Days 5 & 6 - Everything Is Dangerous

Todo es peligroso. Curvas peligrosas, materials peligrosos. Crossings are dangerous; construction is dangerous. But much is beautiful here as well, like the mountains the make up most of the region of Tuxtla. We exit Santiago Tuxtla (which had served as a much-needed haven for us), and circle up and around to the other side of the depression which holds the town. These are the hills and cliffs–and one big white cross on the mountainside–upon which we had gazed the night before from our fifth floor balcony. We took a last look back at the town before jetting off. Well, it wasn't quite jetting, we immediately got stuck behind the local Fanta truck; but we were certain this beats being behind the fertiziler truck.

Catamaco, the next region we pass through, is said to resemble the Alps. We pass by the side of a large lake, on which a lone canoeist paddles silently. We also pass a man sharpening his machete by the side of the road. Later, we were to pass dozens of men with machetes (some holstered, many not). I wonder aloud if males here are issued machetes at age 13, or some such thing. This, at any rate, might explain why all the police and soldiers have assault rifles and shotguns–you would too, if you were charged with lording over a bunch of guys with machetes.

Speaking of which: it wasn't long before we were back on the side of the road, and a guy with a Colt autoloader and a BIG knife, backed up by two riflemen, is searching our entire vehicle and bags. There are no body cavities involved, but this mustachioed fellow does give a good poke around in most of our luggage. Pulling away, sighing with relief, I ruminate on Nice Thing #8,000,042 about living in the U.S.: we are not subject to searches.

Sara pops in Suzanne Vega's Nine Objects of Desire, to my delight. I owned this album for about three weeks, before our sysadmin at the time borrowed it from me and lost it. He apologetically couphed up fifteen smackers, but I never have gotten around to rebuying that album. As I only had it those three weeks, and listened to it intensely in my cube, hearing it again vividly calls to mind my stint at Security First Technologies, after we had ceased being SecureWare, and moved to the flashy digs up in the sky on Peachtree Street. That was a simultaneously exciting and melancholy time, as we all tried to focus on the promise and thrill of working for the world's first Internet bank, and not lament the death of our cozy little engineering culture (as we were overrun by creeping corporatocracy). As we pass more soldiers, and beggars, Ms. Vega seductively produces some lyrics that could be about this country (and the experience of tourists in it):

Take back your sympathy
I do not need to drink that bitter stuff
I'd rather break the thread that bound us close
And say we called the bluff
Casual match in a very dry field
What could be the season's yield?

I'm also reminded strongly of Laylah, mi amigo que hable espanol (y portugues, y frances, y italiano). Laylah used to love Suzanne Vega, and she would sigh and her eyes lit up when she talked about art she loved. We helped eachother through some very difficult times, and I wish I could see her again. She did live in Mexico City for a time; maybe we will pass her on this road.

Judging from the endless campaign road signs, one would think that "politics" is the major industry of Mexico. Seeing hundreds of copies of these smiling candidates, on placards and signs amid all the poverty and bad infrastructure, I can't help but think they might be misdirecting their energies. They seem to be spending a great deal of energy picking someone out who will solve all the problems–when perhaps they could just put all this energy into solving the damned problems. All the politics is at best a meta-endeavor, and at worst partaking of saviour-mongering. Then again, this is a third-rate socio-political analysis (at best), based on some road signs (and a meager knowledge of Mexican politics from the papers)

Staying on the road to Villahermosa might be cake... if the highway signs didn't completely suck. The general method seems to label a given highway, at various times, as the highway you think you are trying to stay on, the highway this one is merged with for this stretch, and the highway it's probably going to turn into. I can find, however, no logic to the choice of destinations listed on the highway signs. We miss a turn-off for Villahermosa–the only sign is right at the exit. We pull to the side to attempt to back up in the emergency lane (the prospect of trying to turn around and find the exit again is a miserable)–right behind another car doing the exact same thing. As we laugh at the reverse lights in front of us, a VW Bug (this country is absolutely full of them, and they're not the new Bugs) comes to a gravelly halt behind us, and also throws it in reverse. The three of us parade asses-first out of our wrong turn.

That was cake compared to getting through Minitatlan. Highway 180 goes in, but it seems not to come out. Having been poured into the urban center, we were instantly totally lost, with no signs of use anywhere. We spotted a couple of cops–in a police VW bug (that's a new one). We pull up and ask "puedo ir al camino a Villahermosa?" After a brief failed attempt to direct us, they indicated we should follow them. This gave me pause and a shudder of memory, but the circumstances here seemed to be different. Thinking that this selfless and compassionate escort made up for about a third of that last one, we follow that bug all the way through town, and wave and shout our thanks to the nice officers at the highway.

After Villahermosa (when I sent my depressing message to the dispatch list), we were seriously considering revisiting the "Sine Wave of Misery" slogan for the trip. It seemed, at least to me, that every time we got a break, every time something went our way, something else would bite us in the ass. It was like a law of nature. Examples: We figured we'd take a shot at finding a Cybercafe in the fairly big city of Villahermosa–and five seconds after I was telling Sara to look out for anything that says Internet, there is a big road sign for an Internet Cafe, right off of Centro. Score! We achieve the Centro, which is trafficky and loud, but can't find the place. We stop and ask at a computer store. The very attractive computer hustler has a little English (not that it was necessary; "Hay un Internet Cafe? Conneccion a la Internet?"), and told me the place was right around the corner! We rounded the corner–and spent the next hour lost in a maze of pedestrian malls. Everyone we asked seem to know about the cafe, but none of their directions got us to it. Finally, a nice hotel porter walked us to it: it was literallyright around the corner from the computer shop. As it was small, with a tiny sign, we had run right by it. We spent another hour there failing to upload a damned thing. No one in the shop had ever heard of an ftp or telnet client. More to the point, after I downloaded these essential tools, I couldn't get a single packet out of the country. I figured either firewall, or maybe they stop telnet and ftp traffic at the border. 8^) Then getting out of the city was hard as hell, as well.

Anyway, my frustration was going through the roof, and I was starting to gripe–which, of course, pissed Sara off, so we got to be annoyed with eachother in addition to everything else. When we arrived in Palenque, we were chafing eachother so badly, I immediately set out for a walk to anywhere. I found the downtown–and all the tourists.

Did I mention we had seen nary another tourist on this trip? Every time we passed an American car, or one with conspicuous luggage, we expected to see another foreign face. But it never happened. Anyway, it's because they're all in Palenque: Floppy safari hats, tevas of every stripe, and million-lira haircuts flow in and around stalls, restaurants, and food & crafts vendors, out on the main drag. Non-Spanish (and almost all non-English) chatter floats to the end of the street and up into the reasonably pretty main square. At any rate, there is a great deal of shade from the last enfillades of the setting sun. The exotic and bushy branching hardwoods even seem to provide shelter from the humidity. Heading back toward the hotel, I bump into Sara. She saw a cybercafe.

A Supposedly Fun Thing We're Slated To Do At Least Two More Times

I've stopped shaving. Letting my beard grow is helping me to get in touch with my inner conquistador. But it didn't help me stay cool during our day at the Palenque ruins.

We began at the tomb of some human-sacrificing king or other; where Palenque peak hours were just gearing up. The entrance to the tomb was at the top of the biggest temple, and as we stood in an incredibly dank, steep, slick, and treacherous enclosed stairway, an endless line of Mexican and foreign tourists (children in particular) shouting "avance!" lent a perfect theme park feel to the whole affair. We were each in line, it turned out, for a 10-second glimpse through bars at a tomb, which, consisting only of a bare stone shelf, I had to conclude wasn't even worth a free exposure.

After that, it became to an extent the Palenque workout. Climbing the stairs of these temples on a regular basis (and as the title of this subsection indicates, we've still got Caracol and Tikal ahead of us) could keep us lean. Throw in a little dysentery, God willing, and we'll be buff! Anyway, just as the exertion has some of my good humour coming back, Sara and I get into it again–this time as a result of my cracking about the Let's Go Mexico book. Let me tell you, I'm taking careful notes for a whole special section to be entitled Why Let's Go Mexico Sucks. This will be a real gem, for I am griping in detail at the notebook, to try to avoid griping at Sara, and generating more friction.

Still, the view of the courtyard from the heights is pretty stellar. We snap a few more vanity pictures from up top, then descend into the jungle. My only fall down slick stone stairs results only in a slightly skinned palm. I endeavor to wipe my soles (basket-ball style) with a palm frond. Soon, we pass over a cool swaying bridge over a stream, and trek through some trails. We endeavor to follow a couple of cool young Italians (as they have a complete map of the ruins, unlike, of course, our Let's Go), but they veer off toward the museum.

We emerge back into the main area, and in another Alex-like moment of failure to be impressed, I can't help but think that age and decrepitude do not magically confer brilliance onto architecture. Yeah, the jungle setting is great, and the temples are pretty cool. But I definitely do see much more beautiful structures every time I go to San Francisco.

I snap a picture of a cool courtyard on top of one of the pyramids, and another of ME ON TOP OF THE PYRAMIDS. Beware the wrath of the Fuches God! One last shot of the mightiest temple, and we're on the road.

We trek across las montanas a la Agua Azul. Agua Azul is the acclaimed local cataract, and was pretty cool, despite being filled with tourists from all locales, and locals trying to sell us stuff of all descriptions. On pulling in, a cute young kid offers to "watch our car" por ten pesos. I purchase cinco pesos de seguridad, and we're off.

Soon after, Sara is shaken down por dos pesos mas, por un bano to change in. She does so, and swims. Finally, we have a farewell shot taken for us by a couple of copacetic Italians. They approach us to take their photo, and this is a fantastic opportunity for Sara to make use of her strong Italian. Also, these guys are very particular about how I line up their photo–a quality I always find endearing, as it validates my fussiness in such matters. I snap one of the two of them and Sara, and we head back to the car–which is safe and sound under the watchful eye of our young personal guard.

I type this in an open air restaurant where Sara and I are enjoying refrescos, quesadillas, chicken Palenque (for Sara, obviously), and arroz y frijoles. (Not even having brought the phrasebook, I'm able to chat with the waiter about the laptop, and order dinner without so much as a stutter; I'm loving this language.) After we finish here, I go do battle with the Cybercafe another time. Tomorrow: Belize. Having been forced to abandon the Yucatan, as well as the Belizean cayes, we are going to shoot straight to San Ignacio. It sucks to have to miss stuff; but after all this hecticness, we are willing to pay that price for the boon of getting to really relax in such awesome places as San Ignacio, Antigua, and Lake Atitlan. I'm a little off of Mexico at this point, and anyway I realize that I have always been in it for Belize & Guatemala. I'm a little worried about some hurdles we have to face, but mainly I can't wait.

Good night from lively Palenque!