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.
Keith and Marnie
Elliott’s “REMEDY” Site
Home
|
Our Stories
|
The Sublime
|
Our World and Times
|
Book Reviews
|
Marnie's Images
|
The Journal
|
Gleanings
|
From The Writings Of. . .
|
Allegories
|