Journey to Cancun

I've come this far. I left DF Sunday night. The last leg will be tomorrow morning; oh, I hope the bus doesn't break down or I will miss my flight. I'm assuming I will be able to update this from Havana but at this stage I'm not taking anything for granted. My aunt is sending me emails about things she wants me to bring; originally most of it was medication, but now it's just a computer mouse. Apparently there are no USB-connection mice to be found in Havana. This is making me curious about what else will not be there.

Sunday, as promised, we went to the pyramids. One of these days I will look up the long complicated name so I can tell what pyramids they actually were. Anyhow they were very big. Much bigger than the Mayan ones I've seen, but it could be just because they're not covered in jungle. Most things in Mexico City were very big, and very crowded, so the pyramids were no exception. They were covered with people who looked like insects from the bottom. There was a Temple of the Sun (which they have recently discovered was not dedicated to the sun at all, oh history you fiend) which we climbed up. I'm amazed I made it. The Temple of the Moon was a little smaller, and you could only climb half-way. The sun was beating down on the plain, and we had walked all the way down the avenue from the entrance.

That night I took the bus from a very large very crowded bus station (see the Mexico City theme here?). Mexican bus terminals are almost more like airports, huge with gate numbers and ticket desks and people with suitcases and places to buy bad food. It was sad to say goodbye to Patricia and her parents. It was sadder to spend the night crushed into a single seat, then the whole of the next day sitting in the bus terminal at Villahermosa. I would have left to explore but it was so hot and so humid and frankly traveling for two months has sapped some of my adventurous spirit. I spent another half-night on the bus, then was unceremoniously deposited at the terminal in Merida at 3.30am. So I slept on the uncomfortable terminal seats for four hours.

I am telling you all this so you know that I am not really having a holiday. Not all the time at least. Merida is very pretty. This afternoon the plan is to finally find my cenote, which together with learning to surf, was one of the most looked forward to things on this trip. Then I suppose the next time I write I will be in Cuba!

Snails and Mexico City

The bus to visit Oventik, a Zapatista community about an hour from San Cristobal, went very fast. Very fast on a narrow winding road, that went higher and higher and got mistier, through steep hillsides and snapshots of village life. A girl next to me wore a Strawberry Shortcake T-shirt. I was surprised at the deforestation on the way, but I don't know why. There wasn't a huge amount, and people have to eat. Maybe it just looked very new to me, very fresh, for communities that have lived there so long.

As we got closer a realisation bubbled to the surface, that I didn't know what I was planning to actually do when we got there. Walk around? Have lunch? This wasn't an amusement park. When we pulled up on the main road beside the sign asserting that this was a Zapatista Autonomous Zone, and I was faced with a white gate leading on to one steep street going down the hill, this realisation had turned into a feeling of slight stupidity. I gave my passport to a girl with a scarf pulled half-heartedly, almost coquetishly, over her lower face. I followed her into one of the painted buildings lining the street, one room with three men wearing dark masks. I had the distinct feeling that I might have got myself more than I bargained for.

Luckily, the natural human instinct that says that anyone with a mask is an unknown quantity up to no good proved to be false. They seemed quite content that I just wanted to take some photos of the murals on the buildings. I was ushered into another building with more masked faces to get a permit for that, and the rules (the only one of which I grasped was 'no people'). I deplored my terrible Spanish that didn't allow me to be anything more than brisk, and actually initiate a conversation with any of the people I met.

The whole of the visitable village was that street, and a basketball court at the bottom. It was all very misty and didn't make for great photos. The buildings were all painted brightly, with revolutionary images (like Che on the hospital) and others that seemed more tranquil (like a tree with people, masked and unmasked, sitting in it looking quite happy). A lot seemed to be women. One I liked was of a woman's face masked by cobs of corn, showing just the eyes. There were several weaving co-operatives, a couple of shops selling food. The hospital, with the Zapatista Ambulance parked outside. And a comedor slash souvenir shop, selling everything you could want. Zapatista keyrings included, which weirded me out and sent me into thoughts about counter-culture-capitalism that I haven't yet resolved. It got mistier and colder, and I returned to San Cristobal quiet and thoughtful.

I spent fourteen hours on a bus to get here, to Mexico City, also known as DF. I fell straight into the arms of my friend Patricia from Santa Barbara. She has been looking after me incredibly, ushering me around the huge city on the vast public transport system, allowing me to see more than I ever would on my own. It's lovely to be in a real home for once. I am definitely getting slight tiredness messages from some part of my brain, saying it's time to settle down and sleep in the same bed for more than one week.

Mexico City, as well as being very big, is much more than I was expecting. Witness the downtown historical area, full of old European style buildings, beautiful with an old-time atmosphere. The Palacio de Bella Arte, with murals and an Art Deco interior, slowly sinking into the ground. Many of the old buildings here are. It's what you get if you build on a lake. The Basilica de Guadalupe that we saw today is on quite a nasty lean. They seem to be doing things to it inside to help. The real Virgin de Guadalupe, an oft-copied painting and 'proof' of the appearence of Mary in Mexico, resides in a much newer building (it's meant to be shaped like a hill. Very modern). She's very popular. You go under the altar to see her, and they've installed conveyor belts to keep people moving.

Also today we saw the Museum of Anthropology. Huge. Like the city, and full of pieces of pottery and stone and bones from the Aztecs and Maya and the civilisations that preceded them. Last night it was the trendy bohemian area Coyoacan, with a market all around the park, and full of churro stands, dulcerias, hip bars and coffee shops. The day before, the main cathedral. Very crowded (as is a lot of the city, and this is Semana Santa, so it's emptier than usual) and you can buy holy water for ten pesos. Unfortunately however we were not allowed to take the tour up to see the bells and the tower. The cardinal was hanging out upstairs.

Although I'm glad I missed the Semana Santa accomodation headaches I would have had in the ritualised Guatemala, I do feel sorry for the lack of chocolate eggs at this time of year. It seems that eggs really are not part of it here at all. Don't even talk about hot cross buns, warm from the oven, with melting butter... There doesn't seem to be a lot of ceremony here in Mexico for Easter, apart from very religious church going and self-flaggeration (!). There is one where they take painted paper dolls of Judas, fill them with gunpowder and throw him on the fire. Another tradition is throwing water over each other on Holy Saturday. But Patricia says the people in charge decided that too much water was being wasted, so now they turn off the running water in many suburbs on that day (not ours, thankfully). So yes, an interesting place to spend Easter; but I'd really like someone to save me a Cadbury Creme Egg.

Another unreasonably long bus trip coming up, to Cancun, which I'm hoping to split into pieces. If thee's time, maybe tomorrow we go to visit the pyramids. Then Cuba. I better not say that too loud, the United States might hear me, and cancel my recently-received electronic Approval to Travel (a new facet of the Visa Waiver Program). I officially have my plane ticket back to NZ, leaving California July 6th, arriving Wellington July 8th. I expect a parade. And presents.

I guess this is what you call spring

I lost an hour of my life today. Has anyone seen it? I feel like this has happened before, very recently. I was out with friends last night, and they told me about the loss, and I came close to panic. Just a total sudden absence of bearings in space (which I'm used to) and time (which I am not). Oh, Doctor Who, where are you when I need you? Speaking of which, I found out only minutes ago that David Tennant will be leaving. Leaving! But he can't! Forget Jesus, he's our only saviour!

I have being enjoying Mexico no end. Today I went to the zoo in Tuxtla, which I shared with many Mexican families enjoying their Sunday afternoon. I think that zoos are joining my list of things that remain the same wherever you go, like the inside of a movie theatre. Just like home there were kiosks where you could buy fast food and ice cream, and a souvenir shop filled with fluffy stuffed animals. There were many children. It was very hot, and I didn't have enough water. It made me dizzy when I stood up too fast.

There was a nocturnal house, but no elusive kiwis, just a lot of racoon-like mammals. I really liked the zorrillo espalda blanca (white backed zorrillo). He was fluffy and fat and had a striking white stripe on his head and back, and rolled around cleaning himself. I made the mistake of going into the insect house. Most of it seemed to be spiders, and they weren't the kind of spiders that were easy to miss, if you know what I mean. I don't like to be a wimp but that did me in. I found an excellent turtle that had a pelicularly huge head (tortuga de tres lomos). It looked a mix between an old man and the mole from Wind in the Willows, and had a snout with two perfect nostrils. In the corner a number of them seemed to be trying underwater acrobatics, all sitting on each others' backs. The scarlet macaws were striking, and huge. The panther (different from the puma!) was so cuddly looking, with huge puppy feet. The great horned owls were the grumpiest looking things ever, and so angry. If they had hands they would be writing letters to newspapers every morning. And the tapirs are not big cats! They look like huge tailless pigs with elephant snouts.

I had a good time, and a nice conversation with a man from Mexico City outside the panther cage. He asked me about New Zealand, and I said it was colder with a lot of mountains and beaches and everything was very clean. We got talking about society somehow, and I said that everybody had enough to eat and somewhere to live, and that most people were fairly equal. I feel weird when I talk about my country like it's utopia, but I can't start complaining about my student loan or John Key to someone from a country with the biggest rich-poor gap in the world. I could hear my voice saying that I was able to get reasonably-priced health care, that if I couldn't find a job then the government would give me money, that if I got hurt at work they would look after me. That yes, we had higher taxes, but we had better social security. It sounded too good to be true in a country like this.

In other San Cristobal news, I have experienced the joy that is La Casa del Pan (the best bakery out of Berkeley; well, in Mexico, anyway), found new rubbery flip flops, woken up to blue sky and magenta bouginvilla in my colourful dorm bed right next to the window. Felt chilled by the night winds. We're high up here. Yesterday I went to the centre for Mayan Medicine, run by a group who are doing an amazing job preserving traditional remedies. My scientific mind may be a little doubtful, but I'm willing to accept there's probably some placebo effect behind the waving of chickens. Although I don't know about the rule that the mother of a newborn boy cannot eat avocados for three months after the birth (or else the boy's penis becomes inflammed).

On the way to the centre, I got lost, as is my wont. I wandered into a barbed wire gate and a sign saying 'Revolution'. I thought "tensions" were meant to be over here, but this seemed to be some kind of encampment, no pasar, with a few banners proclaiming indigenous rights. It interests me, but still the only face mask I have seen was worn by a person clearing the rubbish downtown. Tomorrow I will go to Oventik, a village outside. I will report.

Black sand, brown skin

To which I should add 'purple bruises'. Surfing hurts. It hurts, and it's hard. I must have swallowed half my own weight in seawater. I wish I could report that having tried the sport and discovered the many drawbacks I have decided never to get on a surfboard again. Instead I´m counting down the months to a NZ summer and calculating the price of a wetsuit.

One day saw me journey from Leon,Nicaragua, to La Libertad, El Salvador. In kilometres this can't be that long, but it took me six buses, thirteen hours and a pedi-cab. On one of the buses, someone actually had a chicken in a sack. I am glad to know that 'chicken bus' is not a misnomer. The experience of two borders in one day, and the fact that I only saved about $10 over the direct shuttle, convinced me thatit wasn't cheating when I decided to take the fancy international bus on my last journey. I do feel like a little less of a traveler.

It was El Salvador that made me skip over Guatemala entirely. I'd heard before I got there that the people are very friendly, but I didn't really believe it. But I could swear that the instant you step across the border smiles widen and are more frequent, desire to help without monetary reward is greater and tendency to rip you off is decreased. It must be something in the water. I was planning to avoid El Salvador because they've just had an election and I was worried about unrest (the kind that involves firearms; they were in a civil war kind of recently, after all). But I'm so glad I didn't. It is meant to be dangerous, but to be honest I saw less security men with guns than in Honduras, and locals tend to keep the violence to themselves. One hopes.

Playa El Tunco was a pleasantly laid back spot with a decent black sand beach and a right point break. The latter was the location of my attempts to surf, which I will not stop complaining about because I can actually feel my bruises healing as I whine. First I took a surf lesson, wanting to start off on the right foot. My teacher was called Bamba. I learnt over the days I was there that every local surfer has two names, and that it is actually possible for black hair to get bleached-surfer-blond streaks, which looks really weird. He taught me how to stand up on the board,or rather, what I would be doing if I was able to stand up on the board, and took me out to catch some waves. Alright, I thought. This isn't too bad.

That afternoon I gave it a try by myself. It was almost comical. I got knocked over just getting through the waves breaking on the beach. The size of the waves at the break scared me so much. I made a vain attempt to catch a few and just ended up underneath them. The size of the board you learn on means you can´t just dive under waves. When you see the white water coming, you have to either try to catch it or yell 'Abandon Ship!', jump off your board and dive under impending doom. You end up swallowing a lot of water while your board drags at your ankle, caught in the white wash.The tendency of waves to come in sets means that once you get caught once at this spot, you tend to be stuck, emerging from under the wave only to find another one coming towards you with no time to swim away. The 'oh no, not again' feeling is one I would get used to. But that first day, I emerged from the waves despondent, sore, tired, with my lungs full of salt water, and found that my flip flops had been stolen by the high tide and that I was bleeding. I was ready to give up on this stupid idea.

By the next morning, I had difficulty lifting my left arm above my shoulder. The cut on my thigh had blossomed into a tri-coloured bruise. Muscles I didn't know I had ached. I decided I would body-board that day. But the next found me back out there early, with the water glassy, the light soft and a morning flock of pelicans saying hello. I caught a few waves, felt better. I aimed to stand up by the time I left El Tunco (unfortunately this did not happen). I began to feel like I wouldn't give up after all. That day, actually, I got this strange sense of standing at the beginning of a very long path, and knowing that I was going to be going down it and feeling every bump on the way. Why will I be doing this? I couldn't say. But there's something very peaceful about paddling out and waiting for the wave, calm in a beautiful ocean. Most of surfing is waiting really. This is followed by a burst of speed, an oh-heavens-it's-coming-straight-for-me-this-is-it, a paddlepaddlepaddle, then a surge as the wave catches. And if it makes me feel like this now, imagine how great it will be when I can actually surf.

Besides which, there are the cute boys. It's not just a stereotype. It's true. And the laidback lifestyle. Oh, Playa El Tunco was lovely. I met a great bunch of people there: my fall-over-gorgeous French roommates; the eptiome of California surfer from Santa Barbara; a cute Canadian couple, the girl learning like me and complaining every second, like me; Devin, bearded, Pacific Northwest and talking 100 miles a minute.

Twenty-eight long hours of bus travel later,and I am in San Cristobal De Las Casas. Getting into the first Mexican bus terminal was amazing. A bus terminal with seats, and a ticket office with people dressed nicely, and bright lights and clean streets and a bus leaving shortly. It seems so civilised. Oh, I love you Mexico. San Cristobal seems fantastic already. I'm staying in an excellent hostel near the indigenous market. I took a wander down and saw the beautiful costumes and fell in love. So far, San Cristobal is the only town I would consider living in. It's spectacular.