. A friend of ours, Carrie, was also coming to town from Tuxtla, the capital of Chiapas two hours away, so we set up camp in her hostel for the rest of the week.
22 February 2011
13 February 2011
Regresso a San Cristóbal
Hitching is a daunting thing both the first time you do it, then again the first time you do it in a country where you don't know anything including the language. When we discovered that a bus from Tulum to San Cristóbal, albeit back through Cancún, was only $540 pesos ($45 USD) we opted for the simplicity and speed of just spending the money and getting there.
It was an all day ride. First going two hours back up north to Cancún, because a bus directly out of Tulum would have been $748 pesos, then 19 hours south and west along the Guatemalan border back to San Cris. I met a guy sitting behind me who was returning home from Cancún, where he was looking for work, to somewhere south of Comítan.
He was a farmer who, like many indigenous farmers in Chiapas, had to abandon this trade to either go north and find work in El Norte (The United States) or, more preferably, in places much closer to home like Cancún. The down side to working in Cancún is that the primarily foreign owned hotels either will sign an employee on under the table, illegally, or have you sign a document waving your rights as a worker. Either way, you become a worker with no rights in your own country.
Once arriving back in San Cris the next day Todd and I met up with a friend of mine, Carrie, who happened to be back in town as well. We had breakfast, then met up with a guy I'd met when I was last there, Jose Luis. I met him through the website Couchsurfing.org where travelers and locals can come together to mutually benefit one another.
Jose Luis is the embodiment of the spirit behind the Couchsurfing project that is very global. He lives on the edge of the city in a collective housing arrangement owned by a guy named Olivier. There are two houses, Jose Luis rents one, Mauricio rents the other, then sublets the rooms within, but everyone on the compound contributes. There are also three horses that live in a stable in the backyard, with an organic garden for food not to far from there.
At Jose Luis' house there is a spare room that the Couchsurfers crash at. Its a beautifully rustic setting. Jose Luis' house is like a log cabin, and the guest room is strewn about with mattresses. During our days staying there we met about 19 other Couchsurfers from all over the globe; Spain, Romania, France, Argentina, England, Estonia, Denmark, other parts of Mexico, and other Americans. Over dinner, depending on who there was more of, the conversations would be in Spanish, English, or French generally.
Jose Luis is a fiesta kind of guy, so through out the week there was generally something going on. I got to take part in a surprise midnight mariachi serenade that was both beautiful and hilariously fun yelling "arriba, arriba" into the night. Another night, Normando, a guy in from Mexico City, broke out his guitar and got us all singing and playing whatever instruments we could find or make to Mexican, American, and Cuban songs. I played along rapping an empty can against a frying pan that went well with the Cuban blues rhythms.
Through out this week I got to know Jose Luis a bit as well and he turned out to have had a fascinating life that he was now retiring from. His life was well lived in high ranks of Mexican politics. He fought both with his words and with weapons at various points in his life against corruption. In the end, the government threw him in jail for several months and his response, in the loss and confusion, was to move here to San Cristóbal and invite anyone from around the world to come and be his guest. He calls it his galactic station. A center, or gathering spot, for travelers from all over to meet one another.
On the occasional night that he's spoken of his political days its been hard to witness, as its easy to see he believed in the fight and now no longer does. This is something I've seen to a much lesser extent in America through my travels there. What I saw in the States was a vestige of what I can see in Jose Luis' disappointment. America has been worked over for so long with corruption, and sedated and distracted so thoroughly with TVs, cars, and mortgage payments that there is a seemingly unrepairable complacency that nothing can be done. Obama won his presidency on this promise that something can be done, yet still has not shown it to be true.
What I've loved most about being in this Casa de Jose Luis is that he continues to profess the simple act of giving, Love, to be the only solution that makes sense to him now. He's told me numerous times that to give without expectation is all we can do to help heal the world, and I believe him.
It was an all day ride. First going two hours back up north to Cancún, because a bus directly out of Tulum would have been $748 pesos, then 19 hours south and west along the Guatemalan border back to San Cris. I met a guy sitting behind me who was returning home from Cancún, where he was looking for work, to somewhere south of Comítan.
He was a farmer who, like many indigenous farmers in Chiapas, had to abandon this trade to either go north and find work in El Norte (The United States) or, more preferably, in places much closer to home like Cancún. The down side to working in Cancún is that the primarily foreign owned hotels either will sign an employee on under the table, illegally, or have you sign a document waving your rights as a worker. Either way, you become a worker with no rights in your own country.
Once arriving back in San Cris the next day Todd and I met up with a friend of mine, Carrie, who happened to be back in town as well. We had breakfast, then met up with a guy I'd met when I was last there, Jose Luis. I met him through the website Couchsurfing.org where travelers and locals can come together to mutually benefit one another.
Jose Luis is the embodiment of the spirit behind the Couchsurfing project that is very global. He lives on the edge of the city in a collective housing arrangement owned by a guy named Olivier. There are two houses, Jose Luis rents one, Mauricio rents the other, then sublets the rooms within, but everyone on the compound contributes. There are also three horses that live in a stable in the backyard, with an organic garden for food not to far from there.
At Jose Luis' house there is a spare room that the Couchsurfers crash at. Its a beautifully rustic setting. Jose Luis' house is like a log cabin, and the guest room is strewn about with mattresses. During our days staying there we met about 19 other Couchsurfers from all over the globe; Spain, Romania, France, Argentina, England, Estonia, Denmark, other parts of Mexico, and other Americans. Over dinner, depending on who there was more of, the conversations would be in Spanish, English, or French generally.
Jose Luis is a fiesta kind of guy, so through out the week there was generally something going on. I got to take part in a surprise midnight mariachi serenade that was both beautiful and hilariously fun yelling "arriba, arriba" into the night. Another night, Normando, a guy in from Mexico City, broke out his guitar and got us all singing and playing whatever instruments we could find or make to Mexican, American, and Cuban songs. I played along rapping an empty can against a frying pan that went well with the Cuban blues rhythms.
Through out this week I got to know Jose Luis a bit as well and he turned out to have had a fascinating life that he was now retiring from. His life was well lived in high ranks of Mexican politics. He fought both with his words and with weapons at various points in his life against corruption. In the end, the government threw him in jail for several months and his response, in the loss and confusion, was to move here to San Cristóbal and invite anyone from around the world to come and be his guest. He calls it his galactic station. A center, or gathering spot, for travelers from all over to meet one another.
On the occasional night that he's spoken of his political days its been hard to witness, as its easy to see he believed in the fight and now no longer does. This is something I've seen to a much lesser extent in America through my travels there. What I saw in the States was a vestige of what I can see in Jose Luis' disappointment. America has been worked over for so long with corruption, and sedated and distracted so thoroughly with TVs, cars, and mortgage payments that there is a seemingly unrepairable complacency that nothing can be done. Obama won his presidency on this promise that something can be done, yet still has not shown it to be true.
What I've loved most about being in this Casa de Jose Luis is that he continues to profess the simple act of giving, Love, to be the only solution that makes sense to him now. He's told me numerous times that to give without expectation is all we can do to help heal the world, and I believe him.
06 February 2011
Todd's Arrival
Saturday I packed up all my things, said my goodbyes and thanks to everyone in the house, and set off toward the northern edge of town by around 1pm. Thus far, I had only hitched once a short hop coming back from Las Grutas 12 km away, so it was a 5 minute ride. Then I had offered $5 pesos to the guy as a thanks and he turned me down. I was a bit nervous to head back down the exact same road I had gone down the weekend before to the Zapatista village and then beyond deep into the Selva Negra mountains.
I bought a really bad map for $90 pesos and stood on the side of the road with my thumb out. The first car that stopped offered to take me to Villahermosa, Tabasco for $1,000 pesos. I told him no, especially since the bus only wanted around $600. The next one to stop was a dump truck heading... somewhere. I couldn't tell because his Spanish was so fast and my map was so bad.
He drove me a good 20 minutes up hill then turned right and dropped me off at the corner in a village somewhere with a smile and thumbs up. I crossed the street and threw my thumb out again. A footbridge crossed over the road, and on it were four Mexican teenaged guys who took a fancy to me. As I stood there trying to flag a ride they eventually came down and started talking with me. That day would be a great test for my Spanish. I could tell when they asked where I was from, but after that I was struggling through the conversation, which was sparse anyway.
Mostly they just stood, very close, staring at me. I had remembered reading in some tourist thing saying that Mexicans had a cultural habit of standing closer than other westerners are used to, so I was trying to remember that. However, it is a bit intimidating, especially when they give up on talking but stand there anyway. I kept my smile, and didn't entirely feel threatened, but was definitely being wary. I brokenly tried to make friendly conversation, but it was a great struggle, and part of their silence may have been trying to make sense of the words I put together. Soon enough, however, a ride came along and I "mucho gusto"-ed them, making a point to shake each of their hands, then left.
We spoke only a little in the beginning of that next ride. They were a couple coming back from San Cristóbal to Larrainzar, which turned out to be a very small town, but big enough to be on my map. When we arrived they said some things to me I couldn't interpret, but had stopped and I got out thanking them. I gathered I was in an area where a colectivo, a small local bus, picked people up. I didn't want to pay, of course, so I began walking out of town with my thumb out.
A mere 400 meters down the road some construction workers called out to me and, luckily, I was able to understand and talk to them. From what I gathered they were saying I wouldn't be able to walk the roads and had to take a colectivo or carro, which is a cab. I headed back and made broken small talk with some of the others milling about waiting for a cab to show up.
One guy offered for me to ride out in the back of his pick up for $40 pesos. I told him I had heard it would be $25 and he basically insinuated I could wait longer then. After a half an hour or so, and the guys finding something funny about my boots that I never figured out, I found a cab to go two hours north for $18 pesos. Sure I was squished in the back seat with two others, but I was happy.
After missing my stop and going another half hour in the wrong direction I began catching rides in a series of pickups. This was my favorite because I could just sit in the back, wind in my hair, eating my peanuts, and watch the mountains drift by. They are a completely stunning range. The pickups were also hilarious to ride in too. One I rode in I was sitting on bags of something with another guy going to work who had also hitched. Hitching is well accepted mode of transportation in Mexico, though occasionally I picked up on some resentment that I was doing it as an American. American, loosely translated in Mexican Spanish means person with money.
My fortune climaxed toward the end of the day when a long haul trucker, Alejandro, heading to Mexico City picked me up. My route, should you care to Google it, was to go from San Cristóbal de Las Casas, Chiapas, to Villahermosa, Tabasco, to Ciudad del Carmen, Campeche, to Mérida, Yucatán, finally to Cancún, Quintana Roo where I would pick up my friend Todd from the airport that Tuesday afternoon. Alejandro drove me a good six or seven hours through the Selva Negros which was really fun, but probably only for someone like me.
The road through the mountains had a hairpin turn quite literally almost every 300 meters. On top of that, the road is a two lane (one each way), it often turns to dirt suddenly, if it isn't dirt there are potholes the size of tires to small cars, and inside half of those turns one lane has been washed out by rain. Alejandro never slowed down. The man was an artist with that rig using the full width of the road over both lanes. Another drastic difference here from America was that no one on the road seemed to mind this. It was sort of an automotive ballet going two ways at high speed.
At one point we reached a vista that was spectacular when we came close to the edge of the range. Below us opened up into a valley where thick fog had rolled in. The mountains are all quite sheer, drastically rising up to rounded points, then falling off just as suddenly, so at the end it simply ends. As far as the eye could see was a sea of clouds that looked very much like the edge of the world. We kept saying to each other, "es loco, es el fin del mundo" (Its crazy, its the end of the world). To complete the beauty the sun was slowly sinking into the clouds as night moved in.
As the sun descended, so did we, and almost simultaneously the sun and us fully engulfed ourselves in the clouds, and suddenly the world became murky and dark all at once. We drove on until Teapa, Tabasco where Alejandro decided to buy me dinner and sleep in his truck for the night.
The next morning I found out he wasn't going any further that day. We had run into his uncle and I think he had to unload some of his load. Perhaps it was also his way of telling me to move on now since he very well may have been tired struggling talking to me in Spanish. I made it to Villahermosa a little ways north in no time, however. This day would illustrate just how generous, opposing my suspicion, the Mexican people are.
I was dropped off at the southern edge of town and walked toward the center. I asked a man at some point if the cathedral spire I could see was where the center was. He said it was close and that he would take me there. In my broken Spanish I told him that wasn't necessary, but he insisted, and I started suspecting when we got there I would be charged for the tour.
We went on and on toward the cathedral as he told me history around the town that we'd pass and started asking if I was hungry or thirsty. Of course I was, but I was already worried about one con-debt I may have accidentally accrued. Eventually, I conceded to having a drink of Horchata with him, which is a shake style drink made of rice, cinnamon, and some sort of sugar. Its a favorite down here. This was when I realized exactly how wrong about him I was.
Enrique insisted on buying my a drink. He then persisted to see how else he could help me out as we sat and chatted. We parted ways after a bit exchanging emails and it wouldn't be more than ten minutes later that another guy, Angel, oddly enough, offered to help me find the highway. We talked in English, as he was an English teacher, and soon he offered to buy me tacos. In fact, he didn't offer, he just told me he was going to. Then he gave me an impromptu tour of the little area we were in and apologized for not being able to let me go back to his place to eat, shower, and possibly sleep. We too exchanged emails and Facebook information.
Angel had guided me toward the highway, but sadly I took a wrong turn and spent some time trying to figure my right way out for a bit. When I finally did I caught a ride with a man and his two sons, one of whom was learning English. I improved my Spanish some while he improved his English with me, while also getting a ride exactly to the right spot I needed to be in. I got a taste of what I sound like to others when they dropped me off and all three of them said "my name is Enrique", "my name is Julio", "my name is Oscar".
Walking out of town there was a giant line of traffic, so cars were passing slowly. A colectivo passed me and asked how far I was heading. He spoke perfect English, which took me a second to register being in Spanish speaking mode, and when he told me it'd be $20 pesos to go an hour or so north I took him up on it. Turned out he was a Mexican who moved to LA as an infant, so he considered himself American. He was back visiting relatives and drove the colectivo for free for them while he was there.
I think he was really excited to have an American, but more an English speaker, in his colectivo because we chatted the whole way up. I have to say, I was quite excited to speak some English again as well. About half way there he told me he wasn't going to charge me for the ride. When he dropped me off he slipped $20 pesos in my hand when we shook hands saying he wanted to help me along my way. I couldn't believe he paid me the fare I was going to pay him when I got out. I thanked him purfusely then bid him farewell.
An older couple gave me a ride the rest of the way to Ciudad del Carmen, Campeche and went out of their way to drive me as close to the other side of town as they could to help me out. Its quite a large town, so after several times of me insisting this was too much they finally agreed and dropped me off. The sun had set by then, so I walked a good hour or two trying to find a place I could camp out. As things started getting a bit more industrial, and more stealth camping friendly, I had gotten hungry, so I thought I'd walk until I found a taqueria or something, then bed down after dinner.
I walked on and on looking for something, and eyeballing the woods in different abandoned areas to sack out in, until a pick up wheeled around and pulled up next to me. Again, the window came down and perfect American accented English came out of it. Again, it took me a second to realize I fully understood everything the guy said to me clearly. He was a guy from Baja California and he offered to let me crash at his place.
Oscar makes his money pulling oil from the Gulf of Mexico and has a gorgeous house at the end of the island right on the ocean. He also is a Couchsurfer and was currently hosting a British deep sea diver who also works on rigs while he travels the world. Oscar took the three of us out to a grand taco dinner then we talked well into the night until I had to get some sleep.
In conversation, he found out I was looking to get to Cancún, which is 700 km from there, by Tuesday afternoon to meet Todd, and he was quite concerned I wouldn't make it. He agreed then to drop me off at a good spot where I could hitch out from in the morning. The next morning, I jumped in his Hummer with him and his kid around 7:30am. He dropped his kid off at school in town, then bought me a coffee and told me he was going to give me $600 pesos and drop me at the bus station. He was convinced, and concerned, that I wouldn't make it to Cancún in time.
I could not believe the level of generosity. I even tried buying his coffee as a small thanks, and he wouldn't hear of it. At the bus station he even chipped in another $20 pesos, and soon I was on a first class bus for 13 hours to Cancún.
First class is exquisitely first class down here. The bus system in the US is a very sorry excuse for a bus system, which is why I find it ironic that people think of Mexican and Central American buses as strange primitive places where chickens and pigs roam freely. This is far from the truth. Instead, its more like flying, but your on the ground. Movies are always playing that you can plug a head set into to listen to. The seats are wide with plenty of leg room and go way back so you can sleep well. On this particular bus, there had been coffee and tea with hot water, sugar, powdered milk, and stirrers to doctor it up. High class.
I nestled into Cancún that night at a different hostel than where I'd stayed a month earlier and made friends with a Canadian guy who was a bit red neck-ish, and spoke of the backward ways of Mexico. I met with Todd the next afternoon as scheduled and we had a good night out that night in celebration of his arrival. While out, we made friends with a Mexican guy who was depressed about losing his ex-wife so we let him talk it out with us over drinks.
We stayed in Cancún for quite a few days, while Todd acclimated to Mexican life. I was anxious to leave, and get back to cheaper Chiapas, but I also was okay with allowing myself a bit of celebration for the week. After a few days we took a bus down to Tulum. On the bus we randomly ran across a traveler friend of mine, Enrique, from Ecuador who was also heading to Tulum. We arrived Thursday evening and set ourselves up in a hostel. Enrique went to his Couchsurfing host, and we fell back into backpacker culture.
Over the next few days we enjoyed the beaches, ruins, and the folks staying at the hostel, but for the most part didn't look much into the town itself. Every day we have said we'll likely leave the next, and now its Sunday evening, which is our fourth night here.
We planned to leave today with a woman from Finland who wanted company hitching to Belize, but when we met up it turned out her Tourist Visa card had expired a month earlier, which would mean she'd be in big trouble if she tried to and needed to visit her lawyer in Cancún to fix the situation. Todd and I decided we'd get a big meal tonight from the market and hitch out tomorrow back to San Cristóbal. We shall see.
I bought a really bad map for $90 pesos and stood on the side of the road with my thumb out. The first car that stopped offered to take me to Villahermosa, Tabasco for $1,000 pesos. I told him no, especially since the bus only wanted around $600. The next one to stop was a dump truck heading... somewhere. I couldn't tell because his Spanish was so fast and my map was so bad.
He drove me a good 20 minutes up hill then turned right and dropped me off at the corner in a village somewhere with a smile and thumbs up. I crossed the street and threw my thumb out again. A footbridge crossed over the road, and on it were four Mexican teenaged guys who took a fancy to me. As I stood there trying to flag a ride they eventually came down and started talking with me. That day would be a great test for my Spanish. I could tell when they asked where I was from, but after that I was struggling through the conversation, which was sparse anyway.
Mostly they just stood, very close, staring at me. I had remembered reading in some tourist thing saying that Mexicans had a cultural habit of standing closer than other westerners are used to, so I was trying to remember that. However, it is a bit intimidating, especially when they give up on talking but stand there anyway. I kept my smile, and didn't entirely feel threatened, but was definitely being wary. I brokenly tried to make friendly conversation, but it was a great struggle, and part of their silence may have been trying to make sense of the words I put together. Soon enough, however, a ride came along and I "mucho gusto"-ed them, making a point to shake each of their hands, then left.
We spoke only a little in the beginning of that next ride. They were a couple coming back from San Cristóbal to Larrainzar, which turned out to be a very small town, but big enough to be on my map. When we arrived they said some things to me I couldn't interpret, but had stopped and I got out thanking them. I gathered I was in an area where a colectivo, a small local bus, picked people up. I didn't want to pay, of course, so I began walking out of town with my thumb out.
A mere 400 meters down the road some construction workers called out to me and, luckily, I was able to understand and talk to them. From what I gathered they were saying I wouldn't be able to walk the roads and had to take a colectivo or carro, which is a cab. I headed back and made broken small talk with some of the others milling about waiting for a cab to show up.
One guy offered for me to ride out in the back of his pick up for $40 pesos. I told him I had heard it would be $25 and he basically insinuated I could wait longer then. After a half an hour or so, and the guys finding something funny about my boots that I never figured out, I found a cab to go two hours north for $18 pesos. Sure I was squished in the back seat with two others, but I was happy.
After missing my stop and going another half hour in the wrong direction I began catching rides in a series of pickups. This was my favorite because I could just sit in the back, wind in my hair, eating my peanuts, and watch the mountains drift by. They are a completely stunning range. The pickups were also hilarious to ride in too. One I rode in I was sitting on bags of something with another guy going to work who had also hitched. Hitching is well accepted mode of transportation in Mexico, though occasionally I picked up on some resentment that I was doing it as an American. American, loosely translated in Mexican Spanish means person with money.
My fortune climaxed toward the end of the day when a long haul trucker, Alejandro, heading to Mexico City picked me up. My route, should you care to Google it, was to go from San Cristóbal de Las Casas, Chiapas, to Villahermosa, Tabasco, to Ciudad del Carmen, Campeche, to Mérida, Yucatán, finally to Cancún, Quintana Roo where I would pick up my friend Todd from the airport that Tuesday afternoon. Alejandro drove me a good six or seven hours through the Selva Negros which was really fun, but probably only for someone like me.
The road through the mountains had a hairpin turn quite literally almost every 300 meters. On top of that, the road is a two lane (one each way), it often turns to dirt suddenly, if it isn't dirt there are potholes the size of tires to small cars, and inside half of those turns one lane has been washed out by rain. Alejandro never slowed down. The man was an artist with that rig using the full width of the road over both lanes. Another drastic difference here from America was that no one on the road seemed to mind this. It was sort of an automotive ballet going two ways at high speed.
At one point we reached a vista that was spectacular when we came close to the edge of the range. Below us opened up into a valley where thick fog had rolled in. The mountains are all quite sheer, drastically rising up to rounded points, then falling off just as suddenly, so at the end it simply ends. As far as the eye could see was a sea of clouds that looked very much like the edge of the world. We kept saying to each other, "es loco, es el fin del mundo" (Its crazy, its the end of the world). To complete the beauty the sun was slowly sinking into the clouds as night moved in.
As the sun descended, so did we, and almost simultaneously the sun and us fully engulfed ourselves in the clouds, and suddenly the world became murky and dark all at once. We drove on until Teapa, Tabasco where Alejandro decided to buy me dinner and sleep in his truck for the night.
The next morning I found out he wasn't going any further that day. We had run into his uncle and I think he had to unload some of his load. Perhaps it was also his way of telling me to move on now since he very well may have been tired struggling talking to me in Spanish. I made it to Villahermosa a little ways north in no time, however. This day would illustrate just how generous, opposing my suspicion, the Mexican people are.
I was dropped off at the southern edge of town and walked toward the center. I asked a man at some point if the cathedral spire I could see was where the center was. He said it was close and that he would take me there. In my broken Spanish I told him that wasn't necessary, but he insisted, and I started suspecting when we got there I would be charged for the tour.
We went on and on toward the cathedral as he told me history around the town that we'd pass and started asking if I was hungry or thirsty. Of course I was, but I was already worried about one con-debt I may have accidentally accrued. Eventually, I conceded to having a drink of Horchata with him, which is a shake style drink made of rice, cinnamon, and some sort of sugar. Its a favorite down here. This was when I realized exactly how wrong about him I was.
Enrique insisted on buying my a drink. He then persisted to see how else he could help me out as we sat and chatted. We parted ways after a bit exchanging emails and it wouldn't be more than ten minutes later that another guy, Angel, oddly enough, offered to help me find the highway. We talked in English, as he was an English teacher, and soon he offered to buy me tacos. In fact, he didn't offer, he just told me he was going to. Then he gave me an impromptu tour of the little area we were in and apologized for not being able to let me go back to his place to eat, shower, and possibly sleep. We too exchanged emails and Facebook information.
Angel had guided me toward the highway, but sadly I took a wrong turn and spent some time trying to figure my right way out for a bit. When I finally did I caught a ride with a man and his two sons, one of whom was learning English. I improved my Spanish some while he improved his English with me, while also getting a ride exactly to the right spot I needed to be in. I got a taste of what I sound like to others when they dropped me off and all three of them said "my name is Enrique", "my name is Julio", "my name is Oscar".
Walking out of town there was a giant line of traffic, so cars were passing slowly. A colectivo passed me and asked how far I was heading. He spoke perfect English, which took me a second to register being in Spanish speaking mode, and when he told me it'd be $20 pesos to go an hour or so north I took him up on it. Turned out he was a Mexican who moved to LA as an infant, so he considered himself American. He was back visiting relatives and drove the colectivo for free for them while he was there.
I think he was really excited to have an American, but more an English speaker, in his colectivo because we chatted the whole way up. I have to say, I was quite excited to speak some English again as well. About half way there he told me he wasn't going to charge me for the ride. When he dropped me off he slipped $20 pesos in my hand when we shook hands saying he wanted to help me along my way. I couldn't believe he paid me the fare I was going to pay him when I got out. I thanked him purfusely then bid him farewell.
An older couple gave me a ride the rest of the way to Ciudad del Carmen, Campeche and went out of their way to drive me as close to the other side of town as they could to help me out. Its quite a large town, so after several times of me insisting this was too much they finally agreed and dropped me off. The sun had set by then, so I walked a good hour or two trying to find a place I could camp out. As things started getting a bit more industrial, and more stealth camping friendly, I had gotten hungry, so I thought I'd walk until I found a taqueria or something, then bed down after dinner.
I walked on and on looking for something, and eyeballing the woods in different abandoned areas to sack out in, until a pick up wheeled around and pulled up next to me. Again, the window came down and perfect American accented English came out of it. Again, it took me a second to realize I fully understood everything the guy said to me clearly. He was a guy from Baja California and he offered to let me crash at his place.
Oscar makes his money pulling oil from the Gulf of Mexico and has a gorgeous house at the end of the island right on the ocean. He also is a Couchsurfer and was currently hosting a British deep sea diver who also works on rigs while he travels the world. Oscar took the three of us out to a grand taco dinner then we talked well into the night until I had to get some sleep.
In conversation, he found out I was looking to get to Cancún, which is 700 km from there, by Tuesday afternoon to meet Todd, and he was quite concerned I wouldn't make it. He agreed then to drop me off at a good spot where I could hitch out from in the morning. The next morning, I jumped in his Hummer with him and his kid around 7:30am. He dropped his kid off at school in town, then bought me a coffee and told me he was going to give me $600 pesos and drop me at the bus station. He was convinced, and concerned, that I wouldn't make it to Cancún in time.
I could not believe the level of generosity. I even tried buying his coffee as a small thanks, and he wouldn't hear of it. At the bus station he even chipped in another $20 pesos, and soon I was on a first class bus for 13 hours to Cancún.
First class is exquisitely first class down here. The bus system in the US is a very sorry excuse for a bus system, which is why I find it ironic that people think of Mexican and Central American buses as strange primitive places where chickens and pigs roam freely. This is far from the truth. Instead, its more like flying, but your on the ground. Movies are always playing that you can plug a head set into to listen to. The seats are wide with plenty of leg room and go way back so you can sleep well. On this particular bus, there had been coffee and tea with hot water, sugar, powdered milk, and stirrers to doctor it up. High class.
I nestled into Cancún that night at a different hostel than where I'd stayed a month earlier and made friends with a Canadian guy who was a bit red neck-ish, and spoke of the backward ways of Mexico. I met with Todd the next afternoon as scheduled and we had a good night out that night in celebration of his arrival. While out, we made friends with a Mexican guy who was depressed about losing his ex-wife so we let him talk it out with us over drinks.
We stayed in Cancún for quite a few days, while Todd acclimated to Mexican life. I was anxious to leave, and get back to cheaper Chiapas, but I also was okay with allowing myself a bit of celebration for the week. After a few days we took a bus down to Tulum. On the bus we randomly ran across a traveler friend of mine, Enrique, from Ecuador who was also heading to Tulum. We arrived Thursday evening and set ourselves up in a hostel. Enrique went to his Couchsurfing host, and we fell back into backpacker culture.
Over the next few days we enjoyed the beaches, ruins, and the folks staying at the hostel, but for the most part didn't look much into the town itself. Every day we have said we'll likely leave the next, and now its Sunday evening, which is our fourth night here.
We planned to leave today with a woman from Finland who wanted company hitching to Belize, but when we met up it turned out her Tourist Visa card had expired a month earlier, which would mean she'd be in big trouble if she tried to and needed to visit her lawyer in Cancún to fix the situation. Todd and I decided we'd get a big meal tonight from the market and hitch out tomorrow back to San Cristóbal. We shall see.
The Last Week of School
This final week wound down fairly uneventfully. I volunteered two more days for the Edelo Cultural Center which I started the Friday before, but I didn't really do a whole lot for them. Mercy, the woman I worked with there, decided to speak less English around me to make me practice my Spanish a bit more, which was good for me.
On Tuesday, the gang at Gael's decided to go out to a movie and invited me along. It was completely fantastic. The way "going to the movie's" works in San Cristóbal is quite different then in The States. I never saw a huge cineplex, or even a small independent theatre as we would think of them back home. Instead, all of the films I saw were projections in little rooms off of cultural centers. These centers are essentially art house hang outs that serve coffee, beer, pastries, have art shows of local artists and in general focus on art that is focused on the local culture.
The movie we saw was called ¡Viva México! and it was amazing. I highly recommend it to anyone, particularly to Americans. It was about the Zapatistas (surprise, surprise), but focused on Marcos' trip around Mexico back in 2006. His goal was to unify other small groups struggling for justice against a very corrupt government. I recommend this highly to Americans in particular because in my travels over the past several years, extensively focused in The States, it is very clear that there is a level of dissatisfaction with our own government's morality and workings that goes entirely unchallenged outside of griping and little protests that are forgotten as soon as the litter is cleaned up the next day.
The film was impressive for me mostly because of Marcos' message in it. The campaign he was heading up is called El Otro Compaña, or The Other Campaign. The film begins in LA with the Mexicans trying to scrape a living together selling food from carts on the sidewalk. They talk about what injustices happen there and is apart of a subcategory of El Otro Compaña called El Otro Otro Compaña, The Other Other Campaign. It then cuts from there to the indigenous Mayans struggling back in Chiapas. It follows Marcos from there to the Yucatan, Quintana Roo, Colima, among other places up to Mexico City.
It shows Marcos giving his speeches, which are quite inspiring, authentic, and impressive, about the nature of the government's tricks and tactics and how his beliefs coincide with whatever struggle each local group is battling. In Mexico City, he embraces the struggle of gays and lesbians and the small business owners among others. It is the small business owners who provide the climax inadvertently when a riot breaks out and the small group is able to push the police out of a neighborhood being threatened by them, Atenco. The brutality the cameras catch the police delivering when they finally blitz the area is disturbing and telling of exactly what all of these people are struggling against. If I can, I would love to send the DVD up to The States.
As it turned out, two days later I ended having drinks with the director and producer in their home. I spoke with the producer, Daniela, about touring through out the US using my former film contacts and she seemed quite interested. Around the same time I came in contact through Facebook with a man who has reopened The Bing in Springfield as a music venue, but hopes to do films soon as well. It seems a tour may come of this in the next year or so, hopefully, so keep your eyes peeled.
Also that same evening, I visited the home of my teacher, Cristian. He lives in a collective community which are quite popular in San Cristóbal. It is a very progressive and liberal city that leaves most places I've seen in America well behind it in energy conservation and environmental consciousness. They lived in buildings built with found materials, and looks like they live in a tree house. The washer for laundry was operated by an exercise bicycle that spins the tumbler as you peddle. They were working on finding ways to power all of their lights this way, and storing the excess energy in batteries.
Contrasting that I witnessed an extremely depressing sight at the edge of town the next day. I was looking for fuel for my camp stove and was reluctantly guided to a Sam's Club on the edge of town. I have been in Walmart and Sam's in America and its never cheery for me, but seeing it here was ten times more depressing. It was like witnessing the invasion of American corporatism and its beginning, or the modern day landing of Cortez. Very few people were shopping there, and everything there was junk from abroad.
I left and went a few blocks down to the large Mexican market. Mazes upon mazes, sometimes under corrugated tin rooves, sometimes out in the open air, but filled with a good local feel of people selling stuff they had. Mostly it was food they had grown, but some of it was just as cheap and plastic as what Sam's was offering, but somehow it was reassuring.
I wrapped up my week preparing to hitch out the next day and finally see what hitching in southern Mexico was really all about.
On Tuesday, the gang at Gael's decided to go out to a movie and invited me along. It was completely fantastic. The way "going to the movie's" works in San Cristóbal is quite different then in The States. I never saw a huge cineplex, or even a small independent theatre as we would think of them back home. Instead, all of the films I saw were projections in little rooms off of cultural centers. These centers are essentially art house hang outs that serve coffee, beer, pastries, have art shows of local artists and in general focus on art that is focused on the local culture.
The movie we saw was called ¡Viva México! and it was amazing. I highly recommend it to anyone, particularly to Americans. It was about the Zapatistas (surprise, surprise), but focused on Marcos' trip around Mexico back in 2006. His goal was to unify other small groups struggling for justice against a very corrupt government. I recommend this highly to Americans in particular because in my travels over the past several years, extensively focused in The States, it is very clear that there is a level of dissatisfaction with our own government's morality and workings that goes entirely unchallenged outside of griping and little protests that are forgotten as soon as the litter is cleaned up the next day.
The film was impressive for me mostly because of Marcos' message in it. The campaign he was heading up is called El Otro Compaña, or The Other Campaign. The film begins in LA with the Mexicans trying to scrape a living together selling food from carts on the sidewalk. They talk about what injustices happen there and is apart of a subcategory of El Otro Compaña called El Otro Otro Compaña, The Other Other Campaign. It then cuts from there to the indigenous Mayans struggling back in Chiapas. It follows Marcos from there to the Yucatan, Quintana Roo, Colima, among other places up to Mexico City.
It shows Marcos giving his speeches, which are quite inspiring, authentic, and impressive, about the nature of the government's tricks and tactics and how his beliefs coincide with whatever struggle each local group is battling. In Mexico City, he embraces the struggle of gays and lesbians and the small business owners among others. It is the small business owners who provide the climax inadvertently when a riot breaks out and the small group is able to push the police out of a neighborhood being threatened by them, Atenco. The brutality the cameras catch the police delivering when they finally blitz the area is disturbing and telling of exactly what all of these people are struggling against. If I can, I would love to send the DVD up to The States.
As it turned out, two days later I ended having drinks with the director and producer in their home. I spoke with the producer, Daniela, about touring through out the US using my former film contacts and she seemed quite interested. Around the same time I came in contact through Facebook with a man who has reopened The Bing in Springfield as a music venue, but hopes to do films soon as well. It seems a tour may come of this in the next year or so, hopefully, so keep your eyes peeled.
Also that same evening, I visited the home of my teacher, Cristian. He lives in a collective community which are quite popular in San Cristóbal. It is a very progressive and liberal city that leaves most places I've seen in America well behind it in energy conservation and environmental consciousness. They lived in buildings built with found materials, and looks like they live in a tree house. The washer for laundry was operated by an exercise bicycle that spins the tumbler as you peddle. They were working on finding ways to power all of their lights this way, and storing the excess energy in batteries.
Contrasting that I witnessed an extremely depressing sight at the edge of town the next day. I was looking for fuel for my camp stove and was reluctantly guided to a Sam's Club on the edge of town. I have been in Walmart and Sam's in America and its never cheery for me, but seeing it here was ten times more depressing. It was like witnessing the invasion of American corporatism and its beginning, or the modern day landing of Cortez. Very few people were shopping there, and everything there was junk from abroad.
I left and went a few blocks down to the large Mexican market. Mazes upon mazes, sometimes under corrugated tin rooves, sometimes out in the open air, but filled with a good local feel of people selling stuff they had. Mostly it was food they had grown, but some of it was just as cheap and plastic as what Sam's was offering, but somehow it was reassuring.
I wrapped up my week preparing to hitch out the next day and finally see what hitching in southern Mexico was really all about.
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