Mexico

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It’s amazing how quickly and effortlessly one acclimates to the rhythms of travel. When I left St. Louis just 15 days ago, I felt unprepared for what lied ahead of me. I was forced into such great haste during the final days before my departure that I hadn’t even had time for the realization off my imminent endeavor to sink in. Despite a year of cultivating the idea and months of planning and preparing, when the day finally came, I felt rushed, unready. I had begun to second guess myself. Under scrutinization was my determination, my ability, even, at times, my desire to leave this oh-so-comfortable life behind for an indefinite length.

Two weeks in, however, I can safely say all those fears and hesitations have, just nearly, vanished.

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I would like now to quickly address the question of ¨Why?¨ as in ¨why Central America?¨ To this I have a detailed and well-thought out answer:

Firstly, I have never been to Latin America, so naturally I wanted something different than what I have already experienced. There are many places and regions and continents that I have never been to, however, so this is only the first of many qualifying factors I considered during my proto-planning stages. Secondly, Latin America is by-and-large cheap, very cheap, and the incentive in that is self-explanatory. Thirdly, I speak a little Spanish and have regretted for years not having pursued the language further, so this Latin America would be a good opportunity to kill two birds with one stone: travel, and pick up a second language.

From starting with the entire earth, I had by this step succinctly and certainly narrowed it down to Latin America (Spain was out because of the first two criteria: I had already been there, and it is not cheap). While studying a map of the area, Central and South America, I was daunted by the vastness and shear size of the southern-most continent. Where would I begin? Where would I end? What would be my path? How could I possibly see it all? There were infinite opportunities in South America, and that was one too many for me.

Central America, on the other hand, is a smaller and more manageable area for my first solo backpacking expedition and is, conveniently, shaped more or less like a funnel, ´starting,´ if you will, with the broad region of Mexico and spiraling down, narrower and narrower, to the tiny isthmus at the threshold of Panama and South America. It provided a clear, almost inescapable general path, the knowledge of which gave me some sort of peace of mind at that early stage of planning. I could start in Mexico and work my way southward, arriving in Panama having covered the entire region, and then I could, just possibly, move into South America with the courage and experience needed to tackle that continent.

Lastly, every region of the world has their particular natural and cultural beauties, so... why not Central America?

Thus I decided on Central America over South America, and decided to use Cancun, Mexico as my point of entry.

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Mexico is a vibrant, humid place full of short, smiling, Spanish-speaking people, 60´s-style Volkswagen Beetles, and tortillas.

When arriving in Mexico (that is, once I got out of Cancun), the first thing I noticed is that old-style Volkswagen Beetles are the round, rusty, nostalgic looking, fume-spurting car of choice here. At least one in five cars seem to be a Beetle, and you are seemingly at any given moment within eye-shot of one. I’ve been told that Mexico is the only place in the world still manufacturing VW Beetles to look the exact same as they did 40 years ago, and apparently they make them to look as if they have been driven around continuously for the past 40 years as well.

The second general observation I made very quickly is that Mexico really loves their tortillas. Its not just an American stereotype, its not just a joke, its a reality, and the Mexicans aren’t laughing. This is a dead-serious corn-and-flour love affair. If a meal is not served directly on a tortilla, it is at least accompanied by them, and at a moments notice they can easily and efficiently be put to use, and usually are. A fork’s most useful property here is its ability to assist in getting food that is not on a tortilla on, in, or otherwise near one. I have found that tortillas come in varying degrees of flatness, airiness, and tastelessness, are sometimes corn and sometimes flour, and are always small, round, and abundant.

Tortillas are not the only ubiquitous ingredient of traditional Mexican cuisine. In fact, all of the ingredients seem to be ubiquitous. It doesn’t really matter what you order, you’re going to get some combinations of a finely cut meat, with rice, beans, tortillas and salsa, and usually exactly that, no more no less. Either Mexicans have accustomed themselves to an amazing degree of culinary monotony, or they have fine tuned their taste-buds over generations to levels of bean and tortilla appreciation that us gringos could only dream of. Luckily for them and for me, it’s mostly all very tasty, despite its sameness.

My first official stop in Mexico was Tulum, a small semi-touristy beach town two hours south of Cancun. The three highlights of my prolonged 4 days/5 nights there were: swimming, snorkeling, and scuba diving in several of the local Cenotes; exploring and getting lost in the backstreets of the town; and the wonderful people I met in my hostel.

Sixty million years ago, an asteroid the size of Manhattan collided with the Yucatan Peninsula (it had not yet been named the Yucatan Peninsula at the time). We all know the rest of the story (except Sarah Palin): the dinosaurs were wiped out, little furry rodents emerged from the ground, found their opportunity to shine, and voila, here we are. What also happened, however, was that the asteroid fractured the mantle (as in the geological layer of the Earth) underneath the Yucatan, which allowed for rain water to seep in through cracks into the vast system of caves that existed under the peninsula. Over time, water accumulated, and that vast system of caves became a vast system of underground rivers. Then, over more time, in hundreds of spots all around the region, the ground collapsed due to chemical erosion, revealing the underground river system and creating, quite literally, portals into the underworld.

Today, those portals into the underworld are called Cenotes (pronounced like say-NO-tays), a Spanish corruption of the Mayan word dzonot, meaning ¨scared well.¨ They are popular spots for swimming, snorkeling and scuba diving due to their crystal clear, 77 degree water, the beautiful sceneries they exist in (surrounded by jungle), and the otherworldly cave and cavern diving they provide for. I dove at Cenote Chiken-Ha and Cenote Tajma Ha (whoever named that one didn’t know how to spell Taj Mahal very well, because that is actually what they were aiming for). Tajma Ha was unlike anything I´ve ever experienced. Stalagmites and stalagmites extend from the floors and ceilings, exotic fish dart around, and light cuts through the water from the openings and slits in the ground above, like the parting of the sky in some places and like a natural laser show in others. Words can hardly describe the beauty and surreality of these Cenotes, so I will not even attempt.

The second highlight of Tulum was simply getting lost on my bicycle in the backstreets of the town. If you take any street leading away from the main street, you immediately enter streets devoid of tourists, where local people are going about their daily lives, humbly struggling for the most basic things in life, things I and we take for granted. The incessant but strangely tranquil sounds of the streets become instantly intoxicating: dogs barking; roosters crowing; kids playing in the streets; music (both traditional Mexican salsa music and traditional American hip-hop music) blasting from inside open windows and behind closed fences; street and bicycle-riding vendors clamorously announcing their presence to passer-byers; the chunky purring of mopeds, VW beetles, and pickup-trucks that if not in Mexico would be in an American junkyard.

The final highlight of my time in Tulum was my interactions with the few people that were also staying at the hostel and with the family that owned the hostel. Juaquin and his mother Chello, along with his brother Juaquin´s-Brother (I never could remember his name) were wonderful hosts but more than that, wonderful people. Chello cooked us amazing Mexican breakfasts every morning and attended to our or every need with a smile and a well-intended attempt at English. Juaquin was full of energy and enthusiasm and provided perfect information on where to go and what to eat, and I regret that I was never able to sit down to have a beer with him like he insisted so many times. Juaquin´s-Brother, who had just moved back to Mexico after 7 years in Canada, spent hours talking around the breakfast table about the good and the bad of Mexico and the new perspectives on the country that he had acquired ¨after having lived in a place where you have rights.¨ Sigor and Nagora were two fellow travelers from the Basque region of Spain who, despite speaking little English, were curious about my life and patient with my broken Spanish. We talked for hours, although it was a slow, painful few hours for me and my inadequate Spanish speaking abilities.

Finally, I met my first travel partner in Tulum, just 3 days into my trip. I had always known that I would be traveling solo but not necessarily alone, and expected to spend lots of time with fellow travelers, but had no idea how easy it would be. Robert is an editor at a small newspaper in Florida, and has been everywhere in the world that I want to go. We found out we were headed the same direction, had similar ideas on what we wanted to see in Mexico and similar general philosophies on travel, and before I knew it we were leaving Tulum together. His travel stories and my curiosity to hear them fueled many a long talk over the week that we spent together.

When Robert and I left Tulum, I had my first Latin American bus experience. They packed us on this bus until one more person would be a serious safety hazard, and then they packed 15 more on. I’ve been told to prepare for much worse in other parts of Central America.

The bus took us safely to the ancient Mayan ruins of Cobá, which were most incredible because you are allowed to climb all over most of the ruins, the largest of which is damn tall, poking out from atop the tree tops and providing a view over endless green jungle in all directions.

Next was Valladolid, a big town or small city with lots of construction and commotion, a truly surreal Cenote, a beautiful cathedral and convent, and a delicious restaurants which Robert and I ate four of our five meals in the city at.

On the way to our next destination, we spent the day at the famous, crowded, interesting but overrated Chichén Itzá ruins. You are not allowed to climb on any of the ruins much less touch most of them, which was disappointing. However the main pyramid was stunning, and tid-bits of the historical details I received during our guided tour were fascinating. The fact that the site had been built up nearly to the point of seeming outright fake, like it was an attraction at Disney World instead of a real life ancient city, did not add great appeal to the site. Neither did the fact that I got pissed on by an iguana hiding in the tree above me while I was innocently observing some ruins.

Finally, on day eight, Robert and I arrived in the city where I write this from, Mérida, the most colorful city I’ve ever been to, full of textures and layers, arches and columns, narrow streets and wide plazas, old cathedrals and chic modern cafes. For the benefit of the reader, I will write about the two things that stand out most to me about this wonderful city.

1. The city is amazingly colorful. All of the buildings are different combinations of different colors: burnt yellows, oranges, reds and ochres; bright pinks, greens and cyans; pale creams and stark whites; sky blues, earthy browns, and watery turquoises. And, because the city is very old, the paint everywhere is peeling and rusting away, revealing the layers of colors that came before and the bare, crumbling stones that came first. The city everywhere has a palpable texture and an amazing, earthy, lived-in feeling.

2. The city is bustling with people at all times of day. Every Saturday and Sunday there are all-day fiestas in the main plaza, Plaza Zocalo, where the streets close, music is played, restaurants set up stands, and thousands upon thousands of locals mill around, walking, talking, playing, laughing, dancing, buying, selling, etc. The local market, El Mercado Municipal, is a whole neighborhood in town that is just one big market full of literally thousands of vendors and thousands of buyers. There is a liveliness to this city that is utterly tangible.

On Monday morning, Day 11, I was picked up outside my hotel by a patient of my dad’s who lived in Mérida and who had given me, through my dad, an open invitation to stay with her. I took up the offer because, for one, it would provide me with a free place to sleep, but more importantly because I figured it would provide me with a more authentic perspective on life in Mérida and Mexico. This particular woman, however, happens to be über wealthy, having inherited riches passed down from generations before her, and lives the type of lifestyle that not many people in the world much less Mexico live. This was both fortunate and unfortunate. It was fortunate because for three nights I slept in a plush, pillowy bed, with my own clean bathroom and big TV, in a home with a pool, a chef, a chauffer and a maid. It was unfortunate, however, because for three nights I slept in a plush, pillowy bed, with my own clean bathroom and big TV, in a home with a pool, a chef, a chauffer and a maid. It was both a pleasant change of pace from the stiff mattresses, dirty bathrooms and cheap food I was beginning to get used to as well as an unnecessary interruption from the stiff mattresses, dirty bathrooms and monotonous cheap food I was beginning to, and need to, get used to.

Nonetheless, it was a unique experience, and one I am unlikely to have again during this trip. In addition, the family was lovely and utterly welcoming, and I am glad to have met them. They gave me so much in my few days with them, and for that I am grateful.

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Finally, as for my Spanish speaking abilities:

I have surely and inevitably progressed during my two weeks in Mexico, although only very slowly. I have lost lots since I studied in Spain over 16 months ago, and I regrettably did next to nothing to brush up before I departed. My conversations here are mostly either highly rehearsed beforehand, painfully slow, completely one-sided, or just nonexistent. When interacting with Spanish-speakers, I typically employ one of four techniques which I have found help me to get by:

The first is simply to nod, smile, and respond with a ¨si¨ to anything said to me that remotely resembles a possible question, regardless of context or any other outside factors. This tactic alone has gotten me quite far. The second technique I employ is to learn a new word or phrase, and then try desperately to use it in every subsequent conversation I have, regardless of context or any other outside factors. My third strategy, which is more an imposed restriction than an actual technique, is to listen for and pick out one word that I understand from a sentence that’s spoken to me, and then, relying solely on context and other outside factors, try to piece together some sort of meaning from that solitary word.

The final strategy I use to facilitate my Spanish conversations and interactions is to not have Spanish conversations and interactions. This, I find, to be a most fruitless endeavor, however, and the more I employ is the slower I will learn the language. I am trying hard to avoid using this one.

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Later today, I leave the small, uneventful Mexican town that I write this from, Chetumal, for the surprising English-speaking country of Belize, and my worries over language barriers will be regrettably and momentarily soothed. I have enjoyed my time in Mexico but, alas, I am ready to move on to something new. Once again, on the threshhold of a new adventure, I am jittery with excitement.