Pages
7 - San Cristobal and Zipolite
11- Out of Mexico?? – The Devil’s Spine
Leaving
home on Nov 10, we crossed into Mexico at the Brownsville/Matamoros border on
Nov 13; back in sunny Mexico for the first time in almost 3 years, tasting the
marvellous Mexican beer and eating fresh bolillos (buns) and oranges.
We
went through heavy rains, flooded highways and washouts between Tampico and
Pozo Rico, and arrived in Tecolutla on Nov 14.
We were warmly and enthusiastically welcomed by Simon Gonzalez Sierra and his
wife Maria Theresa at their beach restaurant/home (see "Keith and Marnie’s
remedy" website, "Our Stories" section for story of previous
contacts with our second family) and after 8 years there had been many changes
and additions. There are now 7 grandchildren, 5 of which we hadn’t seen before
- most beautiful personalities.
This
tourist town has grown considerably, and Simon suggested that it would be
better and more secure for us to forego tenting there at the beach, but instead
for us to take a room in a little motel that he had acquired 5 years ago. He
refused any payment from their Canadian amigos.
They
had us join with their family in meals several times, and in partial return one
day we drove them some 150km inland to a waterfalls/cascades accessible by
guided rubber raft, on the way driving past endless orange and banana
plantations and cattle ranches. Along the way, Simon and Maria Theresa
continued their patient conversational Spanish lessons as in former years.
Some
days we take the grandchildren for walks into the town plaza for ice cream and
to watch the birds, or we drive the kids to the nearby market city of Zamora,
everyone holding each other’s hands to make sure their old gringos don’t get
lost. In the evenings we visit with Simon and Maria Theresa and tell stories
and further develop our Spanish – it’s kind of a threshold bridge for us each
time we go down the gulf side - a cultural prepping for the months ahead.
To-day
(Sunday) we are squeezing oranges in our courtyard, and listening to Simon
making music from one of the motel rooms where he has his evangelical band
instruments set up - synthesizers, mixers, mics, guitar, keyboard, banks of
speakers, etc. Like Harry Chapin’s "Mister Tanner", Simon and his
family earn their living in manual labour, but their passion centres in music,
and all afternoon he has been tuning his instrumental and vocal chords.
Tomorrow
Marnie will take Marie Theresa and Nora, (the oldest daughter-in-law) and the
kids into Zamora for shopping in the city market, and Tues, hard as it is to
leave this warm and friendly environment, we’ll be back on the road, the
destination being 400 km south at Lake Catemaco.
And
Oh Yes! - did I mention the marvellous Mexican Beer?
Keep
well, all ...Keith and Marnie
Catemaco,
off the gulf coast and in the Tuxla hills at 1000' altitude, on a good- sized
lake which supports both commercial fishing and eco-tours, appears quite
prosperous. We tented beside a restaurant overlooking the malecon and the lake,
and enjoyed hot showers for the first time since leaving Texas.
Near
Catemaco are the quarries where the ancient Olmec carved their massive heads,
altars and stellae, some of which weighed over 25 tons, and somehow transported
them 50 km overland and downstream out of the hills and then another 150 km
presumably on ocean rafts to their delta city, La Venta.
2000
- 2500 years later, seismologists mapping out drilling sites for Pemex, the
national oil company, discovered these artefacts under the ground, and many
were recovered and relocated to a new outdoor museum site in the Tabasco state
capital, Villahermosa (Note write-up of our earlier visit to this museum on our
website in the 'Our Stories' section, entitled, "Out of
Africa/Atlantis").
Also
near Catemaco we visited a beautiful waterfall and climbed the 242 steps down
to its base. No Niagara Falls, yet a pleasant way to pass the afternoon.
On
to old Campeche city, which was once a
Mayan trading village called Ah Kim Pech (Lord Sun Sheep-Tick). It took the
Spaniards over 25 years to subdue the natives who were concurrently converted
to Christianity and slavery - labour to build the massive churches and city walls
to ward off the English (Henry Morgan) and Portuguese pirates who periodically
sacked the city and carried off the most beautiful women. In 1999 UNESCO added
the city of Campeche to its list of world heritage sites. We walked the town
all day, viewing the historical sites and museums. Thank God some cloud cover
came over the area by mid-day, as walking under the sun's hammers wore one
down.
By
the time we walked back to our campsite - a little three-tent area in a lady's
garden, amidst cocos, orange and lime trees and exotic flowers - the wind had
come up and the tin roof of the eating shelter was starting to clatter noisily.
Over the next two hours 3" of rain fell, the wind rose and some of the
shelter's roof panels started working loose. The lady's nephew couldn't fix
them in the high wind, so we knew when we hit the sack that it was going to be
one long and noisy night from hell. For once we weren't awakened by truck motor
brakes, nor dogs, nor roosters at 3 am. If present, they couldn't have been heard
over the noise of that damned roof as it tried to tear itself apart.
Very
early the next morning we left for Merida, then for the Progreso/Chixulub coast
where we'd spent quite a lot of time on earlier trips as guests of our Chicago
area friends, Mike and Theresa. We stopped in the Progreso market to enjoy pork
tacos and fresh orange juice, for old time's sake, and passed by Mike and
Theresa's home, shuttered down until they return to Chixilub in January.
(Chixulub,
by the way, is the site of the meteor hit 65 million years ago which is
credited with throwing up such sun cover that the dinosaurs and 85 percent of
other land and sea life was wiped out).
Great
flocks of pink flamingos were seen in the nearby lagoons as we travelled east.
We
are now in a friendly little shrimp/fishing village named Rio Lagartos on the
Yucatan north coast, having taken a cabaña right on the water's edge in this
town of 3000, and plan to stay and rest up for a few more days before visiting
several Yucatan ruins and the Caribbean coast.
Until
next time.....Keith and Marnie
When
we earlier visited this little restaurant, cabañas, palapas and camping
location 7 km north of Playa del Carmen in '95, it was being run by a
Canadian/German couple from Mount Forest, Ontario. Fritz Veen and his wife
Anita had prospered in Ontario land development and construction and, in their
mid 50s after Fritz's heart bypass, had found this tuck-a-way paradise and
forged strong bonds with the old Mexican owners, Pedro and Panchita. The latter
were tired, and amenable to working out a fiduciary agreement with the Veens,
who proceeded to liquidate their Canadian assets. Fritz and Anita were
enraptured with their new life - Fritz's strength was coming back as a result
of daily exercise with his machete against the jungle and in upgrading the
facilities, and Anita had realized a long held dream of operating her own
restaurant. And what an inspired cook she was. Through connections they had
been able to attract busloads of German and Canadian tourists over the 2km of
rough road off the Cancun-Tulum corridor. Prospects were glowing.
In
early '97, heading down the central Pacific coast near Puerto Vallarta, we were
shocked to hear from Swiss tourists heading north that Anita had been killed by
a truck when entering the highway.
-
- - - - - -
This
year, for old times sake, we decided to re-visit Xcalacocos (the name itself is
a Mayan/Spanish word meaning 2 coco-palms growing out of a single stem base).
First though, after leaving Rio Lagartos we stopped at the Mayan ruins of Ek
Balaam, the main pyramid of which is so high above the Yucatan forest that from
the top we could see the Mayan complexes of Chichen Itza and Coba, some 50 km
to the NW and SW respectively.
At
Xcalacocos, old Pedro and Panchita still resided, and the business was being
operated by their son Juan and his wife Luci. When we explained that we had
stayed there earlier and enquired about Fritz, Juan indicated that after the
loss of Anita, Fritz didn't have the heart to continue there alone, so had
turned the business back to the family and moved to Lake Bacalar, about 200 km
south, where he had set up a similar operation. He still comes back monthly to
visit the family, and bring flowers to the family shrine/chapel on the
property, where Anita's ashes are encrypted in the chapel wall.
Juan
was quite emotional as he described the affinity between his family and the
German/Canadians. It was then that we learned of the deeper tragedy - that it
had been Fritz himself who - in backing up his truck beside the restaurant – had
accidentally backed over and killed Anita in Oct '95.
---------------------------
To
give some idea of the growth in this locality, when we were here in
'95,
Playa del Carmen had 20,000 inhabitants - now there are said to be 120,000.
----------------------------
A
couple of days ago we drove some 60 km to Cancun which is now huge - and
despite good maps - got lost a dozen times. Street signs there are the
exception, and where present are invariably after, as opposed to prior,
the intersections, and then placed in the foliage of trees. Out of the
experience came a realization AND a swearing (or several). The realization was
that the Cancun signage situation must be at the instigation of the Cancun taxi
industry - the little green ones outnumber the pedestrians, and the little blue
taxis outnumber 2 to 1 the green ones. Nobody but taxis should be on the
streets. PLUS the plague of squeegee 'kids' at every stoplight and tope - so
fast that before you know what's happening (looking for street signs), they've
plastered the windshield - already crystal from dozens of prior squeegeeings -
with liquid goo soap.
Finally
we hollered at an incoming swarm to get lost - one of them apparently took
exception and back-kicked the green taxi in front of us - the driver came
tearing out and accused us of hitting his bumper. And the squeegee kids agreed.
We thought for a moment that only Bill Graham of External Affairs could save
us. But finally the horns behind us blared so much that the driver decided we
stupid gringos didn't know what the problem was, and he screeched away.
Sometimes it pays to be optionally bilingually dense. One of these days the
poor guy will have a rico gringo touch his clunker and maybe get a new taxi out
it.
OH
YES - the swearing - We hereby swear to never ever drive in Cancun again.
Until
next page Keith y Marnie
P.S.
Here we not only have roosters and dogs at 3AM, but also turkeys - the turkeys
awaken the roosters, who get the dogs fired up, and after everything is awake,
THEY all go back for a half hour snooze and the cycle starts over.
Ah,
MEXICO!
---------------------
from the inscription on Anita's niche --
Una flora se marchita, pero mi oracion es
eterna.
{A flower withers, but my prayer is
eternal.}
Another
glorious sunrise on the Caribbean. Indescribable! The light show leading to a
solar spike reaching to cielo - hauling Sol out of his Atlantean bed to peer at
us from between the high rise condos of the snorkelling/scuba mecca of Isla
Cozumel, 15km across the sea before our cabaña. Yes - it will be confessed -
Juan talked us into taking one of his units when we came here 3 weeks ago.
Admittedly the facilities may appear primitive to denizens of the $500US per
nite eco-lodge next door. Ours is a freshly painted green bloc and stucco unit
with private bathroom and 24 hour electricity - a definite plus over tenting in
the tropics with the 12 hour nights. A chance to get caught up on the book-box.
Initially we had only planned to stay for a couple days but Juan & Luci
& the old folks seemed to take a liking to us, and tempted us with a
monthly rate for a cabaña that was no higher than their casual daily tenting
rate. The older we gets, the softer we becomes. Like putty, we committed for 5
weeks and THEN Juan told us that manaña he’d replace the defunct propane water
heater so that we’d have hot showers, and we could feel the encroaching
slippery slope seduction of la vida dulce.
Went
into Juan’s restaurant this morning, to borrow a couple of books from his
surprisingly well stocked Spanish/German/English lending bookcase – he and
others there were bundled up in long pants and jackets - they laughed when I
enthused over the cooler change in climate. Mexicans think Canadians are ‘poco
loco’ to like cool weather - this winter there have been numerous and lengthy
"Nortes" - cold fronts from Canada - and as a result many natives
have recurrent symptoms of runny noses, colds and "la grippa", and
walk around in coats, earflaps and balaclavas. In normal weather, it’s we
gringos who are susceptible to sun-stroke and the wobbles, as we swoon from
heat and humidity. It’s been so cold the last couple nights that we’ve used one
of our tenting sleeping bags as a blanket for the bed, plus the blanket which
during the daytime insulates our large ice box in the Taurus trunk.
20
km south of Playa del Carmen is a special place in our consensual memory bank -
the 2km horseshoe crescent of white sand and coral reef called Xpu-Ha. Fronting
on a live reef commencing only 50´ off-shore, Xpu-Ha was the site of our first
visit to the Caribbean coast, in Jan ´92.
It
had been our premier tour of Mexico - and after travelling down the Pacific
coast and across Chiapas, we had arrived at Xpu-Ha by luck one dark night,
during high easterly winds and rain off the ocean. Knowing that our tent would
have been flattened by the gusts, even if pitched lee-ward the Taurus, we had
taken shelter behind a stick hut and went to sleep with the gusts moaning in
the salt pines overhead. The next morning we awoke to a new world - sunlight,
warm breezes, coco palms, and placid Caribbean blue waters over the coral reef.
We
stayed a month - met other lovers of seclusion and natural beauty - some of
whom are receiving BCC´s of these pages - snorkelled the reef with it’s
abundant sea-life, as well as in a caleta and cenote behind the northern
headland. Within 12 months we were back again, and that time our youngest son
arranged time off from work, and our daughter from University, to fly into
Cancun and be introduced to Xpu-Ha’s ambiance, and to the Mayan ruins
throughout the Yucatan Peninsula. Together with a dozen other campers from
Canada, US, Mexico and Germany, our family joined in for Xmas and New Year’s
meals and parties. That was, for Marnie and I, our first (of 4) experience of
Feliz Navidad in the tropics.
Last
week we revisited "our" Xpu-Ha, and found most of the shore now
occupied by gated resorts, inclusives, time-shares and condos. The beautiful
cenote where daughter Melissa and I had snorkelled and seen an albino manta ray
- big as a tablecloth - tumbling over the broken limestone former roof of this
underground river (this is how cenotes occur) was no longer accessible -
blocked off by a walled eco lodge.
Marnie
and I swam the reef for old times - either our memories had been over-built or
the reef had deteriorated. We made acquaintance with a 60´s something Tasmanian
tenter n/o Alberto who said he had stayed at Xpu-Ha several times in recent
years (actually his pup tent was pitched right beside the stick hut that had
sheltered us on our first night in ´92)
- Alberto said that effluent from the nearby developments had indeed
affected the reef, and green algae was frequently washed ashore. The lot where
Alberto was tenting, and an adjacent one still run by a Mex-Mayan n/o Beach
(who calls his son "Son of Beach") were the only undeveloped ones
apparent on the whole bay, and the story is repeated all along the Cancun-Tulum
coridor.
Paradise
may be part of the eternal, but stands still for no one.
We
will converse with Alberto again - initially with his wife and now alone he has
travelled the world, including Goa (India), Srinigar (Nepal), and base camp
Everest. He is well informed on current world issues, and claims to be an
atheist. Any person who has searched deeply enough to have an opinion or belief
based on something other than "me-too"ism, is far advanced to he who
hasn’t looked or doesn’t care - any belief about anything
(theism/deism/atheism) is only that - a belief - a perspective
from
a position assumed from many options, and whether that belief corresponds with
reality?? Well - only God knows, and
these days He only speaks to an hombre n/o George W Bush!
Until
next page - Feliz Navidad to familia y amigos - Keith y Marnie
“Syncretism is the acknowledgement that a
single Tradition runs through
and nurtures all religions, all learning,
all philosophy. The wise man
does not discriminate; he gathers
together all the shreds of light, from
wherever they come ..." - Umberto
Eco – ‘Foucault’s Pendulum’
In
the unit closest to us lives Pablo (Paul), a young architect from Guadalajara.
Pablo is part of a design team setting up a large eco-resort called Maya Koba,
6 km north of here. The project backs for approx 3km along the highway
corridor, cutting in a rectangular bloc approx 2 km to the ocean - mostly
through mangrove swamps - and fronting for 3 km on the beach. The first 2 (of
6) phases will entail roads, artificial cenotes and lagoons and canals, and
construction of 6 hotel blocs of 100 units each, and take 2 years to complete.
Overall project estimates are $200 million US over 6 years - by which time
3,000 units will be in place. Pablo was desirous of practicing his English, and
he told us of his 7 month trip through Canada and the NE US after graduation -
visiting such places as Mill Run in SE Pennsylvania, the famous Frank Lloyd
Wright designed home of a Pittsburgh steel magnate. Pablo talked with glowing
eyes and passion about Canada (e.g. Churchill in February - the solitude, stars
such as never imagined, the nightly pageant of Northern Lights, and the
natives' quiet resilience.)
His
friend and co-worker, Christina, dropped by and invited us to join an evening
beach party out front; it was expected that 30-40 of Pablo's friends and
co-workers from the project would surprise him on his 28th birthday.
We met with the group at 7:00 - Christina lured Pablo from town at 7:30,
blindfolded him and led him to his surprise. Architects, geologists, engineers,
draftsmen - almost everyone seemed to be in their late 20's, highly educated,
60:40 male:female ratio, and most with some
English
(which they preferred in discoursing with us, as our street-Spanish probably
jarred.)
One
of those interviewed was Carlos, at 26 the holder of a Masters degree in marine
(reef) biology, out of Vera Cruz and Merida, on his first major project after
graduation. His responsibility on the project is to safeguard the mangrove
swamps through which the infrastructure of roads and waterways is being laid,
as the mangroves are the lungs and liver of the Peninsula's eco-system,
including the offshore coral reefs. While to the layman, the mangroves are
smelly, fetid areas to be infilled or quickly traversed, to the biologist it is
now known that these vast tracts actually serve the same purpose as watergrass
and bullrushes up north - they filter and purify the groundwater on its way to
the sea. Destroy the mangroves, and then the reefs - breeding ground of
countless fish and shellfish species - become infected and die. Not only are
food chains affected, but also major tourist draws. Carlos snorkles and dives,
and like the back of his hand knew which parts of the reefs between Cancun and
Belize were healthy and which in decline or already destroyed, and he noted
that Quintana Roo legislators in recent years had brought down strong laws and
were enforcing inspections to ensure that any new developments maintained
integrity of the mangrove eco-system and also had proper effluent treatment
facilities in place.
We
then discussed the cenotes throughout the Peninsula. Cenotes – large holes
through the thin topsoil and limestone strata, had been the sweet-water
mainstay of Peninsula man for millennia. There are no above ground rivers in
the Peninsula - 90% of the land area is no higher than 15' above sea level -
yet Carlos advised that he had often descended 25-40 feet down into various
cenote underground caverns and there snorkelled in deep, clear, cold, running
sweet-water. Well below sea-level, yet still a strong current. (Juan, our
landlord, had earlier advised us that his own wells here beside the ocean are
16 meters deep, at which level flowing sweet water could be found at random.)
So what did this mean??? Carlos confirmed what Bishop Landa had written about
in the 16th century – the limestone strata acts as a giant sponge during the
heavy summer rainy season, and then during the following hot, dry season the
limestone releases its treasure of precious water, some percolating upwards to
nourish the jungle and crops, the rest filtering down to pool and channel
through underground watercourses, emerging offshore at various depths in the
ocean. (Landa had noted that the Mayans who left limestone boulders in their
fields were smart, not lazy; they had learned that the boulders, acting as
water sponges in the rainy season, released water to nourish the staple corn
crop - otherwise the corn withered and died in the heat.)
We
had noted that the price for shrimp was exceedingly high - and asked Carlos if
this was a supply/demand situation, observing that 8 years ago we would nightly
watch lights from the shrimp boats 'clear-cutting' the channel between here and
Isla Cozumel, but now there were no lights out there at night!! Was this tied
into the mangrove-reef ecosystem deterioration, or to over-fishing?? Carlos
said that both factors applied, to the extent that 3 years ago State
authorities had curtailed further shrimping along the coast, until such time as
stocks recover. Currently most shrimp are shipped in from the Pacific side, or
are cultivated in commercial farming lagoons.
- -
- - - - -
- - - -
We
went back to Xpu-Ha but the Tasmanian devil, Alberto (See Page 4) had departed
that morning for parts unknown. After shopping in Playa del Carmen, upon coming
home we were surprised to see that Alberto had set up his tent beside our
cabaña, so our dialogue continued over the next couple days. He described his
first 4 year trip with his fiancée in the early '70s - thru Australia, the
Philippines, Bali, Thailand, India, Nepal, Pakistan, Afghanistan (Kyber
Pass/Silk Road/ the immense Buddhist statues destroyed by the Taliban in 2000),
Iran, Iraq, Turkey, the Balkans, Germany, Norway and England (his parents'
country of origin and where Alberto and his fiancée worked for a year). Then
the return via Spain, Portugal, Morocco, Algiers, Egypt, Israel, Lebanon, Syria
and Iraq - where considerable time was spent in the land of Nimrod and the
fabled Garden of Eden at the confluence of the Tigris and Euphrates - then over
to India again to look more closely at rites of the Hindus, Jains and Sikhs,
etc. Eventually Alberto's fiancée became his wife, they raised two sons in
Tasmania and eventually separated since the wife no longer wanted to travel.
Now Alberto spends his summers on the Croatian Mediterranean coast, camping and
touring in a 20 year old Citroen, and his winters in Mexico, doing the same
from an old 20 year Datsun. From his first hand knowledge of the peoples of
Afghanistan, Irag and the Middle East, we were interested in his opinion of US
actions therein, and Alberto was in no doubt as to how increasingly determined
and sustained these peoples' resistance would be to foreign oppression and
occupation of their lands.
Resistance
to the very end!
We
will meet with Alberto again in February, at Zipolite (Puerto Angel) on the
Pacific.
Until
next page, Keith and Marnie.
"I left the woods for as good a
reason as I went there. Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more lives
to live, and could not spend any more time on this one."
- Henry David Thoreau (Walden)
After
almost 6 weeks on the Yucatan peninsula, Marnie and I were sharing memories of
our recent life there, as we headed the (good) ole Taurus toward Chiapas:
--Our
10km dawn walks, during which we practiced Tai Chi, facing sunrise over the
Caribbean; slowing from time to time as Marnie selected wild flora for
water-colour painting after breakfast; greeting Mayan hotel workers along the way
- short, dark people with bright smiles and a ready "Buenos dias";
flocks of pelican and frigate birds gliding the surf; and grackles, parrots and
songbirds of every colour and chorus as we passed thru mangroves and jungle;
monkeys swinging thru the trees; and here and there a "century"
cactus had sent a 20´ spike skyward, to flower once and then die - the
culmination of its 100 year life.
--Our
trip to Cozumel, ´flying the sea´ on a powerful catamaran ferry; crystal clear
waters over white coral sand; mecca for divers, snorkelers and glass bottomed
boat viewing of the lee-shore world class live coral reefs and their inhabitant
fish and shellfish.
--Renewing
acquaintance with the Quebecois couple, Marcellino and Silvie, who we had met 3
years ago at Chacala (North of Puerto Vallarta on the Pacific) comparing notes
on our respective adventures and sharing news and views about our world and
times.
--The
Botanical Gardens at Puerto Morelos, with its extensive collection of trees,
shrubs, cactus, ferns and herbs from Mexico and Central America - specimens
used by the natives for countless eons for firewood, lumber, food, ornamentals,
toxicology and remedies. One had to wonder how the indigenous peoples would
have discovered the medicinal properties of these various plants - probably
only the "winners" passed on the good word.
--
Meeting Valeria and Tania, two great and beautiful young ladies from France and
Mexico respectively, whose large motor home is in the Xcalacocos camping
section; together in Europe and Mexico for the past 3 years, they have driven
their rig all over Mexico - its mountains and coasts - and have passed thru
Mexico City 3 times. Fluent in several languages, they were a joy to be around,
and Valeria’s miniature French poodle/terrier was a hit with the local female
canines. Tania worked as a
bartender,
recently promoted to bar manager, and Valeria crafted exquisite jewellery. Just
before we hit the road, Valeria flew to Puerto Vallarta to work and rejoin
other friends - we will meet again with her when passing up the northern
Pacific coast in late February.
--Visiting
the wild English expatriate, Reesho, who some years ago built a huge raft out
of hundreds of thousands of empty plastic pop bottles, added mud, planted trees
and constructed his hut complete with solar panel power system, anchoring the
whole sheebang in a canal adjacent to Puerto Aventuras, a full service
resort/golf club 20 km south of Playa del Carmen. Bane of the resort but
stop-of-choice for local tour boat operators, Reesho’s website had been found
by us last summer on a Google
search
for Orillia friends. A real eccentric!
--Camping
at Los Coquitos on Lake Bacalar (Waters Of Seven Colours) while a local
mechanic overhauled our alternator and replaced a wonky regulator - We had
narrowly evaded serious damage, limping El Toro into town – An American
full-timer in Bacalar assisted us greatly and welcomed us into their new home.
Our first swim in ‘sweet water’ since last summer beside our boathouse -
Exquisite.
- -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
PALENQUE, Chiapas. - Tented for 3 nights at the Mayabell, just outside the
ruins. The camp has been vastly upgraded from our visits 12 and 10 years ago -
new cabañas, new swimming pool and restaurant and restrooms – still a large
floating hippy clientele in hammocks and tents in the separate palapa section,
but also many vans and larger rigs from Canada and Germany; American tourists
are few and far between everywhere this year. The ruins are amazing, many more
having been excavated since our earlier trips, and complemented by a beautiful
2km path down through the rainforest, past additional pyramid sections of the
complex and crossing via hanging bridge a large pool fed by several hundred
feet of roaring cascades. Topped off by a new museum of ‘dig’ artefacts with
plaques in three languages.
No
sooner home and in the pool than the skies opened and 2 inches of rain fell.
Luckily our tent was on a sandy pad and well trenched, so our gear remained dry
while we waited out the storm in the restaurant, sipping Kahluas and enjoying
the music of a make-up band of campers.
During
the night we could hear the roars of jungle howler monkeys, and in the early
dawn heard over-flights of toucans. After viewing several so-so ruins in the
Yucatan, Palenque was a travellers’ tonic.
- -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
-
YAXCHILAN, Chiapas
Driving
300km out of our way into southern Chiapas to Frontera Echeveria, on the broad,
muddy Rio Usumacinta which here separates Mexico and Guatemala, we had hoped to
find other tourists with whom to share the cost of the 26km downstream run to
the Yaxchilan ruins, sited high on a bluff overlooking a loop in the river. No
such luck. We were the only game in town, much to the consternation of a score
of boat owners, all of whom wanted our business.
No
sooner had we checked into the main resort by the docks, when Veronica, a
Guadalajaran tour arranger drove up. She was on a preview run of Chiapas ruins
and caves – checking out routes and timings overall, as she will be leading 53
members of the Ajijic Canadian Club on an 8 day run in early Feb. She was
attended by Patricio Murphy, a fully bilingual anthropological guide out of San
Cristobal, and they offered to take us along on Veronica´s practice run of
Yaxchilan.
Patricio
was a wealth of knowledge as to the history of the site – but also had deep
insights into the Mayan beliefs, including their rites of ‘connection’ with
predeceased ancestors through dreams, rituals and hallucinogenics, to assist
them in determining courses of action (defense/offense/succession, etc). The
Mayans´ dualistic cosmology (also held by Taoists and Zoroastrians) and
bardo/reincarnation concepts (similar to those of Tibetan Buddhists) were
outlined, and Patricio interpreted for us several of the carvings on the
lintels and stellae pertaining to ongoing events in the rulers’ lives.
Howler
monkeys roared and trouped above in the canopy of ceiba trees growing on and
between the pyramid/temple structures. Crocodiles were seen on our return boat
ride. A most fortuitous experience. We tipped the boatman and appropriately
compensated Patricio for his instruction, and later - on our veranda - listened
to howlers across the river whilst drafting this page.
Tomorrow
we’ll return to Palenque to refuel, and then climb the mountain ranges past
Ocosingo to San Cristobal de Las Casas, through the heart of
Lacandonian/Zapatista territory.
Until
next page, Keith and Marnie.
"For my part, I travel not to go
anywhere, but TO GO. I travel for
travel’s sake. The great affair is to
move." - Robert Louis Stevenson.
Climbing
westward into central Chiapas over step ranges from Palenque (at 150 meters
altitude) to Ocosingo (at 1500 meters) - a distance of only 100 km - takes a
good two hours. The road is serpentine, a marvel of construction and
maintenance, yet reduced in many places to one lane as result of rockslides
from above tearing out road sections and dropping them hundreds of feet into an
abyss. Ocosingo nests in a fertile valley and a few kilometres down the valley
are the old pre-conquest ruins of Tonina, an Aztec outpost in the heart of
Mayaland. Our visit there in 1993 coincided with an expedition from Princeton
University led by Linda Schele, noted for her pioneering work in
"reading" Mesoamerica stone hieroglyphs. At Tonina, she noted from
the inscriptions how - prior to the Spanish conquest - the Aztecs had mopped up
the Mayan citadels of Palenque, Piedras Negras and Yaxchilan, sacrificing the
leaders thereof in front of the home fans.
On
this current trip we only stopped in Ocosingo long enough to pick up a
barbequed chicken and tortillas, and continued the climb to San Cristobal de Las Casas at 2300 meters,
situated in another fertile valley amongst the Sierras. El Toro had been
knocking even in second gear up the hills, generating considerable tension, until
we remembered mountain climbs on earlier trips and tanked up with high test and
injection cleaner.
The
old campground in San Cristobal was virtually empty, as were the cabins, so we
opted for the latter but set up our camping gear to dry out in the high, dry
mountain air. The cabins had sealed windows so there was no ventilation -
claustrophobic, we opened the door part way in the middle of the night and were
only awakened a couple times when various critters got in and were heard
exploring the food box. San Cristobal is rather close to Guatemala and the
local people share much the same physiological and psychological
characteristics, one of the latter being the random setting off of huge
skyrocket "mortars" every night until 1 a.m. or so. The market there
is huge, the range and quantity of fruits and vegetables, meat and crafts
brought in from the surrounding villages being quite mind-boggling. Jade and
amber are also mined in the nearby mountains, and the richness of the colonial
era cathedral and temples stands in sharp contrast to the impoverished lot of
the indigenous people. The cool climate at this high altitude was a shock to
our sea-level systems, and at night it was necessary to pile on sleeping bags
and blankets and cuddle to keep warm.
Leaving
San Cristobal, we drove north-west, down the twisting mountain roads in second
gear to the Pacific. Our destination was Zipolite beach, near Puerto Angel, a
long day's drive of almost 600 km, much of it at 20-40 kph in the mountains.
Just before dusk, we located the campground in Zipolite where we had stayed 9
years ago - always a pleasant surprise as often campgrounds are converted to
other uses, especially during these times of reduced tourism. The first thing
we noted was that Alberto, the Tasmanian devil, was already there; and while
enquiring of another camper as to rates and status of facilities, it was
pointed out that one of our front tires was flat. We said that it was only an
illusion because of the long grass, but it turned out that yes – the bottom of
the tire was nearly flat. Nimodo!! Just enough air remaining to limp El Toro on
a few feet out of the way where we left if for the night, toting our camping
gear up onto the sandbar, beside the restaurant, under an open palapa
overlooking the sea. El Toro had done it again, travelling the precarious roads
to our destination before pooping out. The next morning we pulled the tire and
a local tire man replaced the broken valve stem, being careful to reinstall the
tire to its original position on the rim - outside the big cities, wheel
balancers are few and expensive, so the Mexicans have learned all the tricks to
save time and dinero.
Zipolite - There is a little anecdote about Zipolite in the 'Our Stories'
section of "Keith and Marnie's remedy" website, entitled 'The
Burros'. The burros are gone, but not much else has changed - Gloria's Buddhist
hostel/restaurant is still planted on the crest of a headland at the sunset end
of the beach, and out front of our shaded hammock is the nudist section, where
nature lovers of all hues and shapes and nationalities congregate under ole Sol
by the pounding Pacific surf.
There
is a huge rock off Gloria's point through which the sea has opened a large
"window". Through the window-hole at high tide, the ocean and horizon
can be seen from where I write and Marnie paints. We have been here for a week,
have met and ate with many interesting people and are in no hurry to move on.
To paraphrase George Santayana, we each extend our own lives to a virtual
immortality by sharing our experiences - in effect 'living' each other's
stories - not only with old and new friends but between the generations.
This
morning we got to know a couple of young lads from South Africa who had set up
late last night in tents beside us - brothers - their first visit to Mexico and
worried about possible loss of their gear. We pointed out our new propane stove
and gear (the old Coleman cooker had served us since 1967) behind our tent, and
assured them that everything would be alright if they were reasonably cautious;
we were squeezing oranges at the time and gave them a couple of glasses of
fresh nectar, warning them of its aphrodisiac qualities in the presence of the
beach naturists - they charged off down the beach - don't think these brothers were
overly fearful or apprehensive of life's dangers.
- -
- - - - - - - - - - -
At
night the smudge pots illuminate the winding hillside path up to Gloria's and
lights from the beach restaurants are so subdued as to not occlude our view of
the constellations above. In the pastel pre-dawns, the new moon arcs above, and
the high January tides of the night have firmed the beach for long walks and
Tai Chi. Huge waves curl in from across the Pacific and the odd surfer
exercises his board. Schools of fish can be seen swimming the curls parallel to
the beach, and flocks of pelicans glide the crests, rise, aim and plummet into
the schools. The breezes are light and warm, with occasional salty mists borne
on the sea breeze. Beach dogs cavort out front, and a thrush calls from the
roof of our open palapa to his neighbour in a coco palm.
Another
day gears in, another experience on the Wheel.
Such
memories of past visits had prompted our return here now - and may draw us back
again.
Until
next page......Keith and Marnie
"Go, eat your bread in gladness and
drink your wine in joy, for your action was long ago approved by God. Let your
clothes always be freshly washed and your head never lack ointment. Enjoy
happiness with a woman you love all the fleeting days of life that have been
granted you under the sun. Whatever it is in your power to do, do with all your
might. For there is no doing, no learning, no wisdom in the grave to which you
are going." (Eccles.9:7-10)
Increasingly
hot and humid, it became time for us to leave Playa Zipolite - a number of fine
Americans had been met there: retired USAF fighter pilot Will and his
Danish/Columbian wife Ingrid; Will and I discovered our mutual addiction to
crunchy peanut butter (a rarity in Mexico and Will generously donated a 40 oz
jar to replenish our depleted stocks); retired industrialist Rudy and his Pat
(hottest couple on the dance floor); the long time Texan artist friends Richard
and Bob and Bob’s wife Jacque (Richard and Bob had been travelling winters in
Mexico for 30 years); and the North Carolina farm couple Stuart and Carolina
(she of Cuban descent) who had been observing our beach Tai Chi several
mornings, and invited us to join them over their last Zipolite dinner with
their friends - two other couples from North Carolina. And, of course, always
present was Alberto (aka Herb Williams) the insightful Tasmanian devil
mentioned in earlier pages. So hard to leave these warm, gracious and
interesting folks, but mi Dios, it became so incredibly hot and humid.
The
consensus amongst the Americans was that Bush’s glorious Iraq war (not a WAR,
said one, but outright murder - how could it be called a war when one side
employed stealth bombers and "shock and awe" technology - and the
other side, already weakened over 10 years by economic sanctions and continuous
bombings, had only hand weapons and the suicidal courage to try to throw off the
invader!) was a travesty which had further blackened the American image -
already the pits because of serial
weaponized
aggressions against scores of other countries over the past 50 years. Yet so
conditioned were most, victims of jingoistic media and political posturing,
that they were incredulous on being told of the Global Hawk
"anti-hijack" technology which had been installed, pre-9:11,
worldwide on all commercial flights (except Lufthansa), and which - operating
through the plane’s transponder, will safely land any hijacked plane
notwithstanding a dozen guns pointed at the pilot’s head. The
implications
as to 9:11 providing a public rallying point and an excuse for war clearly
disturbed our American friends but perhaps one or two may override their
reality aversion and run a Google search on Global Hawk - or visit a Northrop
Grummon (inventor of the technology) spec page such as http://www.capitol.northgrum.com/programs/globalhawk.html
and see what is officially acknowledged concerning this technology.
As
the philosopher George Santayana observed "Those who do not remember
history are doomed to repeat it" - the ways in which a populace can be so
collectively frightened and pointed, were worked out long ago by Julius Caesar
and Nero, and counselled to the Prince by Machiavelli; Hitler burned the German
Parliament buildings and blamed it on a Communist Jew; Lyndon Johnson’s CIA
fabricated the Gulf of Tonkin farce which resulted in 50,000 American deaths
and those of millions of Vietnamese and Cambodian civilians. The implicit
danger of the American military/industrial complex which the true warrior
president Dwight Eisenhower warned against at the end of his Presidential term
are now riding mankind like the fabled Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Ah
well: - in the 3000-year-old words of Koheleth (aka Ecclesiastes, The Preacher)
"Men go and
come, but earth abides"
- -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Two
long, hot days driving - twisting coastal highway - 900 km on the odometer but
only a difference of 2 degrees latitude (200 km north) brought us to Rio Nexpa. The first night we stayed at Pie de la
Cuesta (Foot of the Hill) just north of Acapulco, at Quinta Dora's old campground
- one side of which fronts on the ocean, the other on a 15 km long sweet water
lagoon that is a main source of Acapulco's water supply. Swimmers and skiers
use the lagoon recreationally and both sides of it are developed, so for the
water's end use appropriate filtration and purification is employed. Except for
two rigs from BC, we were the only campers there.
Rio
Nexpa is a different matter. The river lagoon is to the left of our
palapa-covered tent site, on a palmed sandbar, and is a gathering place for
hundreds of sandpipers, white ibis, herons, cormorants, ducks and gulls; along
the sandbar 200 meters to the south of
us the river had cut through a deep, clear channel where swimming in the cool,
flowing river is a delight. To our right is the ocean with its marching curls
and flights of pelicans. As during earlier visits we see where large
turtles
had nested this beach.
The
family which amongst the 3 brothers owns the cabañas, restaurants, tiendas and
campground here have restored the structures destroyed in 1995 by Hurricane
Alma; they carry no property insurance, contending that they have enough
problems fighting nature without having to also fight human institutions for
re-compensation. It is noted though that most "fixed" structures are
now built on stilts or piers, to allow ocean surges of, say, 2 or 3 meters
above normal to pass below the structures.
100
km north of Nexpa is the fishing village of Maruata, and another 10 km along is
Colata, a long horseshoe beach where we had heard large turtles had been
sighted laying their eggs at night. It being mid-morning when we arrived at the
turtle beach, so of course there were none to be seen, although their wide
tracks from the ocean across 150 meters of beach to the backing sand bar were
everywhere. The tracks were at least a meter wide, the female turtles’ flippers
dragging their heavy (150 kg) bodies up the sand; then one saw the deep
excavation holes for deposit and covering of several hundred eggs by each
female; and then the return tracks to the sea. At one time there was heavy
demand for both meat and eggs of the turtles, but beaches such as this are now
carefully monitored by officials and locals, to ensure ongoing survival of the
species. At this particular beach, eggs deposited overnight are collected each
morning and incubated in a protected hatchery - sex of the developing turtle
can even be manipulated by ovum temperature adjustment - when the baby turtles
hatch out they are taken directly to the shore and released - in nature only
about 5% of a hatch would survive the long trip from nest to shore, the rest
being picked off by birds.
Until
next page, Keith and Marnie
"Beware the leader who bangs the
drums of war in order to whip the citizenry into a patriotic fervour, for
patriotism is indeed a double-edged sword. It both emboldens the blood, just as
it narrows the mind. And when the drums of war have reached a fever pitch and
the blood boils with hate and the mind has closed, the leader will have no need
in seizing the rights of the citizenry. Rather, the citizenry, infused with
fear and blinded by patriotism, will offer up all of their rights unto the
leader and gladly so. How do I know? For this is what I have done. And I am Caesar." -
Julius Caesar
"The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother." - Theodore Hesburgh
To
experience some cooler weather, we left coastal Hwy 200 at Tecoman and climbed
thru the Sierra Madre foothills to Colima, then up to Comala, a delightful
colonial town of 10,000 where we enjoyed an afternoon on the square, having
'botanas' (various snacks served with cold beer) and listening to the
conversation of family gatherings and enjoying the music. On to La Maria at the
base of semi-active Volcan Colima (latest major eruption in early 2003). La
Maria is a spa, itself located in another small ancient crater, and is complete
with swimming pool, cold showers, football field and relatively expensive
cabañas. We pitched tent in the camping area, near a couple from Saskatchewan
and a retired professor (Guelph - computer sciences) Tony and his wife Mary.
Tony has been an avid ornithologist for 50 years, travelling in India, New
Guinea, Africa, the Amazon and Northwest Territories, seeking out rare bird
species. He helped us understand several of the local species resident around
the lagoon and forested crater walls and advised us concerning two of the area
trekking/climbing trails. These two trails, described by Tony as "moderately
challenging", contained tunnel passages - what he didn't realize was that
while the tunnels were clear at the time of his early dawn birding forays, by
mid-morning when Marnie and I were on the prowl these same tunnels were
infested with swarms of bees and, as we are both allergic, hasty retreat was
effected.
We
then attacked the third trail, which Tony had heard from a groundskeeper was very
challenging and led to a "mirador" or outlook at the top, from which
the large and smoking Volcan Colima could be viewed 8 km north, and beyond it
an even larger, snow-capped dormant volcano. The trail became treacherous, not
only in pitch but comprised in places of stretches of loose scree and shale,
and in other places tracking along a 60 degree incline hogs-back where loosened
stones fell down hundreds of feet on either side of us. We set aside our
walking sticks since both hands were necessary to pull ourselves up, using
branches and roots (and even a 50' length of rope left in place by earlier
adventurers). Marnie went up first, as she has a trick knee which, if it
popped, would drop her back down the trail and quite possibly off into the tree
canopy below. We finally realized that even if we made it up the remaining 50'
to the peak, we would still have to backtrack every inch and the coming down
would be even worse than the going up. Thus reverse it had to be – me backing a
few steps, then planting Marnie's feet in secure places, then me lowering
myself again. Later that day, back at camp, when our muscle tremors had ceased,
we walked out the front entrance of the spa and up 200 feet of cobblestone
side-road and there before us was steaming Volcan Colima and its older
snow-covered sister.
{Aside,
Colima's eruption in January 2003 was coincident with a major terramoto
(earthquake) which took many lives and collapsed many structures within a
hundred mile radius. Snowbirds in Melaque-Barra de Navidad still recount their
fright during the earthquake and subsequent aftershocks which had triggered
Volcan Colima's last major eruption; majors recur on 75 year cycles.}
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Over
the weekend the spa football field is a big draw for scores of locals from area
farms and villages - a time of feast and party – the crowd was breaking up and
departing Sunday night, when loud explosions were heard at the spa entrance,
followed by a lot of shouting and uproar. We saw someone on his back on the
ground with his eyes rolled up and women screaming over him, and thought he had
been shot, but were moved away by the others. The next morning we learned from
Jesus, the
manager,
that it had been no great deal: a couple of lads who had had a lot to drink had
gotten into a fight, and an off-duty cop, also under the spell of Mother
Tequila, had pulled a pistol from his pocket and fired off a couple rounds into
the sky to distract them. The protagonists did stop fighting each other, but
they and many of their friends ganged up on the cop, took away his gun and
whacked him to the ground. An example of good intentions resulting in
unexpected consequences. The general uproar went on for a couple of hours -
interesting to us Canadians and different from our usual Sunday evening fare.
Until
next page - Keith and Marnie
{{Extended
tent camping in the tropics is always challenging and health a concern - just
in preserving food and ensuring potable water supplies. In El Toro's trunk we
carry a huge ice chest, and as we travel we purchase large blocks of bar ice:
most cities and towns, especially on the coasts - have large ice factories to
service the fish boats, and also many Mexicans still use ice boxes. On ice, red
snapper or sea bass fillets and pork tenderloin can be carried for 4 or 5 days
with no problem. Drinking water is acquired anywhere in sealed, 20 litre jugs,
tap water for cleaning vegetables is treated with an ingestible type of iodine
and a few drops of bleach are added to the water used for washing dishes. Limes
are considered a purifier in salads besides being great for stopping the itch
of insect bites. Cooking is over a 2-burner propane gas stove fuelled by a
refillable 4 kg cylinder at propane plants outside most larger towns. Infection
(malaria/dengue) is always a concern, but the mosquitoes have their dawn and
evening hours and we spray well at those times if outside the tent. When
tenting sometimes several hundred kilometres from the nearest clinic, prudence
is necessary to avoid Montezuma's Revenge, salmonella, dysentery or
mosquito-borne ‘bugs’. Our 'medicine chest' contains little else than
Pepto-Bismol, aspirin, alcohol, ibuprophen and band aides, but thanks to Marnie's
dietary and culinary skills we stay healthy, gracias a Dios.
Once
a week we head into a nearby market centre to stock up on bread, rice, beans,
meats, block ice, etc. and access an Internet to catch up on the news from home
and abroad, our short wave radio having conked out whilst in the Yucatan.}}
Experiencing
the long cool nights requiring sleeping bag and providing an excuse for
cuddling, the starscapes seen through the tent canopy, and the quiet pastoral
setting at the base of Volcan Colima were all delightful - yet it came time
again to move on. Going back down to the coast, and turning right (North-west),
eventually we came to a 5km long horseshoe-shaped bay on which lay four
communities. The first, Barra de Navidad (Nativity Sandbar) has a permanent
population of approximately 5,000; the northern three (joined) communities of
Villa Obregon, San Patricio and Melaque have a combined permanent population of
10,000; the population of all four towns trebles during the winter thanks
mainly to an influx of Canadian (and some American) snowbirds. Melaque and San
Patricio initially comprised 2 adjoining haciendas around which settlements had
grown – Villa Obregon had been a bedroom adjunct and all three had seamlessly
merged into today's sleepy community.
In
1995 there had been a major earthquake just offshore (the same one described in
the La Manzanilla page of "Our Stories" in the "Keith and
Marnie's remedy" website). This earthquake had triggered a series of
maramotos (huge tidal waves) and the combination of both had wrecked the area's
largest hotel, the Casa Grande, with its several hundred rooms now derelict and
occupied by a few indigenous squatter families. Locals say that the only
asphalt link into the community (all other streets being cobbled or dirt) had
been turned into a pretzel as a result of the quake - formerly straight and
level, the pavement had become undulant and wavy, requiring a total rebuild.
One thing in favour of dirt and cobblestone streets is their easy repair - a
few stones more or less and another barrow of dirt. The beach frontage along
the whole bay is slowly being redeveloped - with extensive stretches still
barren.
Tourist
volumes this year being below average, it had been our hope to arrange a
month's accommodation, and fairly quickly secured a ground level, furnished,
two-bedroom unit directly on the beach. Imagine our sense of luxury after the
discipline of tent camping to have hot showers, cable TV, refrigerator, tile flooring,
and daily maid service. What if the apartment was filled with scores of old
pinball machines (promised to be removed in 3 hours: actual time 6 hours) -
there were no screens on the windows (mañana): we eventually made up our own
and installed them with the aid of duct tape - or that the refrigerator was
broken and we'd get a new one by night (done); or that there was no TV to go
with the cable (received 2 days later). So what indeed - and our several
"nimodos" later (nimodo = hey now, we understand "sheet
happens" and "that's life", and "no problemo") and we
were luxuriously ensconced beside the pounding surf of Bahia de Navidad. And
pound it does, especially during the two daily high tides - pound so hard that
the windows rattle in their casements, and in the night it sounds like thunder.
And
then we settled into our daily routines - up at dawn, Tai Chi on the beach,
checking out the little turtle hatchery beside the hotel to welcome any new
hatchlings; walking the streets or along the surf west into Melaque, or east to
Barra de Navidad for breakfast; shopping for fresh fish fillets and pork loin
in the community markets, making sure to duck below low canopies and overhangs
waiting to brain a normal height person (the structural sizing more suitable for
Tolkien's hobbits and halflings); bird-watching along a large lagoon backing
Obregon and Barra; sitting and drinking dark beer outside our favourite little
grocery store; watching flocks of pelicans skim-fish the cresting waves. A
couple of shrimp boats plough the bay.
Every
now and then the ice cream seller comes by shouting "onion or garlic”
flavours (as a joke to attract the gringos) and daily bottled water trucks
circulate the area, as well as bottled gas trucks, and vegetable and fruit
trucks - each announces its coming with a distinctive cassette or microphone
announcement over a loudspeaker system - one of the water delivery concerns
features a Tarzan yell at full volume which is sure to awake one from a siesta
nap or a sea-induced reverie.
The
communities virtually go asleep every afternoon between 2 and 5, the
traditional siesta, after which it's business as usual. Scores of youths
challenge the mountainous waves, running down the deeply inclined beach,
jumping on their boogie boards for the last few feet of wet sand and swooshing
out to climb the next mounting tide crest, turning at its apogee and surfing it
back in. Further down the beach a level plateau of sand is occupied by dozens
of milling young soccer players, and overhead reflections from the falling sun
turn the clouds every imaginable hue.
At
dusk, back to the apartment for dinner and then to sit down under reading
lights and engage Orwell and Henry James into the late hours.
Another day is done. Dark, then light, then dark again as the eternal Wheel rotates. Night, then day, then night again. High and low tides cue in the primal law of undulation. A time for each function, and for each realization. A day is done - another comes and in turn is done – and between them, sleep is welcomed.
Until
next page, Keith and Marnie
"Time does not tarry ever, but change and growth is not in all things and places alike - - - - The passing seasons are but ripples ever repeated in the long long stream. Yet beneath the Sun all things must wear to an end at last." J.R.R. Tolkien
Mexlogue - Page 11 - Out of Mexico?? – The Devil’s Spine
The Melaque/San Patricio/Barra de Navidad scene turns upside down for the two weeks
surrounding March 17th, San Patricio being the patron saint of the
area, and to whose feet must be laid the blame for yet another Mexican fiesta.
The wearin' of the green, and green draft beer, and green complexions on the
many mornings after. Our monthly lease expired just prior to commencement of
the debauch, and we were out of there and headin' north. We had already cased
nearby La Manzanilla where we had camped in previous years - it was good to go
on long hikes and renew acquaintances and meet new folks, but the campground
had deteriorated badly and so we travelled north to Puerto
Vallarta, where we looked up Valeria (earlier mentioned on Page 6)
at her new digs, up the mountainside a couple of blocks from the bridged houses
of Richard Burton and Liz Taylor. Looking out from Valeria's patio over the
city below, we sipped coffee with her and her friend Stella from Montreal, and
discussed aspects of the teachings of Valeria's guru, Osho Rajneesh.
Northward to Lo de Marco: initially only
planning to spend a day to visit several good friends (Adelia, Iris, Keith
"Willie", GI Jose) from earlier stays there, we ended up staying 8
days at a hilltop villa, sitting in on impromptu jam sessions, taking long
walks on the beach, and sampling local cuisine. Each day became noticeably
hotter but our location was conducive to fresh breezes and long siestas. It had
initially been our plan to camp at Chacala, (see write-up of earlier visit in
"Our Stories" on the 'Keith and Marnie's remedy' website) about 40 km
north, but when we reconnoitred that little fishing village it was clear that
it had not recovered from a devastating hurricane 15 months ago, and was not
nearly as appealing to us as our little villa.
{Could it be that the lure of tent camping is fading as we age???}.
THE PREMONITION:
While at Lo de Marco, we started experiencing foreboding about the
next leg of the trip, which entailed driving northwest 400 km to Mazatlan and
then turning east on Hwy. 40 to Durango, where we would spend three days
sightseeing and then continue northeast some 1500 km to the Texas border. The
foreboding centred on the Mazatlan to Durango leg – only 350 km but the narrow
2 lane road rises from sea level to heights of 9000 feet over the Sierra Madre
mountain ranges - several hard climbs
and switch-backs over individual ranges and drops into valleys between the
ranges, and including a frightening hogs-back stretch at the continental divide
called El Espinazo del Diablo (The Devil's Spine), from which one looks down
thousands of feet on either side.
We had travelled that road, pulling our Coleman camper, 7 years ago - crawling
up the passes in second gear behind transports and gas trucks, with the heater
on and the defroster fan at high to try to clear some heat away from the engine.
This time we thought that by not having the tent camper to pull, the 6 - 7 hour
trip would be easier. For several nights before leaving Lo de Marco, we had
both had bad dreams about being forced off the mountainside: not usually
allowing ourselves to be pushed
around by dreams, we had nevertheless over the past year seriously studied the
dream phenomena from a process perspective (**see study notes in the 'Our World
& Times' section of our website based on the life work of Montague Ullman).
We had the car thoroughly checked over, new disk brakes installed, tanked up
with high test premium and took off.
On the way to Mazatlan, we passed the interconnected mosquito and jejene (a
little black carnivorous insect) infested swamps of San Blas, Mexititlan and Escuinapa
- an area mythically known as Aztatlan,
from whence the Aztecs claimed to have departed on their generations-long
migration and eventual conquest of the Central Plateau and founding of
Tenochitlan around AD1420. That was only a century prior to the arrival of
Cortez and his destruction of the Aztec capital and founding of Mexico City on
its ruins: Mexico City - at present home of 28 million and the world's largest
city. [[While still in the swamps of Aztatlan, around 1000AD, the Aztecs had
constructed a large pyramid/temple structure in the mangrove swamps - a square
edifice - 200' on each side, 60' high - built solely from live molluscs,
unopened clams and oysters - their only available building material.
Archaeologists are now having a field day with this site - known as El Calon -
the only structure of its kind in the world.]]
----------------------------------------
PREMONITION vrs REALITY:
Approximately 100 km into the Hwy. 40 leg we had climbed to the 6000' level,
and had just passed the Tropic of Cancer when, on the outskirts of one of the
rare mountainside villages, El Toro coughed and died. It had been heating up,
but still in the 'normal' range, so we thought the problem might be either
dirty gas or clogged fuel filter. As luck would have it, the villagers advised
that there was a mechanic about 5 km further up the mountain, and we were able
to hire a man to take me there in his old truck. The mechanic - a one-eyed
individual (rather common because using goggles or other eye protection when
welding or grinding apparently runs counter to Mexican machismo)- came down to
El Toro and crawled under and installed a new fuel filter that we had carried
with us. The old filter was heavy with dirt and we hoped that would suffice but
the mechanic suggested that the thermostat should also be pulled, as there were
extreme climbing conditions ahead. However, El Toro started, and Marnie and I
we agreed that enough was enough, and turned back, planning to go back to
Mazatlan and travel up the coastal highway 1200
km to Arizona.
About 30 km down from the village on a hairpin curve, a huge Durango-bound,
loaded semi came crawling up around the banked corner and his rear end cut 4'
over the yellow line - the rear tires just kept coming down across the line. We
saw it coming and stopped, but before I could reverse, the semi nailed El Toro
dead centre; we were very fortunately "squished" back up the hill 6'
or so, the transport driver apparently watching the hill ahead instead of the
arc that his rear end had taken. El Toro's whole front end – bumper, lights,
grill, radiator, hood - was in bits and pieces and the driver's side fender and
door mangled – El Toro’s bodily fluids ran down the road - our 14 year old Ford
had definitely taken a shot.
Aside from the shakes and a couple of scratches, we were okay. If El Toro
hadn't squished back, the transport wheels would have crawled right over us.
The transport driver assumed responsibility. Marnie helped flag traffic around
the wreck, and driving up came a Mexican (appropriately named Angel) on his way
to Durango. He offered me a lift down 10 km to the first village below to call
for the highway police and a tow truck, since in the dense mountains nobody's
cell phone could operate.
When we got to the first village we couldn't find a workable phone so Angel
offered to drive me a further 20 km to the larger centre, Concordia (a total of
30 km doesn't sound far, but represents 50 minutes driving time on that
mountain road) - then Angel helped explain the situation to the tow truck owner
who telephoned the info to the highway police (the tow truck owner was
precluded from moving the car until police videotaped the scene and took
statements); the police said that they would be at the site "within an
hour". Angel drove me back up – we chatted about families and our
respective work backgrounds, and Marnie and my trips throughout Mexico. His
good Samaritan involvement had lost him over 2 hours driving time, and would
mean he'd have to complete the last couple of hours of his own trip in darkness
(Mexicans are almost as leery of driving their Mexican roads at night as we are)
yet Angel firmly refused any compensation.
The tow truck and police arrived, eventually we were towed down to Mazatlan and
by 9 p.m. had found a place to hang our hats for a week or so while the body
shop tries to bring in new or used parts from the border area 1200 km north.
(Most Mexican and Canadian/American Ford parts are not interchangeable -
different sizings, mountings, etc.) In the meantime, we are checking out bus
and plane schedules just in case parts are not available and we have to abandon
El Toro and most of our gear - since ING, the trucker's insurance carrier
reserves the right to pay us 'Blue Book' valuation for the old Taurus should the
repair costs exceed that amount.
Until final page, Keith and Marnie
** From
"Dreams: the royal road to the unconscious" - There is an extended
and suggestive manifestation of subjective non-locality when psi effects appear
in dreams. Where an action or event at a distance carries an emotional valence
for the dreamer, it appears to be possible to gain simultaneous awareness of
that event and have it influence the course of the dream much as any ordinary
day residue might. What is even more challenging is the fact that our
vulnerability to the possibility of unpredictable events threatening existing
emotional bonds, seems to be associated in dreaming with a scanning process
that picks up non-inferential future events that pose such a danger.
Non-locality seems to be a feature of the dream in the way we bring together in
our dream, both actual experiences in space and time and paranormally
apprehended experiences in space and time. The psi effects that gain access to
the dream influence the course of the dream much as any ordinary day residue
might. Just as in an ordinary dream the psi event might present itself in a highly
symbolic way or be more literally accurate. - Montague Ullman
El
Toro lives!! Lives on to further adventures. Used parts were brought in from
Culiacan, the Sinaloa State capital – used hood, grill, light rack and goodies
– a used driver’s door couldn’t be located, so it was rebuilt, as was the left
fender and numerous engine compartment fittings – new fan, radiator, battery
and windshield were installed – then refinishing and painting. All together 13
days in the shop, with ourselves in a budget hotel at our own expense. The shop
was not very busy so, since it was an insurance job, the work was probably
strung out – at least it felt that way as we twiddled our thumbs. Then the
moment came to crank ‘er up, a moment that had been a bit of concern to us as
the car’s computer box had been a tad crunked. Yet start it did – but would not
move. Inspection determined that the left transaxle had been sheared from the
force of collision with the transport, so that took another day to source parts
and replace. Then we were off. For about 8 blocks – then great clouds of steam
rolled from under the hood!! When the engine cooled down we discovered that the
shop had not properly secured the radiator cap – most of the coolant had blown
off but fortunately we had stopped right in front of an auto supply tienda so
replacement was easy.
About
160 km north of Mazatlan our power suddenly reduced, all kinds of dash lights
pulsed and El Toro backfired a couple of kilometers and then went completely
comatose. We luckily were able to dead-stick onto a wee shoulder, right behind
a farm truck piled high with oranges. [Most Mexican roads are virtually devoid
of shoulders, or guard rails for that matter, so in case of a problem it’s a
white-knuckler to find a turn-out.]
Right
away the truck driver and his two assistants, having heard El Toro loudly
farting down the road, swarmed us with well-intentioned help, pulling this wire
and that, each competing with the others to solve our dilemma. The presence of
a pretty Canadian lady seemed to spur their quest, and it was a challenge for
me to watch 6 hands helpfully pulling connections apart, and to ensure
everything went back to its proper place. We agreed that the problem was
electrical, and my little tester showed that the new battery was at only 9.5
volts instead of its proper 13. It was then that I noticed that the voltage
regulator (installed only 3 months previously at Lake Bacalar (Mexlogue Page 6)
was absent from its place on the interior left fender – only an empty wiring
harness stared back at me. All the way from Mazatlan the engine had been simply
running off the battery, the alternator being unable to recharge the battery
with no regulator in the loop.
The
hard part was explaining the situation to the orange truck driver and his
helpers so as to get them to stop pulling wires – they believed that the
regulator was an integral part of the alternator, and eventually they came up
with the idea that all that was needed was a jump-start. To this I quickly
agreed – anything to get up the road and away so that I could think in my own
language. El Toro fired up on the jumper cables, we let the battery recharge
off the truck for a few moments, then with “muchas gracias” we took off – but
only around the bend a bit and then more motor flatulence and luckily coasting
onto another wee shoulder.
While
Marnie stayed with the car and our gear, I flagged down a BC van and hitched a
ride 30 km north to a village where luckily there was a ‘taller electrico’ – an
automotive electrical specialist. Now in this village, as is the case in most
small towns and villages, a ‘taller electrico’ operates pretty much by the seat
of his pants – not much in the way of technical instruments other than a
screwdriver, a battery charger and vice-grips. They’re amazing on 20/30 year
old cars, but a 1990 Taurus might be a go-slow. This chap agreed to help, but
he couldn’t go back with me as his own ’78 Ford was temporarily disabled – had
an electrical problem which he seemed embarrassed about – he said I’d have to
take the village cab back to El Toro, get our battery and bring it in to him –
he’d recharge our battery enough so that I could cab back to El Toro again,
re-install it and run the car in to him. But hey, at least that would get us
off the road for the night while I hitched or bussed or cabbed another 40 km
north to Culiacan to track down a voltage regulator and bring it back to the
‘taller’. And NO, he didn’t have a spare battery to lend me, and when I checked
out the little auto supply store in the village, it had lots of radiator caps
but no voltage regulators so it looked like it was going to be a long afternoon.
The
village cab was off on assignment somewhere, but in sharing my plight with
Alvaro, a middle-aged villager standing beside his truck (and playing my
stranded ‘Canadian’ wife card to the hilt), he allowed that he had the time
(and more importantly the inclination) to run me back to El Toro. Before
leaving the village we stopped by the ‘taller’ who, seeing that his own battery
would now be safeguarded by Alvaro, pulled it from his old Ford and off Alvaro
and I clattered. When we exchanged the batteries and got El Toro in to the
‘taller’, to my joy the latter produced a brand new regulator which he’d picked
up from the little auto supply store – seems he’d just explained that it was
for a “Canadianse” rather than an “Americano” and PRESTO - that was that.
Alvaro,
our Good Samaritan, wouldn’t set a price for his help, asking only for what we
thought it was worth. 300 pesos, the equivalent of about $30 US was proffered,
and we could see that he was very pleased. He explained aside to Marnie that
times were very tough for the average Mexican – a lot of unemployment, a
statutory daily minimum wage of only 50 pesos, and commodity
prices always rising. A real struggle for Alvaro and his wife to raise their two
daughters. The effect of our “generosity” to Alvaro (in reality a very good
deal for us) was electrical on the ‘taller’ – our battery was boosted quickly,
the regulator installed and the charging circuits confirmed to our
satisfaction. Aside from the regulator part cost (70 pesos), he only asked 30
pesos ($3 US) for loan of his battery and the shop work, but accepted a 20 peso
tip with a big smile and his warm wishes for our safe journey back to Canada.
We
still had 5000 km to run, and were a bit shaken by El Toro’s extended series of
problems, albeit they were all of human origin. By nightfall of the second day
we were listening to American NPR (National Public Radio) in the car as we
crossed into Arizona via Nogales. Over
the following days we took Interstate 10 east over the Continental Divide to
Las Cruces, New Mexico, then north-east on Hwy 70 through White Sands (site of
the first nuclear bomb tests), then Roswell (of flying saucer fame), then on to
Amarillo, Texas where we spent a day of R & R (steak dinners, Irish beer
and English speaking satellite news and movies). Similar to driving a car on
a steadily depleting battery, one may get by for a time in another
culture/language but later on re-entry, one hungers for and soaks up one’s
native heritage like a sponge.
Following
Interstates 40 and 44 through Oklahoma and Missouri, the altitude went down
from mile-high to 700 ft, and we were immersed in the signs of spring’s return.
After the high Plains of Texas, the states of Oklahoma and Missouri are
reminiscent of Central Ontario – rolling hills, lots of rivers and lakes, with
fields and trees greening up as our own will in another 3 weeks. El Toro is
headin’ back to his home barn, through Illinois, Indiana, Ohio and Michigan
with nary a ping nor rattle. Soon we’ll have re-acquired our calico cat
“Remedy” from a lady friend who borrowed her for the season. Marnie and I have
had enough adventures for the time being, and now both look forward to again
enjoying the quiet retiree life beside Lake Simcoe, hiking in the cool dawn
breezes, Tai Chi in the park and riding the bicycle trail.
Plus
we’re looking forward to seeing our 4 kids and their families on our 44th
wedding anniversary next week.
For
now, Keith and Marnie.
P.S.
One of the major joys of travelling is in the making of so many new friends
from so many countries who are also ‘on the road’. So many stories swapped – as
George Santayana wrote, through the sharing of our stories with each other our
own experiential base – essentially our mortality itself – is extended. So many
Email addresses exchanged. For those who came into our address book during the
latter ‘pages’ of the Mexlogue series, and would like to read the earlier ones,
the complete set is posted to the “Our Stories” section of “Keith and Marnie’s remedy” website.