It's not a Mexican vacation until you get robbed by the Police

On our first night in Cancun, Jamie and I were amped up to go out. We had been traveling for 19 hours that day and had spent the previous several days in dirty, chaotic, stressful places. We showered, drank a bottle of cheap cane liquor, grabbed a couple of "road sodas" and then went out to the street to catch a bus to the hotel zone.

I knew we were not supposed to drink on the streets, but it was past midnight, not many people were out, and I did not think it would be a problem. To be safe, we wrapped them up in paper. Sure enough, a pick-up full of cops pulls up to the corner where we were standing and, despite our best attempts to play it cool, they were on to us like sharks to blood.

Three of them jumped out, each holding a machine gun, and told us it was against the law to drink in public. At first, I tried to say we had just arrived, grabbed a couple of beers, and were heading right back to the hostel. My attitude said "No problem amigo." Did not fly.

They told us we were going with them, so we hopped in the back of the truck. As we drove off, uncertain of where we were going, I sternly interrupted the mumbling officers to remind them that I spoke Spanish and understood every word, lest they do too much colluding in front of us. Not wanting to beat around the bush, I asked the officers what we could do to avoid going to the station. They chatted between themselves and replied that the fine would be $150 USD each. Aghast, I told them, truthfully, that we did not have that kind of money on us, to which they replied that we would have to go to the station and spend 36 hours in jail.

They drove us to a dark dead-end street and shut off the truck. At this point I started to get nervous/frightened, because they did not seem willing to budge and I was not willing to give up $150 so easily. Jamie and I openly discussed our options in English: He though we should demand to speak to someone from the consulate. I was certain that would not fly with these guys, and wondered if we should try and call their bluff about going to the station. I was, however, doubtful of our prospects for staying whole in prison if it should come to that. As I became more certain we would have to pony up, Jamie kept a cool head and decided we should just keep talking with them.

We decided to play up the fact that Jamie had lost his debit card (true) and was waiting for a new one in Cancun. The story somehow took on a life of its own and soon we were saying that we had both lost our cards, were living on our last few pesos and waiting for replacements. For a while, they did not want to accept this and said we would have to take our chances at the station, where, they made clear, things would be much more difficult.

I played dumb and willing, but unable, to help. Jamie said we should offer them the 2 beers we had left and a bag of chips. Embarassed at such a silly idea but willing to try it, I relayed this offer, adding that we could all go out for some beers like friends. They did not jump at the suggestion but did not scoff either, and the mood loosened up a bit. Ultimately, I said I would give them every last peso in my pockets, which came to around $10 USD, but that we could not offer anything else. They finally accepted, to my extreme relief. Once we had agreed, they frisked us both, obviously checking for more money. One officer found my wallet but did not notice my credit card.

True to my word, I gave them every last coin in my pockets, and Jamie threw in a few Jalapeno chips for good measure. They became friendly and smiling, and one officer even put his hand on my shoulder and told me how to get back to the our hostel. My elation at getting off so easy far outweighed the anger and frustration at having been outright robbed at gunpoint.

Our story is amazingly common. The very next night a friend of ours lost almost $40 to the police after they caught him peeing behind a tree. Another traveler reported that a friend of his was held at gunpoint until he agreed to go to an ATM for hundreds of dollars. I will concede that these situations usually are borne out of dumb decisions by travelers. Nevertheless, the impunity with which these armed robbers operate is truly unsettling and has no place in such a great country. Afterwards, I found myself worried about jaywalking, not wanting to give the swarming patrols any further excuse.

Despite the fact that, as many will point out, a public drinking ticket in the US would probably be more expensive, I'll take the rule of law any day.

Travelogue: Next Steps

Tommorrow I will fly to Santiago, Chile, spend a couple days there, and then head to the far South to volunteer on a "farm" in Patagonia. I signed up for an organization called "WWOOF" (Willing Workers on Organic Farms, google it) and found the listing below. Sounds amazing, and my hope, pending confirmation that Thomas is not insane, is to spend 6-8 weeks there before exploring more of South America. I think it will be an amazing opportunity to see a beautiful part of the world up close, to get my hands dirty, learn some new skills, and, importantly, live for a time without spending money.

Apologies for the late notice, but due to the enigmatic scheduling and pricing of flights, I will be spending 7 hours in Miami tomorrow. If anyone is dying to see me, we can meet on South Beach for a mojito.

See below for a more thorough explanation of what the heck is going on in Chile. After reading you will know as much as I do.

-------

My name is Thomas, I am from Holland , I travelled around the world several times and came across this natural paradise in Patagonia , Chile. I fell in love with the valley , the waterfalls , the untouched jungle (Cold Jungle) I am active and enterprising , I need help building log cabins , perfecting my dams, turbines and windgenerators to make electricity. I also bought materials to build a katamaran and heaps of tools for all kinds of mad scientist projects. I own this beach right on the estuary. Plenty of fishing seafood , swimming kayaking and more. Dolphins and curious sealions often come spy on us strange human beings . I heard a ferocious roar of a puma (american lyon) a while ago. All I need is a few helping hands as the challenges of survival in pure unadulterated nature are many . Lodging in tent, meals rich in fishs. Come see . Adelante. Bienvenidos! But I need wwoofers remain 3 weeks or more.

Total freedom to choose from...to participate in whatever projects you enjoy :


1) exploring & clearing the jungle ( small scale ) using machetes
2) making a path to the lake ( 6 kms )
3 building a bridge over the stream/small river involving some cement work
4) farming and 2 greenhouses .
5) making repairs .......tents or structure or broken tools
6) some work involving chainsaws
7) setting up tents and alternative accommodations
8) building log cabins
9) cutting, drying and storing firewood ( using only dead trees )
10) cooking with woodstove , baking whole wheat bread or raisin bread
11) installing copper tubes into firewood systems in order to make hot water for
boiling baths and hot showers ( involves bending and soldering copper tubes )
12) washing your own dishes and /or taking turns ......I am not the maid
13) fishing witha net and collecting buckets of seafood ( mussels ) for meals
14) Smoking and preserving seafood which I give to friends , no charge .
15) Sailing a catamaran to go into town for shopping and picking up volunteers
16) Enlarging present DAM/reservoir to store 20 times more water
( Water is delicious and safe and used for drinking , cooking and generating electricity )
17) Some small scale electric projects ( mostly lighting and music )
18) taking care of livestock ( limited to 3 goats at present ) the challenge here is to keep them safe from PUMA
19) Learning , participating and actually helping in various projects .
20) Taking photos of projects and activities ...in order to improve my very amateur
internet site and helping me prepare the way for ADVENTURE TOURISM
some time in the future

Tikal to Cancun

We arrived in the small town of Flores, Guatemala, late at night after more than 16 hours of travel. We couldn't make much of the town in the dark and were unsure of whhat it had to offer, so we took the first hotel we saw, right outside the bus station. It was by far the worst place I have ever slept. Dingy concrete rooms surrounded a dingier courtyard. Shared bathrooms were dark and disgusting, and the place generally smelled of waste and refuse. On top of that, multiple cockroaches were crawling around our room when we entered. I pulled the bed out from the wall and tried to sleep tight in my sleeping bag until the suffocating heat forced me to brave the bugs and sleep coverless.

The next day we took a trip to the mind-blowing ruins at Tikal. Truly in the jungle, the park encompasses 100 square kilometers, only 20% of which has been excavated/restored. Street signs on the road that enters the park (the kind that would show deer in the US) warn of jaguars and snakes crossing. The site is a tourist mecca, so it is high-priced and relatively crowded, but for good reason. Towering structures of stone rise out of the trees, looking down upon amazingly well-organized plazas. We climbed several of the larger temples and were rewarded with vistas of endless jungle, all the way to the horizon, as well as the surrounding structures. It was impossible to resist closing my eyes and imagining the plazas teeming with Mayans involved in some sacrificial ceremony (no historical knowledge here, so I channeled images from Mel Gibson's Apocalypto)

We had to spend another night in Flores, but found a cheaper and better hotel in the daylight. It would have been a good deal regardless, but the attendant actually gave me the wrong key so we ended up with a large room that had four beds and a private bathroom for about $4 each. We ate our second meal in two days at the same friendly roadside eatery and chatted with the young daughter as she tried to practice english and get Jamie to give her his passport. The next day we awoke at 4:45 AM for a bus to Chetumal, on the border of Mexico and Belize. We spent all of 5 hours in Belize, but had to pay $15 for the privilege. The day was grueling, 19 hours of travel to Cancun.

Crossing the border into Mexico felt like going home for Jamie and I. Strangely, after having been through a few Central American countries, we realized how developed Mexico is and how comfortable we had become with it. Tacos, beer, accomodations...it all seems easier and cheaper in Mexico. Mexico has by far been the biggest surprise of my trip. Having lived so close to it for so long, I am shocked at my misstep of not having explored it sooner. One could easily spend several years exploring and not see it all.

Having said that, we all know Cancun is a different animal. I was here seven years ago for a high-school graduation trip and did the hotel all-inclusive thing. Now, I'm staying in a $8 per night hostel and eating on $3 per day. In that context I am seeing that Cancun was and is a true Mexican city, even if it does have several miles of coastline that might as well be The United States. As the saying goes, "When in Rome...," so we ponied up for a Spring Break bar crawl on our first night. Like watching Snakes on a Plane, you need to be able to suspend disbelief if you are going to enjoy it. We felt our age, however, as we laughed into our beers upon hearing the emcee scream "showing me your fucking beers and say USA!" That pretty much summed up the evening.

I'll spend a couple more nights here and head on to phase two of my trip: Chile.

Perquin, El Salvador to Bay Islands, Honduras

We caught a bus on the side of the road headed for Honduras. The dusty, dusty--can't emphasize that enough--dusty, rocky road winds up, down, and around the border mountains. People had to cover their faces with scarves and cloths to block out the dust and babies were buried beneath blankets by protective mothers. The border was not much of a border--no gates or demarcation, no stamps. There wasn't even a representative from El Salvador present. Our border crossings have been hit or miss--sometimes you pay unoffical "fees," sometimes you walk right through. Here, the Honduran official that boarded our bus tried to hassle me a bit, but thankfully let it go and sent us along with a smile.

A couple hours later we arrived in Marcala, a small town surrounded by fragrant coffee plantations and beautiful countryside, but itself a dusty, dirty, and dodgy place. We just spent the night and headed out in the morning for La Ceiba, on the Caribbean coast. A two hour bus ride to the side of a highway, a half-hour bus to a larger town, a three hour bus to the large city of San Pedro Sula, and a four hour bus to La Ceiba got us there by evening.

In a relatively short time we had been transported to quite a different world. Coastal Honduras, in contrast to inland Central America, is heavily influenced by its Afro-Caribbean population. There is a definitive "island" vibe in the food, music, and people. The town is known for its parties, so we drank cheap rum on the beach and went out to a local disco which, despite the crumminess of the town, was fancy enough for any European city.

The next morning we boarded a ferry for Utila, the cheapest of the three famous "Bay Islands." After an hour and a half struggling not to vomit, we arrived to a strikingly "white" bunch of salesmen, all pushing various dive courses and hotels. The island has developed a world-famous diving industry, and many travelers and expats end up living in Utila owning, operating, or working in dive shops, restaurants, hotels, and related businesses. Almost all travelers are in Utila to get certified, so we baffled with our plan to just "chill out."

I'm honestly not very clear on the island's history, but English is the official language and the local population seems to be a mixture of white colonial descendents and afro-caribbean descendents of slaves. The owner of our hotel lamented that they are governed by Honduras and made clear that her daughter "don't speak no Spanish."

The ferry to get to the islands was quite expensive ($23 each way), so we lived a spartan existence in our time there, abstaining from alcohol and cooking our own rice and beans with sparing amounts of vegetables.

We spent a lot of time at the beach. One day we rented a kayak and paddled out to Water Cay, a deserted island with picture-perfect beaches, palm trees, and turquoise water. We ended up missing Water Cay and landing on another small island that had a deserted house on it. Nobody else showed up and we had the place to ourself, save for the pelicans. We collected coconuts, paddled out to deep waters for a swim, and just lazed around in complete serenity. The coconuts proved difficult to open, but we perfected a technique that involved a 50lb piece of coral and were savoring the milk and meat in no time.

After a few lazy days we embarked on a grueling day of travel--16 hours of ferries, taxis, buses, and minibuses to get to Flores, Guatemala, jumping off point for tours to the epic Mayan ruins of Tikal.

Travelogue: San Salvador to Perquin

We left San Salvador after four nights and headed for the small town of Alegria. This tiny mountain town (population 5000 or so) is postcard charming, perched on a green mountaintop and surrounded by beautiful flowers. Our simple hotel, a converted home, was right on the plaza and came complete with old folks sitting on wooden chairs around the garden, chatting the days away. The room we stayed in came with a large poster of Jesus' face. On arrival we walked to nearby Laguna Alegria-- a cold, sulfurous lake in the crater of a dormant volcano. We celebrated St. Patrick's Day with a few cold Pilsner beers.

After a night in Alegria we took four chicken buses and a pick-up truck east and north to the small town of Perquin, in the mountain jungle near the border with Honduras. This area was an intense battle ground during the Civil War, and our hope was to take a guided tour with a local ex-guerrilla guide. Our "hotel" was a converted wood mill, simple and super cheap ($6). One of the workers there told me times have been really tough over the past year, with tourism markedly down. He actually asked us to pay part of our stay in advance because they had no cash to buy soap, toilet paper, and food for the guests.

We ate all of our meals during our 2.5 day stay at a local eatery we found on the first night. A lovely woman cooked in the open kitchen while her husband sat watching tv and drinking beer in the dining room--he did help bring out the plates and collect our bill. She cooked up big plates of rice, salad, steak, tortillas, and beans for about $2--we really enjoyed our meals and her friendliness and, on the day we left, hugs and kisses felt natural.

On our first day we toured the local museum, filled with artifacts related to the war. It has the original radio equipment used by the guerrillas to send clandestine broadcasts to troops and supporters, 500lb American bombs dropped on the town, and bullet-proof cars donated by Mexico and France for guerrilla leaders. Evidence of the fighting is obvious 17 years later: The area is littered with tunnels, trenches, and bomb craters that would swallow a minivan.

A former combatant, Ephrain, showed us around and shared his story: He joined the guerrillas when he was 15, two years after his father and brother, non-combatants, were murdered by the military government. He took a grenade blast on one side of his body and now has limited mobility in his right arm and leg and metal plates in his head. When asked whether he believes war is useful, he said, "it was a bad thing, but we had no other choice."

While in Perquin we took an emotional trip with another ex-combatant to Mozote, where, in 1981, almost 1000 villagers were killed by soldiers attempting to eradicate the guerrilla threat. Oscar, with war scars of his own--his leg and arm were shattered by bullets--answered our questions patiently and told of his time in the war. His eyes spoke of sadness, on the verge of welling with tears as he told of his experiences: finding the bodies of decapitated children burning in Mozote, helplessly watching friends die as helicopters rained fire upon his platoon, and feeling that fighting was the only way out of a repressive situation. The one lighter moment of the trip came on the banks of the pristine Rio Sapo. We spent an hour diving and swimming in a pool set between cascades and boulders, thrilled at having found a clean body of water in Central America. We left Oscar with hearty handshakes and lingering smiles, feeling unable to truly express our gratitude at his having shared such a difficult and emotional experience.

That afternoon Jamie and I said goodbye to Ciaran as he headed for Nicaragua and we for Honduras.

Update

For the few avid "Crisis" followers: I am still alive and well, but have been hopping quickly between dusty cities on dusty buses with spotty access to internet; I am back in Mexico, which in terms of development now feels like home, and will be filling in the blanks soon.

In the meantime, a reflection from my trip to El Salvador:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jon-santiago/revisiting-american-invol_b_177841.html

Best,
JS

Travelogue: Antigua, Guatemala to San Salvador

We left Antigua on a chicken bus bound for Guatemala City--notorious, even amongst hardy travelers, as a dirty and dangerous place. We hopped off the bus somewhere along a busy highway, as we had been advised, and hopped into a taxi driven by Milton, a former computational math teacher turned taxista. Despite his best efforts to screw us we had been advised of the going rates and was able to get what we wanted. Turned out to be a great, thoughtful guy and of course gave me his number in case I ever "dropped by" Guatemala City in the future. He dropped us off on a dirty chaotic street in front of a dirty chaotic hole-in-the-wall bus station. Inside we paid for tickets to El Salvador and dropped our bags to go exploring for a bit. Central Guatemala City is crazy. Stores, food carts, people, trash, animals, trucks, smog...all heaped right on top of each other like a living, moving collage. People were absolutely gobsmacked, to steal a term from my Irish mate Ciaran, that three "gringos" were just walking around, eating and scoping things out.

The bus to El Salvador was great. The border crossing was easy: quickly stamped with no fees and no trouble. Hordes of food vendors boarded on the Salvadoran side and we got our first taste of pupusas, the national dish. We made friends with people around us including a heavy-machine operator just returned from an 8-month trip to Australia and a freshly graduated doctor from San Salvador. We had intended to stop at a small town just across the border, famous for its weekend food fair, but were convinced by the young doctor, Gonzalo, to continue on to San Salvador.

We found, to our complete surprise, that we had inadvertently stumbled upon a truly historic moment. The presidential election was to be held two days away, on Sunday, and it was widely expected that the leftist FMLN would end their rivals' 20+ year reign. The sale of alcohol was to be cut off nationwide from midnight Friday to midnight Monday, so early Friday was supposed to be a big party and Gonzalo offered to take us out.

The machine operator, Carlos, rocked my world with his story. He had been in Australia visiting his brother and sister, who had emigrated there during El Salvador's 12-year civil war. Apparently hundreds of thousands of Salvadorans ended up in Australia as part of a refugee program (also, 2 million out of 7 million Salvadorans live in the U.S.) He himself had fled earlier to Mexico City--he was in danger, as were many, because he refused to pick sides in the war. For a period of several years, he had no contact with his family and they thought he had been "disappeared" by the government. After a glorious reunion and his trip to Australia, he is now trying to relocate there with his own family.

Our first night in the city, Jaime and Ciaran were attacked a couple blocks from our hostel. Upon realizing the attackers did not have knives, they fought them off and escaped more or less unharmed, but shaken up.

As far as tourist attractions go, there is not much to see in San Salvador, but what we saw was remarkable. We saw a city that, despite its reputation as dangerous and worth missing, embodied a friendliness that boggled the mind. In conversation we told locals about the mugging and they invariable apologized. I think, despite the inexcusable violence, we all recognized that the attack was one of opportunity--two drunk guys, clearly not familiar with the place, walked by three drunk guys who "owned" the place--and did not represent a pattern of violence endemic to the city or country. At every turn we met people fully willing to welcome us into their daily lives, whether it be on the street, in the market, or at the celebration of an historic victory. More to come on the elections, but this section of the travelogue ends here.

Photos: Election Night

Photos: Election Day in San Salvador

People: Klaus

Klaus has never had a mobile phone, owned a home, kept a steady job, attended college, or voted. When he was 19 he left the U.S. and has been traveling ever since. He is now 35. For the past twelve years, he has lived part of the year in a small town in Guatemala, part of the year with a family in India, and the rest at his parents' homes in Hawaii and Seattle. His father divorced and remarried with a divorcee, who had a fortune estimated at $60 to $70 million dollars as a result of her previous husband's investments in Costco. As part of a tax-sheltering strategy, she and Klaus's father gifted Klaus a substantial amount of bonds, and he now lives off the interest. He supplements his income by finding odd jobs wherever he lives. The day I met him he was washing windows at a new restaurant being opened by a friend of his. His circle of friends is some mixture of wandering expats and locals. He claims to have once sat down for a coca-cola with a 15-year old boy in El Salvador who, having been sufficiently convinced by Klaus that Klaus wasn't worth it, aborted an armed robbery.

Travelogue: San Pedro, Guatemala to Antigua, Guatemala

San Pedro La Laguna, situated on the shore of Lake Atitlan and at the foot of a now-dormant volcano, looked charming as we approached the dock in our water taxi. Closer inspection revealed a disturbing reality.

The town is a hippie backpacker mecca, with dozens of cheap hotels, funky restaurants, expat bars, and a surprisingly well-developed spanish-lesson industry. Everyone doing the Central America route says to go there, that it's a great place to chill. Unfortunately, the profusion of travelers has led to a profusion of little businesses (restaurants and hotels) and a profusion of drunk young men who solicit your patronage with mind-blowing persistence. Add to that the violence: three days prior a local man was shot in the head three times on the main street in a drug-related killing (we saw the blood and bullet holes), and one year earlier a young Czech woman was raped and beaten to a pulp by a group of local thugs. Despite the infrequent and isolated nature of the violence, I myself could not reconcile the town's placid reputation with such mindless brutality.

Many of the town's expat residents have lived there for several years and love the place. Some own bars or restaurants, some just come for a few months out of each year to chill. My impression was that they do a lot of drugs and generally try to avoid reality. Two told me the identity of the criminals is widely known, but nothing has been done, and had a "what can you do?" attitude about it.

The street harassment, the drug-running families, the drug-using expats, surprisingly expensive food, and a general unease led us to leave less than 24 hours after arriving, to near-universal exclamations of "already?!"

Guatemalan local buses are known as "chicken buses" because people can and will board with animals. They are old Blue Bird school buses, colorfully painted, adorned with crucifixes, and christened with names such as Melissa, Gonzalez, and Santa Rita. We took three of them--total time of around 4 hours, cost of $5.50--to get to the town of Antigua. Vendors board during the frequent stops to sell food, drinks, and light-up pens, while others of various maladies and ill-fortunes make flowery pleas for charity. A young boy hangs out the door, pulling the ear-splitting horn and screaming out the bus's destination in an effort to fill the bus. When passengers have large bags he jumps on top, ties them down, and climbs back in through the back door, all while the bus is moving. Everyone stared in awe at the pale-skinned travelers with the fancy bags, but for every scowl there were 5 or 6 smiles, and we got off each bus having made a few quick friends.

We arrived in Antigua and began preparations for a trip up the Pacaya volcano.

People: Javier

Javier is from Mexico City, but told me he knows more of the U.S. than he does of Mexico. He arrived to the U.S. several years ago with no job, no family--only a few contacts through friends. He found work apprenticing with a family friend in woodworking. He now has his own business, based in Maryland. He has a driver's license--he showed it to me--and owns a car with Maryland plates. He pays taxes. He is an illegal immigrant.

Every time he wants to enter the U.S. he must do so covertly, dangerously, and expensively ($2000) with the help of a "coyote." The trip includes a twelve mile walk through mountains which, looking at a terrain map of the border, leads me to believe it's somewhere along the barren expanse of West Texas. When I met him he was driving his Chevy pick-up to Honduras to pick up his fiancee, whom he met in Maryland. They will have a civil ceremony in Honduras, a festive wedding in Mexico, and then pass once again into the U.S. where they hope to live.

Despite his recent life having been centered in the U.S., Javier maintains a transnational lifestyle, owning a car, a house, and a taxi in Mexico City. When I asked him about the downturn in building in the U.S., he said that if things look too rough there, he'll drive the taxi, with which he can earn around $200 per week, but he would rather be in the States. He is 28 years old.

Travelogue: San Cristobal, Mexico to San Pedro, Guatemala

I left San Cristobal with two new traveling buddies, Jaime and Ciaran (pronounced Kai-Ron). Jaime is an Australian pilot mucking around for a bit in Latin America and Ciaran is an Irish unemployed young-professional like myself, also just wandering a bit.

We decided to ignore the direct-route buses and cobble together our own way to Guatemala in the interest of cheapness and adventure. A few evenings ago we took a bus to the border town of Ciudad Cuauhtemoc, arriving around 9:00 pm to find a town that consists of a few blocks of homes, buildings dedicated to Mexican customs/immigration, and a dingy restaurant/trucker motel/bus station. We inquired about crossing the 4km no man's land to the Guatemalan border town, where we had heard there is a small guesthouse, and were told in no uncertain terms that we shouldn't go anywhere unless we wanted to be robbed. The Guatemalan border and Guatemala itself is notorious for being extremely dangerous at night, so we decided for safety's sake to spend the night and cross in the morning.

The "motel" consisted of a few rooms that were all more or less connected. We took one with two beds because it had a door that closed and decided to try and drum up some food and beers to calm us down. We skittered across the street nervously towards the lights of a taco cart and spoke with the nice family operating it. We didn't have trouble here or when we bought beers, but a certain sense of lawlessness pervaded the dark town and we were definitely on edge and on guard. We were sitting out on a balcony drinking beers when we saw one of the girls from the hotel open our door with a man in tow. The three of us jumped up and ran in to see what was happening, and, once cleared up, found that she was just showing him a room and made a mistake. Still nervous, we watched the man from the balcony as he wandered up the street and wandered back drinking a beer. He walked up the stairs with a big suitcase and, feeling a little more confident, I decided to feel him out by starting a conversation about his Texas Longhorns hat.

Turns out he's from Mexico City and driving to pick up his fiancee in Honduras so they can get married. We get to chatting and, after seeing that our destination is on his way, he offers to give us a ride. The next morning we rose about 6:30 AM, but soon found out that, because I had not received a receipt of payment for my Mexican entry fee, I would have to pay it again, and could not do so until 8 AM. We had breakfast at a local comedor (brick hovel eatery, mice scurrying on the floor) until 8, took care of my business and proceeded on our way. We drove through the no man's land, where people actually live, and arrived at the Guatemalan crossing, which, despite the early hour, was quite chaotic with money changers, vendors, officials, and non-officials clamoring about the dusty streets. The border was nothing more than a crude boom-gate and it did not seem to me that anyone would have cared if we had just walked across. Paid, stamped, and cleared, we headed into Guatemala. Guatemala's roads, while paved, are rare. From this border town to the Capital there is only one main road, so everything from tuk-tuks to semi's to motorbikes to sports cars uses it. Our new friend Javier flew, weaving around the slow truckers, sometimes blindly passing on curves, but always seeming more or less in control. He spoke a little bit of English so we all were able to chat along the way and found him to be a really nice, enjoyable guy with an interesting story (to come). The only bad part was when we ran over a stray dog that, confused by the horns, ran right into our left-front tire. I cringed, but Javier didn't flinch.

We arrived at the town of Panajachel, on the shores of beautiful Lake Atitlan, in the early afternoon and bid farewell to Javier before boarding a water-taxi to the supposedly delightful hamlet of San Pedro La Laguna.

Travelogue: Mexico D.F. to San Cristobal, Mexico

I left Mexico City on the 3rd and headed by bus to Puebla, 2.5 hours to the southeast of the capital. Although it is Mexico's fourth-largest city, Puebla has a lovely historic neighborhood (it was one of the most important colonial cities) and a tranquil town plaza, complete with free WiFi. I spent one night and a day exploring the city before boarding a night bus to San Cristobal de las Casas.

Situated in lush green highlands in the state of Chiapas, the city is rich in charm, culture, and history. While tour operators and backpackers are plentiful, it provides some great opportunities to just mingle with the locals. Although taken under siege by Zapatista rebels in 1994, San Cristobal is now plenty safe to allow exploration beyond the tourist centers.

The municipal market was my favorite part of the city, a labyrinth of stalls selling everything from carrots to toe-nail clippers. I marveled at the endless rows of tomatoes, avocados, beets, potatoes, onions, mangos, oranges, bananas, chili peppers, etc. All neatly arranged in little pyramids, the produce was tantalizing for its price and freshness. I bought enough tomatoes, avocados, beets, carrots, onions, ginger, garlic, jalapeno, and chorizo (sausage) for a couple days meals and had spent a little more than $3. Some butter for cooking and a 1.2L bottle of beer took me almost to $5. Had I wanted to, I could have also procured any single part of a chicken (including the head), huge dried fish, dried or fresh shrimp, a slab of pork, a live chicken, a pirated DVD copy of the Dark Knight, and some underwear.

My five days in San Cristobal were pretty lazy, filled with reading, writing, aimless walks along cobblestone streets, trips to the market, and sociable cooking sessions at the hostel. I did manage to visit a museum of Mayan indigenous medicine and take a day trip to the gorgeous Canon del Sumidero, but the lack of a blockbuster tourist attraction keeps the city calm and is, in my opinion, essential to its charm.

From here it was on to Guatemala, but that's another story.

People: Young Subway Singer

Panhandling by young children is quite prevalent in Mexican cities. While many simply stick out a dirty hand and plead with their eyes, some get more creative. One such youngster gave us a great show and a few touching moments in a Mexico City subway car. He had unkempt hair, dirty face, dirty fleece sweater a few sizes too big. Something about him, perhaps his tired eyes or his solemn confidence, seemed mature and I initially mistook him for a dwarf. He sang a song that was equal parts mourning and hopeful. The words I couldn't catch, but the tune still floats in my head. His performance was interactive, and it was then that I realized he was just a child, not even a teenager. He stopped in front passengers and took their heads in his hands, pressing his forehead to theirs and rubbing their hair. He would tightly hug standing passengers, or, as happened to my Scottish friends, would rub their stomachs. People generally just laughed, and while a few gently nudged him away, people were tolerant of his charade and certainly not unkind. Stoic, unmoving faces melted into smiles, silent strangers began to chatter curiously, and the car was filled with a sense of lightness and warmth. He seemed like a little medicine man, chanting and delivering goodwill throughout, clearly wanting money but refusing donations until he had visited every last passenger. When I gave him a few coins, he touched me gently and said, "gracias, abuelito." Abuelito is the diminutive form of the word for "grandfather." I laughed and smiled for some time after, as did everyone else.

Crisis Update: Mexican Impressions

During my time here, I have tried to get a sense for how the global economic crisis is affecting Mexicans. The anecdotal evidence I have cobbled together does not lend itself to dramatic nor universal conclusions, but it nevertheless adds perspective to my understanding of this still unfolding drama. The overwhelming reaction to my prodding about life in Mexico during this period has been one of indifference. Most people I've asked, from a taxi driver in Mexico City to a vendor at Teotihuacan to a workless peasant in San Cristobal de Las Casas, have asserted that things are not all that different now than before. The one exception has been a consistent sense of shock and fear regarding the rapid plunge in the value of the peso versus the dollar. A gynecologist from Ciudad Juarez, a city smack on top of the U.S. border, recounted with dismay his realization that his significant peso-denominated savings have plunged in dollar value by almost 35% since September (not to mention market losses). He pointed out, as have others here, that it is a cruel and frustrating twist of fate (or financial markets) that the dollar has surged despite the crisis being centered in the U.S.

The vendor at Teotihuacan pointed out that things are not all bad, however. He claimed that the surging dollar has increased, if only slightly, American travel to Mexican tourist sites as well as the amount of money they spend on souvenirs. The taxi driver in Mexico City claimed that things are business as usual. "I know this is a business that has ups and downs," he said matter-of-factly. Likewise, the unemployed peasant in San Cristobal told me that things are more or less normal for simple laborers like him. "If you want to get work you can get work," he told me. He did say that wages for labor have been decreasing slightly, but when pressed to cite signs of more deeply-rooted trouble he could not.

Some say that when the U.S. sneezes, Mexico catches a cold. With the U.S. vomiting and in cold sweats, you might think Mexico would have already perished. A general sentiment has been that the worst is yet to come. It should also be noted that I'm not reading the newspapers here or watching the news as I was in the States, and so am not inundated with crisis coverage. Nor have I interacted much with the "professional" corps, which is likely reeling from the increasing pressure on global corporate earnings. In the conversations I have had, however, a sense of urgency or exceptional concern hasn't revealed itself save for worry about the peso.

My take-aways are as follows: a)The consequences of the crisis are still radiating outwards from the centers of commerce and finance, and while seemingly at doomsday proportions in the States, they have not fully manifested themselves elsewhere. b) many basic laborers have lived for years in difficult circumstances; as such the change in fortunes may not be as salient for them. Further, the indifference of Mexicans with whom I've spoken, largely of the lower-classes, leads me to wonder if this crisis, here and elsewhere, might be more accurately described as one of the upper and middle classes, at least for now. I am convinced that much of the media attention in the U.S. is due to the fact that so many previously well-off folks are suffering such huge losses in personal wealth and security--the harder they fall, the better the story. (Would welcome any thoughts on that interpretation. I certainly do not have a good sense of lower-class life in the U.S.)

Latest sign that the Crisis does indeed speak Spanish, and has followed me here to maake life difficult: I have not been able to sublet my room in NY after 8 weeks of trying, and after having lowered the rent by $300. It's in the West Village for christ's sake. If that's not a sign of the apocalypse, I don't know what is. Cross your fingers for me.

Sunday at the Plaza de Toros

A Sunday afternoon tradition from November to March, largely of the upper class but with cheap-seat diehards as well, Mexico City bullfights take place in the Plaza de Toros. A local offered to take me and some Scottish pals and I jumped at the chance. I had to see for myself.

The fights progress in a calculated manner, with carefully orchestrated steps and stages. Initially the helpers cajole the bull into running around the ring a few times. Then a fighter or his "picadores" (stabbers) will insert various knives in the bull's hunchback. Some have long ribbons or flags attached and, if well placed, will stand up in the immediate center of the bull's back. Once weakened, the bull is run through various movements by the figther, the most popular of which is the "pass," in which the bull chases the cape, rushing past the fighter and then quickly turning to face him again. Each pass draws the shout of "Ole!" from the crowd.

Towards the end, with the bull bleeding extensively and more deliberate in its movements, the fighter calls for his sword. His job then is to manipulate the bull such that it stands with its front feet parallel. This way the sword will pass directly through the bull's lungs. A well-placed thrust drives the sword in to its hilt, a poor one sends it bouncing to the ground. After a good sword thrust, the fighter stands back triumphantly while the helpers make the bull jump tire itself until it collapses. If the fighter cannot kill the bull, a specialist, who my Scottish companions referred to as the "wee-knife man," bounces into the ring with a small knife and drives it directly into the bull's brain.

We saw seven fights, seven kills, seven bulls dragged out of the arena by a train of horses. Only one figher, the first, received an award from the judge (one bull's ear, out of a possible two ears + one tail). The others had to call in the wee-knife man and were booed loudly. The bad kills were extremely hard to watch, as the bull bled profusely and endured much before dying. The last one was the worst, with the wee-knife man, usually the last resort and a quick killer, needing several stabs to fell the writhing bull. In disgust the crowd rained debris upon the arena and booed as they exited.

Drinking is a tradition in the stadium, and usually done from a leather wine-skin, or "boot." Being able to direct a steady stream into your mouth and not onto your shirt is a necessary skill, and frequent contests were held to see who could chug for the longest count. I set an interim record of 43 seconds before being soundly beaten by a local's 60 second gem. An older man with few teeth offered me a chance to redeem myself with a flask full of cheap tequila, but I declined to a chorus of boos. Beer is also served in large glasses by a "beer man" who, lest you forget he is there, constantly shouts out in slang, "Cheves! Cheves! Cheves!" At one point he actually chanted that the crowd was watching too much and drinking too little. Chants are common and rarely related to the match. One old man riled up the crowd by drunkenly slurring a ditty that went something like this: "I'm so happy happy happy, because my wife is not here."

The anti-bullfight crowd will be happy to know that the tradition seems to be on its way out. I asked several people in the city for information regarding the fights, and they either did not know or did not want to speak of it. The stadium, the world's largest for bullfighting, holds 41,000, but on this Sunday you would have been hard-pressed to find 5,000 in attendance. The lack of attendance was all the more surprising when you consider that it was late in the season and a rejoneador--fights on horseback and in a different style--was making a rare appearance. While the more expensive, lower-deck seats were filled with white shirts and fancy cowboy hats, the upper-deck was full of soccer-jerseys. This crowd was more interested in the party than in the fights. A group we befriended was actually a club that supports the Pumas football team and had only come because there was no match that day. Even our host, who used to attend with his father, had not been in years.

I was in awe throughout the show. In awe of the festivity, blissfully incongruous with the premise of the event. In awe of the ring, a circle of caramel-colored sand marked by clean white lines, watered and swept by a sand-zamboni after each kill. In awe of the choreography of the kill, despite the fact that on this day the execution (apologies) was poor. Admittedly, I was swept in by it all and had a great time, cringing as I did throughout and guilty as I may have felt afterwards. What sits with me now is the blood, the realization that it is not a universally "Mexican" pastime, and the fact that despite attempts to be artful and sporting it only achieves cruelty.

Great Things: Sundays and Powerful Coins

Sunday mornings in God-fearing cities are great. The biggest city in the world is quiet enough on Sunday morning that you can sit in the central plaza and hear yourself think.

Coins with buying power are great. My favorite coin is still the British 2 pound coin, but Mexico brings the heat with its heavy-weight 10 peso coin. When 3 pesos gets you a taco, thats a coin you're happy to find in the bottom of your pocket.

Cuisine: tacos, worms, mole

A sampling of my sampling thus far:

Hole in the Wall/Street Cart Tacos -- I've had at least one every day in Mexico. eat them standing up or at a narrow bar in front of the kitchen/cart. small but thick tortillas filled with a spoonfull of chicken, pork, beef, chicharron, shrimp, etc. usually there is a vegetable mix you can shovel into them, plus red and green salsas. messy but great. $1.50 will get you fat and happy.

Gosanos de Maguey -- a delicacy I was told. the same worms you find in good tequila, fried up crispy and served with tortillas, guacamole, and salsas.

Mole -- Mexico's special sauce, usually served on top of a piece of meat, but can be served separate with tortillas and other fixins for make-your-own tacos. My only fancy dinner in Mexico City included the "Festival of Mole," which was a sampling of 12 different types of Mole. The best, and most famous, was mole poblano, a dark brown sauce incorporating chocolate and chili flavors.

Elotes -- a street staple. Corn on the cob, slathered in mayonnaise, sprinkled with cheese, salt and pepper, chili powder, and salsa. I could take one out in about 60 seconds.

Sopes -- crispy tortilla topped with refried beans, meat, salsa, and sprinkled cheese

Chilaquiles -- like sopes but the tortillas are broken up and drenched in a whole plat of salsa.

Mescal -- at least as I tried it, the nasty moonshine cousin of tequila. comes in a bottle that looks like vegetable oil. only muted with lots of soda, delivers a mean hangover.

Noche Buena -- brewed by the makers of the Sol/Tecate family, and only sold in Mexico for a week or so around the Christmas holidays. Served free to visitors at the Cerveceria Cuahtemoc.

Travelogue: Monterrey to Mexico, D.F.

Monterrey was a wonderful first stop. The hostel was pretty small so I easily got acquainted with a few really nice travelers, some of which I saw again in Mexico City and one of which I'm going to continue traveling with for a while. I was also able to ease into my Spanish with the owner and his family as well as some Spanish speaking travelers from Mexico and Argentina. Monterrey is cosmopolitan, so while we ate tacos on the street ($1 to stuff your face), we also went to a mall, a great modern art museum and a fancy rooftop bar/club. While I really enjoyed the company and the hospitality, there isn't a whole lot to do for tourists so I needed to move on after a few days.

The trip to Mexico City was 12 hours on an overnight bus. I've been trying to do that where I can because it saves a night in a hostel, and new cities are always less intimidating in the morning than at night. The only incoveniences are Spanish dubbed movies blasting well into the night and the Air-Con overkill. Massive Mexico City was, as I had hoped, extremely peaceful on Friday morning when I arrived, and I easily found my way to the city center via subway. At my last stop I exited on to the Zocalo, the 2nd largest plaza in the world, and gasped aloud at the breathtakingly huge Mexican flag waving high above its center.

The city gets a bad rap from many travelers, but I was pleasantly surprised and could easily have spent a few weeks exploring. I saw blue skies every day (only slightly tinted by smog), found the congestion (population) to be manageable and the people to be extremely friendly and helpful. It has beauty of both modern and antique vintage, and wants for nothing in the way of art, cuisine, history, sports, nightlife, or architecture. More on some particular experiences later.

JS

Travelogue: San Antonio to Monterrey

I caught a bus in Texas from San Antonio to Monterrey, MX. The bus company I used, Turimex, is part of a Mexican conglomerate and only operates a website in Spanish. Likewise, Spanish is the primary language at the station and, while I'm certain the employees know a bit of English, they certainly did not offer to use it. Thus my immersion actually began on the US side of the border. It was also a reminder that while Spanish slowly becomes our second language nationwide, in pockets of Texas and other states it has been firmly established as number one for quite some time.

The station and, later, the bus, was abuzz with chatter and laughter as if everyone knew everyone else. My backpack drew plenty of stares and I was not included in the familial revelry, but I was content to just sit and enjoy the atmosphere. On the bus I chatted briefly with the older woman next to me, who had arrived with three large suitcases, each heavier than she. She told me her trip was for business rather than pleasure. She makes three trips to the US annually, during which she stays with a friend and buys gifts, toys, and clothing to sell in Monterrey. Taking notice of other passengers' luggage, it seemed that her reason for travel was not uncommon.

We crossed the border at Laredo, TX, and when the call came for Americans to pass through immigration, I was the only one to get off the bus. I filled out my entry card in front of the immigration officer and gave him the requested $20 entry fee. I hadn't expected the fee, and when he simply dropped it into an empty bottom drawer of a wooden dresser I began to think I had been fleeced. Subsequent research, however, has assured me that all was in order. After 8 hours of driving through the barren scrubland of Southern Texas and Northern Mexico, we pulled into the industrial metropolis of Monterrey, situated amidst clusters of craggy green peaks. From a distance one sees evidence of increasing rural-urban migration: hastily built shanty-towns expand the city outwards such that it's borders begin to lap at the surrounding hills that used to contain it.

The bus station had the familiar chaotic buzz of porters, ticket sellers, and other various vendors, but was much more civil than those I've experienced in South America. People outside were helpful in giving me directions and a quick trip on the subway got me to my hostel, a restored Colonial house called La Casa del Barrio.

Travelogue: Out West (WY, CO, TX)

My first stop was Wyoming, somehow beautiful in the immensity of its desolate expanses (most of Wyoming, despite your mental image of Jackson Hole, is flat and bare as far as the eye can see), where I was hosted by my brother Corey, a budding sports anchor at a news station in Casper. It was really fun to see that he has his own commercials and sweet old ladies stop him on the street to give him props. Despite a population of around 50,000, Casper has as many motels as New York has Starbucks (it also has exactly 1 Starbucks) and as many liquor stores as it has motels, but it also has plenty of wild west charm and that type of friendliness you can only find in the middle of nowhere.

From Casper I headed to Ft. Collins, CO, home to the New Belgium and Odell's Breweries, Colorado State University, and a good friend of mine, Ben Smith. Ft. Collins is a great town that might aptly be described, and with no offense intended, as "granola." Bicycles, beards, big dogs, and Subaru Outbacks are almost requisite, and a sandwich shop called "The Cheeba Hut" advertises "munchies." I thoroughly enjoyed both the friendly, laid back attitudes in town and the free beer at the breweries. I was also fortunate to get in four days of skiing in the Rockies and, despite the fact that my leg muscles and knees gave out every day around 2pm, found that I could still "shred the gnar,". A brief stop in Denver to visit my cousins Katy and Gina and I was off to Texas for some relaxing home-time in Seguin.

The genesis

I lost my job at the end of November in a mass-layoff. With the layoff came opportunity, but also immense pressure and confusion. I toyed with all sorts of ideas, interviewed for new jobs, was offered none, auditioned for a high school musical (not embarassed), wrote the obligatory and now cliche account of my impression of Wall Street's implosion, sang at open mic night, cooked, cleaned, went to the gym. One night I was gripped by an uncontrollable urge to hit the road and not so much travel as just wander. I said to myself, "hey, this isn't working, try another tack." Traveling rejuvenates me by providing perspective, and I realized that thus far I had been ignoring a golden opportunity. I decided the easiest and cheapest option would be to head south to Latin America, avoiding long, expensive flights and going to a place where I know the language. With the dollar surging I could stretch my savings for quite a while. In my view the opportunity cost of this seemingly impractical move is probably at an all time low, given the horrible job market. Why spend my severance pay (a blessing for sure in these times) trying to find a job in one of the world's most expensive cities at a time when the only response you get is "I'd love to help you, but..."? Hopefully things will have marginally improved in three to six months, at which point I will be able to search more efficiently for gainful employment. In the meantime, I can see new places, work on my Spanish (marketable skill), and give more careful and measured consideration to what I would like to do with my life. Someone put it best by saying that I am choosing to "sit this one out."

I plan to post here as time and internet access permits, in lieu of mass emails. Some of my posts will be "Travelogue" entries, giving an update of where I am and how I got there, while others will just be my own miscellaneous ramblings on topics light and heavy. I've been away from NY for a month, but I'm just now starting this thing, so there will be a few catch-up entries posted in succession.

JS