This is why we travel

We shuffled around the small, dirty "second-class" bus station glancing at each other awkwardly as we quickly realized we were most definitely the only people in the entire bus stop who were not of Mexican descent. If anyone has ever heard of the rock group, “The Whitest Boy Alive”, their name definitely popped into my head as I tried to scurry Lindsey and myself past a loud brass band playing to the cheers and jaunts of the local drunks who seemed to have all flocked to the bus station to celebrate Dia de Guadalupe (day of the Virgin Mary).

In a split second we made the decision that morning to either get the hell out of there, or to jump on the first bus we could find heading to our desired destination of Teotitlan Del Valle, a small weaving village just east of Oaxaca. Luckily for us, in that split second, we heard the loud and comforting announcement of TEOTITLAN being shouted from an arriving bus, saving us from further drunken Mexican stares.

The dry and rocky land of Teotitlan. 

To set a scene for you, take your mind to the last John Wayne movie you saw. There he is riding his horse across the dry and dusty plains with tumbleweeds blowing across his view. On the horizon are large rocky mountains that provide some shelter from the sun and an impressive backdrop to the stark and barren landscape. Abandoned buildings, the likes of which John’s villains may be hiding within, lurk to the side of the road. Who knows how long they have been empty or how long the cacti growing around them have stood. It’s an ageless view, one that at first look seems old and tired but after investigation is most likely full of life.

This John Wayne setting is where we were politely dropped off by our bus, on the outskirts of the small village of Teotitlan. The only difference between our and John’s lizard filled desert was ours was accompanied by a friendly mescal distillery and his, I imagine, was not.  As we stepped off the bus, Lindsey trundled off to the bathroom and I am left, once again, whitest boy alive, with several Mexican mescal tourist operators making a beeline for me and my obvious looking dreadlocks.

After a few minutes of polite refusal I am finally sucked in through sheer curiosity by the donkey to the left of me who is pulling a large stone wheel around in a circle, smashing up large parts of the mescal cactus. A friendly and opportunistic lady offered me a piece of the cactus and explained how the plant is full of natural sugars which is why good mescal can be very sweet. She then leads me over to a large tank and distillation area where the mescal process of fermenting the donkey squeezed liquid begins, and ends, with a shot glass of direct from the tank Mescal being happily poured down my throat.

Lindsey finds me here and we are then herded over to the bar where we continue to taste their varied selection of straight mescals and flavored mescal liquors. Feeling pretty buzzed for 11 o’clock in the morning we happily purchase a small bottle for their trouble and we walk away, me questioning the easiness of how a quick bathroom visit turned into a full Mescal tasting. But I can think of worst things happening to us in a desert.

Back on our original mission, we finally make it to the village of intention where rumor has it the tradition of using natural dyes to create the vibrant and beautifully colored textiles still exists, and is in some part making a revival. Walking through the town of Teotitlan and being genuinely interested in the local materials, clothing and textile goods, brought about the familiar Latin American difficulty where one finds it hard to be a westerner walking through a market of any kind, without there being an expectation that because you are just looking at something, you absolutely want to buy it. Going store by store, we really wanted to browse through their goods but were confronted by insistent owners who would promptly spread out carpet after carpet after carpet in front of us, hardly allowing us to interrupt and explain we were only looking. The more carpets on the floor, the guiltier we felt.

Feeling a little over harassed we made our way to the local market where the stalls, usually bustling and full of fresh produce, were deserted. Across the way, in the plaza of the local church, almost the entire town had gathered to celebrate Dia de Guadalupe; a festival honoring and exonerating the most important Catholic figure in Mexico, the Virgin Mary. As much as we enjoyed seeing the local wares and walking within the quaint and picturesque town of Teotitlan we decided that perhaps it was time to leave the locals to their celebrations.

A sample of the offering made by the local people of fruit and other food that is to be shared amongst the townspeople after the ceremony and dance.

As we turned the corner of the Church and walked down a parallel street, Lindsey’s eye was caught by a beautifully colored woven bag and entered a massive house with a wide courtyard full of woven textiles. I groaned as I heard the owners running down the stairs, realizing they had customers, expecting the usual sales pitch and harassment to buy their products.

Creation of natural dye with finished product

It was to our happy surprise, however, that we were met by Alejandro and his wife, the most openly friendly and accommodating locals that we met in all of our time in Mexico. With constant reminders of “mi casa es tu casa” (my home is your home); we were given a grand tour of their house and workshop. The process of the natural dyes that have been used for thousands of years by the local Oaxacans, originally Zapotecs, was not only explained to us but demonstrated to us with the example of Cochineal. Cochineals are small insects that live in and feed on a species of local cactus. When harvested and dried, they are ground on large pommel stones and reveal a deep crimson red that is then used to create a vibrant dye.

A selection of the colors made from the local plants

Alejandro also showed us how blue is created by collecting the indigo flowers that grow in the local mountains, alongside marigolds that produce the yellows and golds. Alejandro was born in Teotitlan, has studied in the U.S., speaks three languages and was quite a resource of local information, providing us with knowledge on the different shapes and textures used in their textiles and their meanings and inspirations.

With all this information in hand we felt a great deal more inspired and able to make an educated purchase. While looking through their selection we came across a brilliant yellow carpet with an interesting color scheme and design, quite unlike anything we had been shown before. Alejandro was able to tell us the story of the carpet and explained that his nine year old brother who now lives in the States with his family had created this very carpet on his last visit to Mexico under the guidance of himself. Enchanted by the design and its story we happily made our first textile purchase together in Latin America.

A rainbow of freshly spun and dyed brown yarn drying on the balcony

Alejandro and his family, however, were not just interested in our purchase. They welcomed us up to their terrace that overlooked the church plaza and had the best view in town of the festivities. In Teotitlan, the locals have a special tradition amongst the men of the town who perform a story telling dance during the four most important religious festivals of the year. For three years the men train with a master dancer and perform in front of their fellow citizens special dances for each holiday. The dance we were treated to recreates the story of Montezuma (the last true emperor of the Aztecs) meeting Herman Cortes, the Spaniard responsible for the take over and destruction of the native culture and civilization of Mexico.

A beautifully constructed dome on the very highest point of Alejandros home, originally built by his family over a hundred years ago. Each symbol represents an important feature of the surrounding landscape or symbol from their old Zapotec culture. 

From our terrace look-out we were given front row seats to a rarely seen spectacle, and with our new friend Alejandro, we were given new insight into the Mexican culture and psyche. Alejandro was especially enthused as he had recently enlisted to join the next men's dance corps, beginning in 2013. Afterwards, as if he had not already done enough for us, we were invited to a late lunch with the family, prepared and served to us by Alejandro’s mother and grandmother, who also welcomed us with smiles and endless generosity. They also explained their future plans to open a B&B in their house, allowing visitors to experience an intimate and warm respite among some of Oaxacans' finest artisans.

The local men in the tradition dress lining up for the beginning of the Montezuma's dance in the foreground of the church, built by the Spaniards upon their arrival in 1527

Lindsey and I left Teotitlan that day thankful we ignored the drunks at the bus station, feeling higher than cloud nine and blessed that we had again encountered such amazing and friendly people along our travels. It’s these personal encounters with people who want to share their stories and their lives with us that make traveling exactly the experience we want to keep having. This is the reason we do what we do. Thank you Alejandro and many thanks to your brother who provided us with a memento that will remind us of you and your family forever.

Tales from the border: Mexico to Guatemala

It wasn't the worst border crossing I've done - no protesting locals with sticks and stones (see the Peru/Bolivian crossing here) or the most expensive (see Chile/Bolivian crossing here). But it was just as frustrating and heart-racing as either.

It is with a sigh of relief that I report we’re safe in Antigua, having arrived at midnight last night after a journey that consisted of the following modes of transportation, taking us from Mazunte, Mexico to Antigua, Guatemala in 31 hours (which should have been a 17-18 hour trip, tops):

o      5:00pm Monday: we depart Mazunte to the nearest city of Potchutla via a 40 minute Camioneta ride (literally a pick-up truck, with the back outfitted with wooden planks running parallel to the sides of the bed that serve as benches for sitting and a tarp overhead to protect from ever-prevalent sun. Often packed to the brim, 15-20 people deep, with locals hanging on the rear bumper, one leg out and one leg in. Cost: $10M each (roughly eighty cents US)

o      6:40pm: we board a 12 hour first-class (only available) overnight bus ride from Potchutla to border city of Tapachula. Should have been 12 hours, but a three-hour traffic standstill from 9pm-midnight, due to unknown circumstance (accident? Police blockade?), had us arriving in Tapachula at 9:45am. At least it’s light outside and we don’t have to worry about waiting in the bus station until the sunrise, as we did in Oaxaca. Cost: $514M each (roughly $45 US)

o      10:20am Tuesday: we jump on a 30 minute colectivo (mini-van with four rows of seats meant for 3-4 people each, often packed yet again to the brim with close to 15 adults and 6 children). We are lucky to have the back row corner, Matt near a breezey window, with half a butt-cheek hanging off his seat) to the border town of Talisman. According to our Lonely Planet, and two locals in the bus station, this is the better border crossing for Antigua. There was another border crossing, with more buses to Guatemala City, an hour ride away, but our destination was Antigua, so we listened to the book and the locals. Colectivo stops randomly to let people on and off as we drive through small towns and on the highway to the border. Fun cultural experience and proves beneficial for future border issues. Cost: $15M each (just over $1 US)

o      10:50am: after disembarking from Colectivo, we walk 10 minutes down rubble-strewn street in typical shanty border town. Men approach us constantly to change currency, tricycle boys follow us asking if we want to a ride across the border, one particular shoe-shine boy follows us the whole walk, really wanting to shine my hiking boots. To be sure we’re walking in the right direction, we ask a local woman in a bodega window which way the border was and she told us she didn’t know. You don’t know where the border is? This is the border town! Thankfully a nicer local woman kindly pointed in the direction. We had just under $500M total, and changed them to Guatemalan Quetzals as soon as we got off the colectivo, not wanting to be stuck with pesos on the other side of the border.

o      11:00am: after a bit of confusion as to where the Mexico passport office actually was, to get stamped out, we arrive at immigration, only to be told we need to pay a $295M “tax” to leave (about $30 US). Huh? The immigration officer points to a very unofficial looking computer print out taped on the window that says effective as of November 9, 2012, we need to pay this D.N.I. tax. No one had informed us of this, and we’ve changed what pesos we had to Quetzals. I ask Mr. Migracion if he takes American dollars (which, thanks to my mom, I had about $140 tucked away for emergency). No. Does he take credit card? No. So where do we get cash in this town? (sidenote: Lonely Planet Mexico 2010 states that there are ATMs and banks on both sides of the border, which is why we didn’t take out extra cash ahead of time in Potchutla, where the lovely Scotiabank is linked to my bank and thus has no fees. No one wants to travel borders with loads of cash, right?) Oh, he says casually, just go to Clusco Chicle bank and you can pay it there. No problem. I ask him to repeat the name of the bank, and he says it’s just 10 minutes away. Matt and I, annoyed at the tax but realizing we have no option, go to the waiting area of the office and make our plan. The debit and credit cards are in my name, we’ve moved most of our Aussie money to an American account that doesn’t charge an international fee, so Matt can’t go and use his card, as I would have liked. I did not want to walk that walk again. Theoretically I should go to this Clusco Chicle bank, which I’m forgetting how to pronounce by the minute, wherever it may be, and Matt should wait in the office with our bags. I cringe at the idea of walking that rubble street with all the currency men and tricycle and shoe-shine boys and whatnot. I’m wearing a v-neck spaghetti strap tank top I wear on overnight buses for comfort, leggings and my hiking boots. Not exactly demure, but it’s hot as hell out and I couldn’t be bothered changing. I leave Matt, with just my purse, carrying my passport and cards. Nothing else. He has the Quetzals and the bags and the water and the tissues. I show my passport twice to two more immigration officials who let me back into Mexico. I ask one of them where I’m supposed to go and she assures me it’s just 10 minutes, I’ll see the sign on the right. I start walking toward where the Colectivo dropped us off, searching for this tongue-twister of a bank. I keep repeating in my mind “Crossing Gum” (cruzce chicle in Spanish), which seemed to work on the immigration woman. After I pass the drop off point, I approach an area I recognize from the colectivo ride down, lots of run-down cars, including a school bus, and then the highway. No chewing gum bank in sight. I hesitate to go farther, sensing dodginess, and turn back around to ask for directions again. The first person I see is a guy on a tricycle and I begin to ask him where the bank is, and he makes the universally sleazy kissy face at me. I grimace at him and turn away, making a beeline for the closest bodega, where a friendly girl, maybe 19, is waiting for customers. I ask her where the bank is. Oh, no, you can’t walk there! Muy lejisimo. You have to take a colectivo. It’s in another town. Are you sure I can’t walk? I have no money on me. (Remember, we got rid of our pesos, and Matt has the Quetzals). No, it’s very far, she’s very adamant. Out of nowhere, tears well up in my eyes. Explaining I have no money, they’re forcing us to pay a tax at the border to cross, and I just need a bank. She offers to give me 5 pesos to take the Colectivo to Cluce Chicle. I ask her to repeat the name of the town again and it still sounds like a mix between Cuzco and Cluce and Chicle. She offers to catch a colectivo for me and tell them where I’m going. She goes to the register and hands me a 10 peso coin. She instructs me to have them drop me off en frente, and to get change. It should only be five pesos, it’s just the next town over. I thank her profusely. She gets me the colectivo, and I’m on my way back towards Tapachula, back on the highway. I see a road sign for the town: Tuxtla Chico. No wonder I couldn’t understand it! It’s some crazy pre-Hispanic name. The nice colectivo attendant (the dude who sticks his head and hands out the window to attract more passengers, opens the doors, loads the bags, takes the money, sits on top of people when the van is full) explains to me where the bank is. He asks me which bank I want (as if I care at this point) I ask if there’s a Scotiabank (no fees!). Sure, sure, just go two blocks that way. I ask him where I get the van back to the border and he points down the street, and he says the butcher. I go two blocks to the bank, looking for a Scotiabank, not finding it. Ask a cop, he says no, no Scotiabank, but not really caring either. I ask the pharmacy women, they say no, there’s just the one bank next door, Nortebanco. I stand in line (about six deep), and go to retrieve my bank card. And don’t see it. Where the hell is my bank card? I look again. And then it hits me. Matt used it in Potchutla to get out the extra $500pesos, the just in case money that we partially used on the border tax. And I forgot to get it back. So here I am, in a tiny town at midday, sweating under the noon sun, full blown sinus congestion rearing its ugly head, no water, no tissues, no debit card. Five pesos to get back to the border. I figure maybe I can use my credit card to withdraw money. I know they always send me offers about that. I wait in line, get to the ATM, try various pin numbers and realize, no, I never set up a PIN for this card. This certainly won’t work. I decide to wait in line to talk to the teller, maybe I can use my credit card to pay for the exit tax, as the immigration officer suggested. Another six people ahead of me, since it’s now siesta time and everyone is off work and at the bank, in the middle of a Wednesday. By the time I’m at the front of the line, it is circling around the small waiting area, about 20-deep. The teller kindly informs me I have to pay the tax in cash, and can’t use the credit card. Can’t I get money out of the ATM with the credit card? she asks. No, I tell her, it’s not set up like that. I ask her if she can call the bank and have them wire the cash. She would, she said wistfully, but the girl who has that line is conveniently not in the office. I thank her for her time and sulk out of the bank, head down, tears streaming yet again, as I walk back the two blocks through the plaza now ablaze with a random fiesta, back to the corner where the vans pick up. Confused as to where I should be, I try asking a traffic cop, but he ignores me, too busy signaling bike riders which way to turn, so I wait on the side of the street with some local women. The other side is full of guys staring leeringly at this gringa who is clearly out of sorts. I see another woman line up next to the men, see a Colectivo bus sign, and see the butcher. My head clears, I cross the street and five minutes later I’m back on the van to the border. And a light bulb goes off. Doh! We could have just used our American dollars (that we offered to the immigration officer) and changed them right at the border. And not wasted two hours of frustration. Why didn’t we think of that? I blame our congested heads. Why didn’t the officer offer that? Who knows. At least I don’t have to send Matt all the way back to Tuxtla Chico to do the whole thing again.

o      12:30pm: sweating profusely in the midday heat, avoiding the shady tree-lined median and sidewalks (because, I’ve so recently realized, shady people hang out in the shade!), fighting more tears, ignoring the currency men and tricycle boys and shoe-shiners, I’m on a mission in my scuffed hiking boots to get back to the immigration office without breaking down.  Back at the border, I find a VERY distraught Matt. Having been gone over an hour and a half, instead of the “10 minutes” to the bank and back, he was having visions of the worst kind. I look at him, again through tears (at this point they are of relief, of frustration, helplessness, tiredness, thirst, not having tissues to wipe away all of this sinus mucus AND him having the debit card) and tell him he has the card. Shit. He hadn’t realized, he was concerned as to why on earth I was gone so long for what seemed a simple errand. The look on his face was that of 1,000 regrets. He apologized to me profusely for letting me go, felt terrible, knew as soon as I left that he should have gone anyway. I agree, but how would he know what that “ten minutes” really meant. I explained the whole thing, as well as the situation with the sweet bodega woman who comped me the 10 pesos. I asked him if he could go and pay her back, once he’s exchanged the dollars. He takes off, but for some reason the Mexican immigration woman won’t let him leave the border area and tells him he must exchange the dollars right there at the border, where there are still a few exchange guys. He does, we pay our tax grudgingly, sign some paperwork that verifies our payment, and walk across the Usumacinta River, which separates Mexico from Guatemala. I silently promise to pay my debit forward when the time comes.

o      1:00pm: On the other side, we struggle again to find the stamping office, not wanting to cross illegally and get harassed or pay more ridiculous fines on our way out of the country. Convinced by now that Lonely Planet has never visited this border crossing, it can’t possibly be where gringos cross, we’re the only ones around. (Which, typically is great, just not when you need to find a trustworthy source to ask directions). We ask a traffic cop and he sends a boy to help us. Boy leads us 100m up the road, through vendors and hawkers and hustlers and tricycles and motos and every kind of border shanty town character you can imagine, to the Guatemalan immigration, a sketchy concrete building you stand outside of, talk to the officials within and use all senses to protect your bags. Teen boys up to no good block our way to the window, telling us to give them our passports; they’ll help us, no problem. We push past them to the window and wait for the official to take his time coming to the window. He charges us 10 Quetzal each to enter the country (not legally, but again what can we do?) and we hurry off to find a bus, any bus, to get us out of there. There are colectivos on the left and one decent looking bus station on the right. We go to the decent bus station (which is actually a table in a café), not wanting to ride the five hours to Antigua squished against the window in a crowded colectivo, only to find there are NO buses to Antigua from this border. At all. We have to go to Escuintla, an hour and a half from Antigua. And it’s a four hour, $34 US ride. Expensive by Guatemala standards. He tells us the bus is leaving immediately, to hurriedly decide or leave. We weigh our options, which aren’t many, suck it up and pay in a mixture of Quetzals and US dollars, thankful again to my mom for her emergency money. Dude tries scamming me telling me the Quetzal to dollar exchange is 4, I argue it’s 6, he shrugs and takes it. (Now I know it’s closer to 8). We quickly buy two waters as I’m dying of thirst by this point, and get on the deluxe Argentine-style bus.

o      1:30pm: The bus that was supposedly taking off 30 minutes ago finally leaves. What is supposed to be a four hour ride turns into a ten hour journey, once again stuck for three hours in non-moving traffic. At least we were on the deluxe bus, which provided us with much needed snacks as we hadn’t eaten all day, and movies galore. The Boxer, Little Manhattan and Changeling, all dubbed over in Spanish. A ham and cheese sandwich on Wonder Bread, Strawberry Soda, three little cookies. Deluxe. Moving on up to the east side. Total cost: $68 US

Funny things that happened on this bus ride:

§       We’re in the second row of the top tier of the bus. If you know Argentine buses or any plush two-level buses, you know the first row, with the full length window and no seat ahead of you, is THE row to be in, if possible. The father and daughter who had occupied the two seats on the right side of the first row left right before departure and I tell Matt to make the move. We start moving our stuff over and the guy in the seat on the left side stops him. A business man, polo tee snugly stretched across his belly, gold watch, Swiss-made travel bag, loafers, blackberry AND cell phone, tells Matt he better ask if we can sit there. Matt answers, but there are no seat numbers on the ticket, why do we need to ask? The man assures him it’s not a good idea. Matt comes back to the second row, defeated, confused and fed up with Guatemalans giving us shit, so I ask the bus attendant downstairs if it’s okay if we move to the front. Sure, she says, as long as you’re okay with the safety. Huh? Oh, the seatbelts and the big windows. We move, give the business guy a smug look and settle in for the good view. We try the seatbelts but they are just the fabric belt part, no actual metal clasp. Hmm. They’ll hang halfway out of moving trucks but are concerned with safety belts on a coach bus?

§       Matt had smuggled some Oaxacan cheese across the border from Potchutla the night before. We break into it halfway through the traffic jam, but we can’t tell if it’s good or not because of our congested sinuses. We sniff and sniff, taste, sniff and sense a bit of an off-ness. But we can’t be sure. We eat a bit and then decide against it. Bad time to get sick. Shame.

§       We didn’t prepare for the long ride and ran out of spare toilet paper and tissues. All emergency stashes had been long gone. We began rationing the napkins that came with our sodas and the random tissue we found here and there in our bags. Tore them apart, handed them to each other. When your nose is running bright green mucus, you got to do what you got to do.

o      10:30pm: The sweet bus attendant was informed by the ticket man at the border that we were trying to get to Antigua via Escuintla. She comes over and tells us it’s too late to go to Escuintla, it’s a very dangerous city at night and they’re not dropping any passengers off there. Because of the traffic delays, they’re skipping Escuintla and taking us to Guatemala City (which is safer?). We can find a hostel there and take a bus in the morning to Antigua. Is that okay with us? As Lonely Planet’s description of Escuintla was less than ideal, (“if you find yourself stranded here, there is one hotel you can stay at”), we were more than happy with the new arrangement. What’s traveling in Latin America if you’re not flexible?

o      11:10pm: Arrive in Guatemala City, rapidly searching Lonely Planet for a hostel near the bus station that is reasonably safe and cheap. Find a few, accept the first decent looking official cab driver that approaches us at the bus, try haggling a price with him to no avail. He wants 50 Q to take us a few blocks. Dude knows we don’t want to walk the streets of GC at night. We sigh, and agree, knowing once again how we’re getting ripped off. Again, what can we do? Cabbie drives us (and two other Guatemalans) to the hostels we had picked out, and they’re all full. Of course! The world is ending in two days and everyone’s in town for it to happen (12/21/12). We try one more hotel on his recommendation, which is also booked. He offers to take us to Antigua that night, for 200Q. Sounds like a good deal to us, considering he was charging 50 for a few blocks and Antigua is a whole other city. We accept, but let him know we’ll have to go to an ATM as the Mexican border pretty much robbed us of all our cash. No problemo. We drop off two other friendly Guatemalans first, in a fancy gated suburb in the hills outside the city. We chat with them a bit, one guy was about my age, a real estate agent and super friendly. We breathe a bit, warm up to the ride. After we drop off the fancy Guatemalans, the cabbie asks us again what he charged us. We answer 200. He asks, but you have to go to the ATM, right? Yes, I warily answer. 200 each! he exclaims. It’s night time, he lamely explains, it’s late, it’s an hour and a quarter drive. At this point, we’re in the middle of nowhere outside of Guatemala City. We really have no bargaining power. I try to get him down to 300, explaining we really have no money. He sees through us, having heard our tales of the Mexican border. We ride in silence to Antigua, on remote back roads at first, hoping to god he’s not taking us somewhere to rob us blind.  We each begin to question our mission. Why the hell are we here? Are we really helping these guys? He gets back to the highway, gets us to Antigua in 30 minutes flat (1 hour and a quarter, eh, señor?), to an ATM and to a friendly sounding hostel from our book that thankfully has availability. We get our stuff out of the car and I once again try pleading with the man. You promised us 200 total. No, no, 200 each. No, señor, we asked you specifically. It’s not right. Please. Can we meet halfway and give you 300? He shrugs, fine. Total cost: 300Q, or just under $40.

o      12:00am: After 31 hours of traveling, we finally get to a quaint little B&B hostel, well priced, clean, hot water and breakfast included. We pass out immediately and wake to a friendly new day. Antigua is another charming colonial city, and we’re excited to finally get our volunteering started. We’ve met Jason and the gang at As Green As It Gets, ten minutes outside Antigua in a tiny town called San Miguel, where we plan on staying for the next four months or so, and have had a great day, getting treated much better by the locals, and getting our brains back around our mission. We’re here to help, to try to make their lives a bit easier and more productive. We’ll encounter some shit along the way, but it’s all part of the game.

Lessons learned:

1    .     Research border crossings in advance, don’t rely on two –year old Lonely Planet guide book and the advice of two locals

2    .     Carry extra cash when crossing borders – in various currencies

3    .     Everything put aside, we’re still us, just a little more broke

Oaxaca! (Pronounced Wa-Ha-KA). Warning: do not read while hungry.

Still celebrating el Dia de Guadalupe (who we finally found out is also the Virgin Mary, oh).

I'm still sniffly and pretty congested, but we've stayed an extra night at this quaint beachy paradise to help me get over the cold (an overnight bus and crossing the Guatemalen border while sick sounds far from ideal), so I have no excuse to put this off any longer.

Oaxaca!

The Water Man, Oaxaca City

What can I say. Ever since hearing about the city's culinary traditions from a co-worker at Nittany Notes way back at Penn State - she was doing her honors anthropology thesis on traditional Oaxacan food- I've known I wanted/needed to go. We'd also had a few recommendations from friends who had done Central America previously, and Oaxaca was always on the top of everyone's lists. The food. The art. The city's preserved colonial beauty.

Chili row at the mercado

The food. From the tacos to the aguas frescas (refreshing sweetened fruit waters) to the sorbet (a whole plaza full of sorbet stands!) to the market (burlap sacks overflowing with chilis!) to the street food (lime and chili jicama!) to the chocolate (hot, served with sweet bread!) to the cafes (locally grown coffee beans!)  to the much-hyped mole (35 ingredients!), we were in food heaven. Even our pretty basic hostel had a great breakfast included. Among other things, Oaxaca is known for its cheese, a stringy rich mozzarella, if I had to compare, and they put it on everything. The tortillas ooze with the flavor of locally grown maiz, and the salsas! Well, most tables are graced with a green and a red, both usually picante, but the green being a bit fresher with cilantro and parsley, and the red being smoky, with chipotle. We've been known to finish off a bowl or two of just the salsa, especially if there are extra tortillas hanging around. We had some amazing juices and aguas frescas (from the standard watermelon or hibiscus to a refreshing lime and parsley), discovering that parsley brings a whole new dimension to a juice. We saved some dollars eating at many hole in the wall taquerias or market stalls, but we did splurge our last night. It would have been a sin not to.

Chocolate, the real way.

After a bit of googling, we took ourselves to the supposed best margaritas in Oaxaca (served with lemon and pepper spiced jicama slices on the side) and then to a different venue for the supposed best mole. We were drunk off of the one margarita each, and the mole had us licking our fingers. Internet, you served us well. The restaurant we chose offered a mole tasting dish so we could choose between the six types they offered, and we went with the popular black mole. How could you not? We also adventurously dove into a plate full of fried grasshoppers, because again, how could you not? The mole was great, with the traditional smoky chocolaty flavors, but the grasshoppers I could have done without. They were fine at first, but after five or six bites, there was just this lingering aftertaste we couldn't pinpoint. Before we left the city, we made sure to stop and taste some of the chocolate Oaxaca is also known for. Grown locally (apparently cocoa beans were used as currency before the Spaniards arrived), crushed, mixed with cinnamon, sugar and crushed almonds, and added to warm milk. Served with a side of sweet-anise bread for dunking (the one fail of our whole culinary tour- it was too stale!).

Inner courtyard of the textile museum

Wall of ceramic leaves

The art. There was the textile museum, the graphic arts museum, the Oaxacan art museum, the art galleries, the artisanal market. Artists in the street. Graffiti art. Neighboring towns full of artists. Oaxaca is an art-lovers haven. We happily spent the stupendously hot midday afternoons in the cool shade of the museums, and visited the artisanal market twice, having decided on a few kitschy wooden animal souvenirs after scoping the whole city out. We checked out the Botero exhibit at the Oaxacan Painters' Museum, getting a reality shock and visual history lesson on the ongoing Colombian civil war. We also stayed an extra day to get to the neighboring town of Teotitlán, renowned for its Zapotec textiles (a spearate post on this to come - as Matt calls it, "the best day yet.")

Oh! We also happened to be in the city for their carnival! No, not carnaval, but carnival! Like carnies! Of course we had to walk through, reminiscing on our old carny days (see www.chiliconcarny.blogspot.com for more of that action). I have to admit, Mexican carny food is way better than ours. But their rides look sketch as hell.

Mexican Carnival

Between the cafes, the restaurants and the art scene, we felt we were in a Mexican cocktail of San Francisco mixed with Melbourne and a dash of Palermo, Buenos Aires on top. Suffice to say, Oaxaca lived up to its reputation.

Poor burro at the Mexican carnival. He was not happy.

The most beautiful place in the world to be sick

In a country famous for its bad water supply and the all affecting Montezuma’s revenge, Lindsey and I knew that eventually some sort of illness or another would strike us during our time traveling Mexico.

We came to the sleepy and quiet town of Muzunte two days ago expecting to achieve nothing but a whole lot of lazing on the beautiful beaches, wasting some time staring out at the Pacific, perhaps reading some books and maybe throwing back a few margaritas. As it turns out we were fortunate that our ambitions were so low considering since arriving here two days ago, we have managed to only look out at the magnificent coast line from our hostel hammocks and to only imagine what it must be like to read a few pages of our books.

Starting from a cold we both contracted a few days ago in Oaxaca and being compounded by an awful six hour bus ride which took us up and down in elevation and round and around and around and around mountainous corners for the entire trip, we arrived in Mezunte feeling a lot worse off than before, our heads throbbing, our ears complaining of altitude change, our bodies sore with aches, and noses sore from over tissue use.

The view for our struggling bodies

I can not go on complaining of our ailments, as terrible as we do feel, as one could not hope to find themselves in a more picturesque and beautifully scenic place as we do. Whether you glance at it as you roll over in a bed-stricken state or catch a glimpse through hazy eyes as you chase the shade from hammock to hammock to escape the sweltering heat, we still find the energy to smile at the sea birds that glide over the rocky landscape, separating us from the deep blue Pacific ocean and to enjoy the cool sea breeze as it lifts itself from the coast below up to our place of protection and comfort.

Montezuma may have won the battle against our bodies, but in Mexico our spirits remain high!

(We'll write more about the precious city of Oaxaca when our minds are a bit clearer, but rest assured, we had an amazing time eating Oaxaca's delicacies and being surrounded by great art).

A warning about playing punch buggy in Mexico

It gets old, fast. Those little efficient German beetles are everywhere.

Punch buggy sandwich! (We didn't count the new models - we're purists).

Every block, every plaza. Every color. And the vans! They're everywhere too. The "punch" part of punch buggying quickly became hand squeezing, pointing, foot tapping, elbow nudging and eventually just a weak declaration of our current tally and sometimes the relevant color (most often red).

Not even a week in, we were up to 117-107 (me) and just the site of another punch buggy induced a clinch, a wince, a grimace. And the rules we created! Couldn't use the same car twice, if we both called it at the same time it was null and void, both people had to see it to count, etc. It got to the point of not being fun anymore. We mutually called it quits at the end of our San Cristobal stay, eliciting a huge sigh of relief from both of us.

Who knew? There can be too many punch buggies.

Now, when we see the omnipresent colorful autos, we playfully yell punch buggy, with thoughts of competing numbers long gone.

From the Coast to the Jungle to the Highlands

(lindsey writing!)

The last few days have been spent busily sightseeing, trying to tackle as much of southern Mexico as possible before we are due in Guatemala for our first volunteer gig. They have been full of ruins, just saying no to the Rainbow guys, delicious local coffee cortadas, tortillas, men in cowboy hats, kids selling candy/keychains/"donations to their school," colorful markets, tortillas, Dia de Guadalupe fireworks all day (making me jump out of my skin every five minutes), Zapatista revolutionary graffiti and more tortillas. We seriously get tortillas at every meal. Not that we're complaining or anything - they're how we get to split a one-person menu dish between two people and be completely satisfied. 

The temple where Pakal's tomb was found, as seen from the Palace (Palenque).

Anyway, after quite the luxurious overnight bus ride from Tulum (as Matt previously described), we arrived in the  ancient town of Palenque, one of the former Mayan capitals in the Yucatan jungle. The town itself is standard small-town Mexico with not much in the way of tourism, so we headed to a campground/hostel a few km outside of town and walking distance to the ruins. We quickly set up our tent (economically scored from San Fran's Craigslist) and headed out to the ruins. Now, we've both done Machu Picchu and a few other Incan ruins. We figured an ancient latin american ruin is an ancient latin american ruin, right? Wrong. 

These ruins - now I won't get into much detail because I know, ruins not seen in person can be yawn-inducing, so if you are interested, check out the Wiki article here - had a completely different feeling to them. They were bigger, higher, and in our opinion, more impressive. They were surprisingly still in 

tact, considering the jungle pretty much devoured them when the Mayans escaped/died out around 1123 AD and they weren't excavated until the mid 1950's. The excavation continues today and we were treated to some amazing jungle-covered temples and plazas. I had some very Indiana Jones, heart-being-ripped-out-while-still-alive kind of visions. We spent most of the day at the ruins and then wandered over to El Panchan for dinner, the bohemian compound/ hotel/ campgrounds/ restaurant/temple/hangout for hippies who have run away from home and decided to live in the Mayan jungle. At least that was my perception of it. A lot of ex-pats and Mexicans doing spiritual and arty things in a beautiful environment. 

Swinging from Palenque's vines.

Oh, and we also kept running into more "family" who asked us if we were attending the Rainbow* festival. I swear, they were coming out of the woodwork. The poor town of Palenque, when we were waiting for our bus to leave (of course, another 45 minute delay), was completely overrun by gringo (and latin american) hippies. These are the hula-hoop or guitar carrying, patchworked to the bone, everyone's dreadlocked, bonafide festival hippies. I asked Matt once again if he was sure he didn't want to go to Rainbow, and he once again was 100% happy not to. I'm sure it would have been a once in a lifetime experience, but it just wasn't on our (non-existant) agenda.

*From what I gather, Rainbow is organized on a random basis, in a hidden locale by tried and true hippies from the '60s, dedicated to creating a space away from society where creativity, happiness, spiritualism, music and partying are let out to play.

From Palenque it was a five hour bus to San Cristobal, leaving the Yucatan and entering the Chiapas department. Set 2,200m in the highlands, San Cristobal de las Casas is a charming Colonial city full of wallet-friendly street food, feet-unfriendly slippery cobblestones, colorful row houses/churches and fireworks, fireworks, fireworks. The Dia del Guadalupe is coming up, and this town adores old Guadalupe. Flags in the street, processions at random times of day, and of course ear-exploding fireworks that make me curse more than a lady should.

A church in San Cristobol, ready for Guadalupe

Aside from the requisite market hawking, gallery perusing and cafe hopping, we went horseback riding to the nearby town of Chamula, trotting through pine forest and along roads that ran parallel to local indigenous farms, full of cabbage, cauliflower and some corn well past harvest time. We had an hour to explore Chamula, spent checking out the plaza's colorful church and then refusing to pay to enter, getting our first Mexican churros (and giving some to the five year old girl selling her mom's handmade keychains who wouldn't leave us alone), and paying 3 pesos to use the bathroom in the market, after asking the young local girl restroom attendant why she kept laughing at me (she couldn't say).

The Plaza in Chamula

Overall we enjoyed our time spent in San Cristobal, mostly because of the food. We finally had elote on the street (corn on the cob covered in mayo, cheese, chili, hot sauce and lime), tacos al pastor (pork that's been rotating on a pineapple-topped spit all day, freshly sliced with some of the pineapple), a chile relleno, and some of the best caldero (soup) yet (rich chicken broth with black beans, bacon, chicharrones, cubes of Chihuahua cheese, avocado, cilantro, lime and the requisite tortillas). Again, we were able to split one portion for dinner. So good we went back two nights in a row.

Typical Zapatista Graffiti - without corn there is no country - rhymes better in Spanish!

In a few hours we're on another overnight bus (this one not as luxurious) to Oaxaca, where we'll REALLY get into the food, because, you know, we haven't already.

Hasta luego mis amigos.

Recently killed chicken, anyone?

The Yucatan's hidden treasure

Hey all, Matt here, sorry for the delay in this post but internet has been a little hard to come by the two days as we've been lost in the jungle like Indiana Jones checking out some ruins. I wrote this on the bus there a few days ago and am finally getting it to you now. Enjoy!

Lindsey and I are currently passengers on the most deluxe and comfortable coach I think I have ever experienced in my time traveling though South America. It comes equipped with full reclining seats, personal music units, movies that don’t feature Steven Segal and came with a free travel bag on entrance including a COLD bottle of water. (Not items commonly found on Latin American transportation). This bus will take us from Tulum in the Yucatan peninsula, to Pelenque, an ancient Mayan site in the Chiapas region of Mexico.

We have just completed our first three days backpacking in Mexico, after flying in to the Yucatan Peninsula. Cancun is a famous city that you might recognize from this area and after reading about its popularity for its white sandy beaches, high rise hotels, Hollywood stars and party islands, I arrived with a little bias about the experience we had in stall.

Normally when traveling I try and steer clear of the busy travel spots. The gringo trail if you will. So it was a beautiful surprise to find the friendship and beauty of a region that I was more than ready to skip. And you know what. I get it. I understand why people love to flock to this area in western Mexico. Tulum at least, I wont comment on Cancun, is a vibrant, family-friendly place, complete with sandy white, crystal clear, warm water perfect beaches, affordable and authentic locally run restaurants, incredible and delicious real fruit popsicles and stunning colorful and creative artisanal goods. My bias for the Yucatan peninsula and the atmosphere it might provide was happily destroyed through tranquil Tulum.

Our last day there we lazed on a squeaky sand beach just south of an ancient Mayan ruin that sits high on the cliff top overlooking a long reef 500 meters out to sea and is postcard perfect. The Mayans who were a part of the civilization and who built the structures lining the beach must have smiled often with the view they had from their sandy outcrop. I know I smiled often looking up at their thousand year old work.

Mexico so far has lived up to all expectations. It is more than lively, and I’m sure to be full of many surprises. As this is the first solo piece of writing I think I have ever posted anywhere online, I would love to use this time also in reflection of the beginning of what I know will be an amazing adventure, especially with my love Lindsey traveling beside me, to thank every person who has ever helped us achieve our goal of traveling once again through Latin America, and our intention along the way of assisting the communities around us.

Thank you to the people who have fed us, roofed us, listened to our stories, sent their encouragement, and thought of us along the way. We feel truly blessed to know every single one of you. May you travel well and may we meet again soon.

We’ll be in touch with more reports on our travels soon!

With all my love,

Matt.