Sunday Church Views

Sunday dawned foggy, a gray so thick it felt slimy. I couldn’t even see the gate at the bottom of the property.  But by 9:00 it was burned off and there was clear blue sky without a single cloud.

It seemed like a good day to go to the top of one of the two churches that flank the town and have spectacular views. I wasn’t feeling very energetic, I’ve had a little bout of stomach-ugly, probably from eating far too many mangos and bananas.  I fixed breakfast and joined Natalia on the landing where they have a picnic table and an umbrella. As good as some of the food is around here, nothing beats my own cooking. I had lefto-over guacamole so ate that with tomato slices, a scrambled egg and (yet another!) mango. We chatted a bit and she showed me a website with all the San Cristobal activities that are going on. I have Google’d San Cristobal several times but never found that site.

Guadalupe church.

By 1:00 I was hiking up the long flight of stairs to the Guadalupe church on the east end of town. I didn’t enter the church as they were having Mass. Indeed the views from there are beautiful. One can see the entire valley, distant houses on mountainsides, and all the mountain-subsiding which indicates extensive earthquakes over a long period of time. I’m pretty sure there is a fault line just east of the house. It appears to be a rock quarry, but on closer examination, the mountainside has collapsed in several places, and people have taken advantage of the exposed rock by mining it. Further east of the city is farmland and more houses. It’s very lush and looks like it’s probably farmed year round.

At the base of the staircase, vendors sell food and lots of ice cold drinks. I saw little plastic cups with something that resembled large olives in amber liquid. It was a fruit, new to me, called tejocote, swimming in orange liquor. It had an interesting rubbery skin, a large corrugated seed, and very little “fruit”. What I paid for was the liquor!  I liked it much better than the ‘nanchas’ I got in Patzcuaro last fall that tasted like mediocre cheese. It’s no wonder some fruits reach international audiences, like mangos, while others languish in the place of their birth.

Closeup of Church

Natalia told me about a coffee museum. I found it, but it wasn’t open. Neither were the Jade or Amber museums. Walking around town, I noticed a lot of posadas, inexpensive hotels, for about $10 a night, some with private baths, some shared. All said they had hot water 24/7. Cheap hotels must have a reputation for cold showers.  Most also had TVs and Internet. They looked inviting, with clean patios, beautiful flowers, and little outdoor tables.

It was so pleasant, a bit breezy, a few clouds but certainly didn’t look like rain. I sat in the park on a bench for about an hour watching the locals peddle their woven handicrafts and strung seed beads. A cute little girl, about three years old, in a pink dress, kept coming up to me and offering me purses. I’m not sure how successful she is selling them, but she’s learning her life’s work at a very early age. 

It was interesting to wander the streets on a ‘dead’ day, when most everyone is with their families or in church. Many businesses were closed. I really thought the center of town would be bustling on a Sunday but that wasn’t the case for Saturday either. There was no entertainment in the plaza area. It’s just the opposite of San Miguel where the Centro is awash with people and music on weekends.

I wandered through a sewing store and was amazed at the variety of material, threads, and decorations available for making clothes. They even had feather boas of every color and type imaginable, gold and silver trim in dozens of styles, and millions of cards of buttons and zippers. I don’t think I’ve seen a store like that since I was a kid and we shopped for material in Denver.

Guadalupe Street

It might seem like a rather boring day, but there are always interesting things to observe. On the buses, for instance, there are the Cah-Doh boys. The bus driver is usually a mature man, in his thirties or forties. I am convinced they drive the same bus every day because some buses are decorated with a favorite Saint’s statue, fake flowers, material, beads, etc, while others have shrines to Elvis, or the Rolling Stones. Music varies from bus to bus, some rock and roll, the country-western version of Mexican music, salsa, or deeply religious songs. One fellow must have been very religious, he had the radio tuned to a preacher rambling on in that classic passionate preachy voice telling us we needed to find El Senor or we would perish. In addition to the driver, there is usually a young man or even a boy as young as 11. They are the Cah-Doh boys. They hang out the door singing Caaaah-Doh to everyone they see. It’s short for Mercado. Sometimes an elderly lady, or just a little family will be way up the hill, they’ll wave, and the bus will wait and wait for them to come down. When everyone is on board the boy will bang on the side of the bus to let the driver know. Then he swings up onto the step until he sees more people who might want the bus to stop.  As we disembark at the market, he collects the 5 peso fee from everyone. The younger the boy, the more responsible he seems to be. It’s quite a prestigious job for kids like them, and they attract a lot of girls their age.

Typical outdoor cafe

I got home just as the clouds began to spit. The evening cooled off quickly with a long cold rain, and I went to bed early after downing a couple of Pepto Bismol tablets, which, thankfully, in Mexico have a licorice flavor instead of the usual gaggy bubble gum. I don’t know what’s in it here, but it works miracles when the belly is acting up.

Flowers everywhere!

View from the Church hilltop.

Na Balom and the Zapatistas

Another foggy morning which burned off rapidly by 9:00. There was no gas for the stove or the water heater. My upstairs neighbors and I share a large propane tank which had obviously gone dry. I heated water in a large cup in the microwave to wash dishes with, and then fixed myself another bucket for a quick sponge bath like we used to always take in India.  Today I had planned to see the Mayan museum, Museo Na Balom which is in Centro. So first I stopped to tell the landlady we were out of gas, and to find out if she has another apartment or at least a room with it’s own bath for John in May. (She does!)  He will probably not want to stay in this apartment with all those stairs and the long climb up from the street.

Beautiful streets in El Centro.

The whole area of Centro is lovely, clean, and cosmopolitan. How they keep the graffiti artists out is a mystery. One café roasts its own beans and the smell attracted me for a late breakfast.  For 55 pesos (about $4.25) I had the most wonderful meal of eggs with ham, green salsa, two tiny freshly baked rolls, butter, marmelade, coffee, and slices of fried banana. The Andadores are lined with galleries and craft shops, wine bars, bakeries, and cafes that serve Thai, Chinese, Argentinian, Bolivian, vegetarian, and local cuisines.  I expected the area to be crowded on a Saturday, but in fact there were fewer people than a normal work day.

I have a decent map of the central part of town, which locates the museums and the businesses that have paid to be in it.  The east and west edges are dominated by cerillos (hills) and each sports a small beautiful church with incredible views, best seen on a sunnier day.

Museo Na Balom means the Jaguar House. It’s also a play on the owner’s name. In the 1920’s Franz Blom and his wife refurbished an old abandoned monastery into their home. He was one of the first archeologists to work at Palenque. The wife was a photographer and dedicated to preserving the Lancondon Mayan people and their way of life deep in the Yucatan jungles. They had been surviving in their traditional fashion up to that time with little contact with the Spanish Conquistadores or the later Mexican government. However, these days, they’ve been discovered by missionaries and their lifestyle is radically different.  So are the jungles.

Courtyard at Na Balom.

Oil companies, lumber companies and others bent on utilizing the untapped resources of the jungles have created tension with the local Mayan groups, tension which erupted into war in the 90’s with the Zapatistas. San Cristobal was one of the cities the Zapatistas took over, for a few days, before being squashed by the army. Everywhere in town, there are signs of support for the Zapatistas. The restaurant I went to, the night I arrived, has a bookstore devoted to the issues of independence for the Maya, and a women’s cooperative that sells clothing and other crafts. I was so impressed with the quality of workmanship and intricacy of Mayan designs.

Na Balom is a typical museum, dusty, full of bones and pots and ratty looking ancient textiles. It has signs in Spanish, with good information, but you can’t read some of them because someone placed a pot in front…... What makes it interesting is Blom’s office. His chair was hand-carved and is huge, the desk made to match it. There are copies of his wife’s photos and her letters describing individuals in the pictures, the life they led, and the ceremonies that were so important to their communal survival. Artifacts abound, they had an enormous collection. 

I met a Frenchman who was staying at the guest house, part of the museum. He told me that all proceeds go to the foundation. A few vendors were exhibiting over priced trinkets, seed necklaces and woven goods way more expensive than the artesania market. It was a great place to wait out the afternoon thunderstorm.

On the way back home, I picked up a cooked chicken that came with onions and salsa, and stopped by the little amber shop to buy that Labrodorite pendant. Too bad I didn’t bring any jewelry or necklaces on the trip. I have nothing to put the pendant on!

Three little embroidered Mayan pot holders.

Hangover Friday

Sleeping in and sleeping off…..the order of the day for Friday. Got up around 9:00 and hung out lazily for a few hours, enjoying the deep foggy scenery, like living inside a wad of cotton candy.

Clothes get awfully dirty here, so I attempted to wash a white shirt (futile) and some underwear. When the sun came out I hung it on the line I’d seen Natalia using. Big mistake. The ‘line’ is a wire and it left a rust line across the back where I’d thrown the shirt over. I do have an indoor clothesline that I assume Alexandra had rigged, that stretches from one curtain rod to the other across the span of the ‘great room’. It’s made of plastic cord. Clothes hanging from it are of course in the way, when traversing the room.  It wasn’t possible to get the rust out of the white shirt, so I suppose that’ll just have to be my lounging-shirt that I dare not wear out in public. I’ll toss it when I go home.

Around lunch time I headed to the center of town to see the big markets. Chiapas is famous for it’s amber (ambar in Spanish) and has more variations in color than anywhere else in the world, ranging from almost clear light yellow thru amber to rich molasses. Many pieces have bits of vegetation inside and a few have insects. One of the traffic free streets (andador) is lined on both sides with Amber shops and there’s also an Amber museum. One shop had other stones set in silver, like a glorious piece of Labrodorite, which I instantly coveted but didn’t have enough money with me to purchase. I told her I’d come back with a credit card.

The streets are also lined with tiny restaurants with a few tables inside and out. They make the most money by selling and delivering lunches to the other shopkeepers. I stopped into a little lime green cafe to have some tostadas and a kid in a white apron dashed in and out several times with trays of food and drink. I scraped the good stuff off the tostadas and set the hard crisp shells aside. A crowd of four little boys, not older than six or seven came into the café with their shoeshine kits wanting to pick up some customers. A Mexican couple told them no and I was the only other person. They could see my Teva sandals didn’t need a shine, but one boy eyed the tostadas and asked if he could have them. I gave one to each boy and they gobbled them up. None of them looked particularly malnourished, but it was obvious they eat what and when they can, much like the street dogs.

I knew from previous forays into Centro that there was a large Artesania market near the cathedral. It is amazing. The modern day Mayans are accomplished weavers and do exquisite embroidery. They make everything from wide tie-around belts (which the women wear to hold up their skirts) to table runners, clothing, pillow covers, purses, stuffed toys, and blankets.  The day was breezy and cool, overcast and muggy. I was shown all kinds of handiwork but resisted buying anything. I have no way to get it all home.

Entrance to the deep and dark Mercado.

The huge Mercado Viejo was a few blocks away. It was like walking down the gullet of a monster. Close, dark streets, packed with stalls, vendors, and people, it resembled a deep throat. It didn’t help that the clouds were dark and threatening rain. The wind came up, the vendors rushed around securing their merchandise with ropes and plastic tarps. Then the thunder opened up the clouds and it poured. I sheltered under a steel roof that was hammered by hail. Tiny icy balls flew around, getting into everything, sandals, hair, the back of my jacket…. In five minutes, the tarps between the steel corrugated roofs over the stalls had filled with water and vendors poked at the sagging tarps with broom handles to lift them up and spill the water out. The street became a torrent with water rushing over the cobblestones. People were pressed up against walls and deep inside stalls. The whole drama lasted about twenty minutes, a long time when you’re just standing there waiting. Afterwards the vendors were out with brooms sweeping trash and water to the middle of the walkway where it continued to flow like a river.  Collected buckets of rain water were used to wash the sidewalks under the roofs. I guess a nice rainstorm like that is a good excuse to do some thorough cleaning.

Hiding out from the rain.

That market is just huge. On the outskirts, live poultry and even a pig were for sale.  Wandering around, I saw a building and went inside. It was the meat market. Instantly transported by the smell, I am four years old, riding on my father’s shoulders, seven feet up in the air, at eye level with hanging dead chickens and pig carcasses. These days, nothing is hanging but the smell is the same. I had forgotten, but it still resided somewhere deep in my brain until that moment. Stiffling a gag response I ventured inside. One quarter of the place has stalls where they sell red meats, another quarter sells fish and shellfish, a different and equally nasty smell, and half appeared to be devoted to dried fish and open air restaurants. Most of them were closed, permanently it seemed. No wonder, even if you were used to that odor, who would have an appetite while inside that place?

Resting birds.

A girl ropes the feet together. 

Stacks of dried fish in the meat market.

The Stripper's Keys

I have several fears living here. One of them is falling. Stairs are non-standard, rough pavement abounds, there are holes in the streets and markets. One has to be very careful walking. I also fear getting hit by a car or bus, though most drivers are very good and only graze you. My worst fear, for some reason, is losing my keys. After that first day when they fell out of my pocket in the restaurant I’ve been terrified of losing them. The scary scenario is: I’ll leave the house, buy a bunch of stuff, be exhausted, climb the hill, and then not be able to find the keys. I’ll be out of money and won’t have a way to get all the way back across town to find the owner to get another set, or she’ll be gone, or she won’t have another set, etc. One of my pairs of pants has a tiny little coin pocket and the keys fit perfectly. Until they are too dirty to wear, the solution has been found.

Prettiest Burger King in the world.

Thursday I went to the Merposur to see about getting a light-weight shirt and pair of pants. In one store, the man asked what size. I said I didn’t know, but it would be for me. He looked me over, shook his head, and said they only carry “chica” sizes. The store next door had my size. There were several customers in there who looked just like me. The young lady showed me some jeans that had a big colorful tag with a sexy woman’s rear-end proudly displayed. The brand name: STRIPPER.  I pointed at the tag and laughed, she did too. They fit fine, skin tight and stretchy over every bump and dimple. I gave them back to her and said “No tengo el cuerpo de una STRIPPER”. The other chubby ladies laughed and agreed wholeheartedly.

In the evening, Natalia asked if I’d like to go out with her to meet her friend Prisa in the Centro. Some huge event was going on. In front of the great white government building there was a stage and two young girls with incredible “mature women” voices were singing. We listened to them for a long while, and guessed they were 13 and 10.  They must be quite successful, they were hawking their CDs, the costumes were exquisite and expensive. I took a few pics with my cell phone and wished I’d brought the camera.

Plaza in front of the Cathedral.

I needed to get some money from an ATM. I decided to take out a lot so I wouldn’t be caught short in the next week or two, and I didn’t want to be charged the fees over and over again. I have a special travel account so that if someone were to get my account information (it happens a lot through the less secure Mexican banking system) they won’t get very much money. I put the 3000 pesos in my back pocket and fastened the button. These pants are very handy that way, a little pocket for keys, a button pocket for bills.

Across from the event, in front of the cathedral, where on most nights the Mayans are plying their handicrafts, a huge food court had been set up. All the street food you can imagine was there for sale and Natalia had a desire for fried plantains. For 15 pesos, we got a giant hot-out-of-the fryer banana and a churro drizzled with some kind of sweet dressing. I’m a real fan of churros, and haven’t eaten any since I quit eating grains, but this was a special treat. Unfortunately, the churro was cold and not very tasty, but the banana was soft, hot, and sweet. Prisa showed up and the three of us went to a wine-tapas bar where Prisa’s roommate works. For only 25 pesos apiece we got a glass of good Argentinian shiraz and choice of appetizer (tapa). I passed on the second glass, but the girls didn’t.

Another view of the plaza and distant mountains.

We had a marvelous time. Our table was out on the sidewalk and we were rather packed in with other tables and people. Next to us was an older man and a large group of Europeans. The old guy was quite the blow-hard and the girls quietly made fun of him. Natalia said you could tell he was an ass from a block away. Yes, personalities are similar the world over.  

Next we walked up the street to a disco where the men were frisked but not the women. I got a bit concerned going into a place where they were so obviously concerned about weapons, but Natalia said it was just to keep the riff-raff out. Yeah, right.

Natalia

Inside, it was two-for-one on all drinks. The girls got beer and I got 2 glasses of rum and coke.  Half way through the first glass, I knew I’d reached my limit for the night. We danced to the incredibly loud music, got some young men to dance with us, (I bribed one with the other rum and coke) and then left to yet another bar.

The last place was delightful. A New Orleans style jazz combo from Germany was playing. I could have sworn the singer was from New Orleans, she had the accent down so perfectly. Robin, Natalia’s boyfriend, was there with many of his friends from the University, they’re all professors, and all British.  I enjoyed visiting with them, even though they continued drinking till some of them didn’t make sense any more.

On some cue I didn’t catch, they all got up to go to another bar and I decided to take a taxi home.  It was 1:00 in the morning. The streets were more or less deserted, and the taxi driver was either tired and not listening, or I was still slurring my words from the overdose of alcohol.  He drove south and followed a route I knew from riding the busses, then suddenly he headed down a street I didn’t know, going in the wrong direction. I almost panicked. OMG, it’s 1am, I have 3000 pesos in my pocket, I’m all alone in a cab with a muscular man taking me to who knows where? I almost shouted at him. He said this is Don Bosco! No, not the right one, I explained, Callejon del Don Bosco. He didn’t know that street, but he knew the school, so we got back on track.  

After that (emotional) close call, I went inside the gate and hiked up the dark staircase. Note to self, bring the little flashlight next time. A pack of six dogs was roaming the huge yard looking for scraps of food. They didn’t look hungry enough to attack me. At the door, I couldn’t get the keys out of the little pocket! They’d gotten sideways to each other and were jammed into the corners. The wire loop holding them together prevented either from moving. I had to take my pants off and wiggle the material in the dark, without being able to see a thing. Finally one key moved enough to get them out.  Looks like I have the body of a Stripper after all!!

Lights under the palms in the central plaza.

3rd Day and my birthday

My Birthday

Yesterday was the third day of the trip, and my 58^th Birthday. I still cannot believe I am zooming up on 60. I don’t feel a day over 45.  But my knees disagree. And the calves are screaming NO MORE STAIRS!

The days have been so pleasant. The nights, not so much. I’ve been sleeping in my Mexican Hoodie, sweat pants with jammies underneath and two pairs of socks. There's a doubled cotton Mayan blanket on the bed plus the comforter. It’s just darned cold at night.

Wednesday morning, the computer revealed many birthday salutations from my friends on Face Book and via email. My mother and Jim called and so it didn’t feel in the least like a lonely birthday.

Beautiful peppers in the market.

Alexandra had mentioned that a water truck comes around each morning with a loud speaker booming AGUA PURIFICADA. If you need a refill on the huge water jug, you just run down and they’ll fill it up for 15 pesos. Problem is I was completely out of water after I’d made coffee, and the truck wouldn’t be around for some time. She said I could also go to the little store down the street and they’d exchange the bottle for me. It’s one of those giant water cooler bottles that hold 5 gallons and weighs a ton, when it’s full. I found the tiendita in a brown wooden shack with a window that’s open all the time. Anything one might steal is just far enough inside so the thief would have to crawl through. There’s a buzzer that is used to summon the owner. That lady exchanged my giant bottle for a full one which she passed through the window with some difficulty. Fortunately it was already at window level and I could easily get it onto my shoulder for the hike back up the hill. By the time I got the gate open again I could no longer see myself lugging that thing two more flights of stairs to the apartment. Alexandra had also left a smaller 2 liter bottle with a handle. So my plan from now on is to keep the huge water jug in the carport inside the fence and just go fetch water in the little jug.  I think that’s going to be a daily chore along with washing dishes and cooking.

Everyday views of the neighborhood.

Natalia, the upstairs neighbor was outside at her picnic table with a friend studying. She’s a teacher in Argentina, but is here getting a master’s degree. She showed me how to turn on the hot water so I could take a shower. The kitchen sink has only a single cold spigot. I guess all the camping I’ve done in life has finally paid off. I put a bucket of water out in the sun to warm up and in a couple of hours it was fine for washing the dishes. However, I still had no dish soap, so resorted to shampoo which doesn’t quite cut the mustard…..

Beautiful and Crap together....

With new shopping bag in hand, I headed down to the Merposure market around lunch time. It was still early for the Mexicans who tend to eat around 2:00. The food vendors were set up and ready for the crowds. Cooked meat with peppers and spices sat waiting in the open air under warming lamps, cutup fruit and sweet pastries were crawling with bees. I bought a nice sharp Japanese butcher knife from a little Mayan woman who had lived in the states for years and spoke English, a revelation she made long after I’d spoken plenty of broken Spanish to her. I guess when you sit in a booth all day, it’s great entertainment to make the gringas work for their purchases.

Because of the difficulty in transferring water, I wanted to buy a funnel, but nobody seemed to recognize the old Spanish word I knew for it, embudo. Instead it’s called a mercalto. There is a large store that sells really cheap plastic stuff, utensils, dishes, buckets, brooms, shopping bags, anything in the world made from plastic. A large blue bucket, a funnel, and a spatula later, I was ready to go home. But still, I needed dish soap. After a bit of exploring I found an actual American style grocery store with everything else I needed. The ride back was packed. School had let out and many people were on their way home for lunch and siesta. I got on with my big full shopping bag and blue bucket full of stuff. A lady finally got tired of watching me struggle and offered her seat next to an exceptionally wide man who took up most of the room. Then people continued to get on until we were literally pressed body to body. Sometimes it’s probably worth it to just take a taxi.

The callejon, almost outside of town.

I decided to go on a little photo expedition and wandered the callejon to an area that is still town, but mostly farmland. Up on the hill, making weird snuffling noises was a strange brown furry animal with a huge butt. Its head was in a hole and when it looked up, I could see it was a pig. It was so cute I popped out my camera but then a woman nearby shouted at me, saying something about “working” and “no pictures”. So I put the camera away. I know many of the locals don’t like to have their photos taken, but I didn’t know they’d object when it came to their animals. Maybe she thought I was going to photograph her as well, but the truth is I never saw her until she started yelling at me.

Back home, in the cool house, I took a much-needed hot shower and a nap.

My apartment is the bottom set of windows

The steep staircase.

Natalia was ready to go to dinner at 6:30. Robin didn’t come with us because he was too tired, and knew we’d be out late. His first class starts at 8:00am.  We bussed to Centro and she took me to an art exhibition. She knew all the artists and one man gave me one of his posters, a beautiful painting of transformation from ucky real life to becoming a butterfly. I’m still studying it for the symbolism it contains. I think my friend Karen who teaches dream interpretation would love it.

Natalia speaks English better than I speak Spanish, but I could understand her quite well, and she was happy to answer questions when I didn’t.

We ate at a bar where they were also holding a poetry recitation. It was quite a crowd. More than I expected. The meal was wonderful. We split a dish of tostadas with guacamole and salsa, and shared a lovely salad with fruit and pecans. Among many other conversations, she revealed that she thought the word “nuts” was only for peanuts, and I said I thought “nueces” were only pecans, and didn’t encompass all other nuts too. She enjoyed the poetry, and since I couldn’t really follow it I watched the people enjoying the antics of the poetess who reminded me of my mother with her gestures and facial expressions.

We walked down the car-free streets and she told me about the town, the issues with the Zapatistas, the government and it’s medical system, her life over the last few years which involved a very serious battle with breast cancer (she’s only 26!) and how much we both enjoyed being alive in a foreign country.   

A subsiding mountain or a mine? I'm not sure.

The entrance to Callejon Don Bosco.

Looking up my street to the little orange gate.

The Apartment

I must have slept well on that lumpy bed at the Posada. After dozing off, the next thing I saw was daylight beyond the curtains and the room was warm.  There had to have been numerous people staying there, because down the portal to the bano, there were towels hanging over the banisters. The young man who’d been there the evening before was mopping and when he saw me he motioned me to go upstairs to use the shower. I thought it was a roof but no; there were half a dozen more rooms up there. And the views from the roof were beautiful. The whole town is surrounded by steep verdant mountains. Most of the rooftops here are tile, probably better for the massive amounts of rain they’ll get later in the summer.  But unlike Portland or Seattle, there is no moss growing in the cracks of the sidewalks, no green moldy streaks on the walls of buildings. There is however a plethora of graffiti. I’m told the drug cartels are not prevalent here but there are clearly active gangs. However, some of the graffiti is in English and says things like “Dogs Rule” and “Wild Love”.

The little restaurant from the previous night had shown Chilequiles on the breakfast menu and I remembered how much I loved that dish in San Miguel. So I headed back to Tierra Adentro after I met the landlady and got the keys. The Chilequiles were a filling though only passable breakfast, not like the exquisite dish I remember. The coffee was quite good. Chiapas is a coffee producing state and famous for some varieties of beans, however, most of it is exported. What is sold in stores and delivered in most restaurants is instant Nescafe. Gag!! So when I find a decent cup of coffee it’s worth savoring. 

Back at the Posada, I packed my stuff and checked my pocket for the keys. They weren’t there. I looked everywhere, thinking I might have mindlessly stuck them into a side pocket of the rolling backpack, or something, anything. Finally in a near panic I returned to the restaurant where the waiter found them under the table. I’ve never had keys fall out of a pocket while I was sitting down before. It made me nervous all day long, wondering if I’d lose them again.

The 'Great Room", kitchen, dining, living....

The cab ride was quite long, but not because the apartment is so far away. The streets are narrow, crowded and mostly one way, so getting out of the downtown area simply takes a while. The cab driver knew the area and got me to the bottom of Callejon Don Bosco, but he cringed when he looked up the narrow street. Not only was it steep, it was in pieces. At the very top I could see the orange gate Alexandra had told me about, and the “Se Vende” Remax banner the landlady mentioned. We inched our way up the “ugly” road and then my key wouldn’t fit into the lock on the chain. The cabbie hopped out and quickly ascertained the lock on the chain wasn’t actually holding the gate together. The lock that should have been securing the gate was just sitting there, not pushed in at all. What a relief after the first key fiasco. I got inside the yard and locked the padlock. Then proceeded to drag my two suitcases over gravel and up the equivalent of two flights of concrete stairs to an orange house way up at the top of the property. The house is a large rectangular block, two stories. My apartment is in the bottom. The larger one on top is rented to two teachers, who weren’t home. The yard is huge, with room enough for a whole other house. And behind rises a mountain covered in jungle.

Cooking anything elaborate will be a challenge!

The place is tiny and ‘shotgun’. The front room is the size of an average bedroom in a ranch style house. It has a sink along one wall, with a two burner gas stove to the side. There’s a small refrigerator with a microwave on top. And next to that is a shelving unit with a nice top and four open wire ‘drawers’ for fruits and vegetables. Under the sink is a shelf full of dishes, two pots and one skillet. There was no food, not even salt and pepper. The door leads into a bedroom half the size of the front room. In it are two single beds that are side by side with maybe one foot of gap between them and less than a foot gap to walk around the ends. I’m thinking I might rearrange to make them perpendicular to each other, but I’m not sure there’s room to do that. No chest of drawers, only a single shelf on the wall, and a small closet. Another door leads to a bathroom with a hanging sink, toilet and shower spigot on the wall opposite the sink which does actually have hot water coming out. When and if John ever shows up, I’m not sure how we’ll cope. He’s not going to enjoy the five story climb from the bottom of the hill to the apartment, and neither of us will find any privacy. The bathroom is barely large enough to turn around in. I’m 5’2”. I think the ceiling of the bathroom is 7 inches above my head. Anyone approaching 6 feet would have instant claustrophobia.

I made up the beds and with spreads they looked downright cheery. There is a large window that opens onto the view of the valley and mountains to the east. I think the Posada owner furnished this apartment with reject beds from the hotel. They are even harder and lumpier. But since I slept so well snuggled between the lumps last night I didn’t worry about it. All unpacked and with my few items put away, I sat on the bed and smelled the humid cool breeze and listened to the birds making noises I’ve never heard before. Suddenly, it hit me. I’m going to be here for 4 whole weeks and I just burst into delighted laughter. Funky as the place is, it’s comfortable enough. Every day is going to be an adventure!

Next on the agenda: shop for food. Merposur was the name of the market Alexandra recommended. It’s the smaller and closer of the two in town. I also met Natalia, the young Argentinean teacher upstairs. She said buses run on the main road all the time, just go down there and catch one.

Sure enough, one came by within a few minutes and I hopped on. I had no shopping bag so purchased one of those large woven plastic bolsas with the sturdy handles, then loaded up on my favorite things. Two avocados ripe for today, a bag of mangos, two bags of dried beans, limes, onions, tomatoes, garlic powder, some chard, a bunch of those tiny red bananas, and double cream queso. I was weighted down and still didn’t find ground coffee, salt, or eggs. But I had plenty to bring home and make a nice little lunch. It was getting hot and I was over dressed. The house is concrete and rock, plus it’s set into the earth. Inside is lovely and cool.

I couldn’t get the Internet device the landlady gave me to work. I thought maybe Natalia would know since she must also have one. Her husband Robin was home for lunch. I thought he was German or maybe even Mexican and spoke Spanish for the longest time till he said something in English with a slightly British accent and I almost fell over. He’s from London. And of course, he knew how to get the device to work. I guess it’s kind of like a cell phone; the USB device is the antenna. No phone at this house either, but incredible internet service.

I stayed home till about 5:00. The school at the bottom of the hill let out at 2:30, just like they do in Eronga. Shortly thereafter the neighborhood was entertained with tune-challenged band practice.

I looked out the window and saw billowing smoke down the hill from the school, and shortly thereafter heard the sirens. It is too wooded to see what was on fire but the smoke was gone within an hour. The forest above the house is pretty dry. Although the building is concrete, plenty of damage could be done if smoke were to get inside.

Beautiful clouds.

Around 4:30 I thought I ought to go to the Centro and do a bit more shopping. The bus dropped me at the place where, last night at midnight, people were holding an outdoor flea market. The centro was packed. Some dancers performed on a stage in front of the super-white government building. I walked back up the street where I’d had breakfast and stumbled onto a supermarket with no sign in front. I just happened to glance through the open door. They had all the things I really needed and can rarely find in the open-air markets, like coffee and soymilk. I should have planned ahead better and eaten dinner, then shopped. Loaded down again, I hopped on the bus at the same location. It took me to the other enormous market which was so crowded with people and cars that it took almost 2 hours to get out of there and back to my little apartment. One of these days soon, I’ll know my way around. And I’ll know how to plan the day, shop wisely, and dress appropriately.

One of the traffic-free streets around sunset. 

Crossing the Border

Crossing the border was a trip. Larry, my cousin, arranged a taxi to take me to the bridge on Stanton Street in El Paso, Texas. The driver dropped me at the bridge, which, on the American side, was under construction. With dirt walkways and barricades, I felt like I was already in a third world country. By contrast, the arching bridge descended into Mexico to smooth new sidewalks. A guy in an army uniform pawed gently through my bags and waved me on. There was no signage indicating how I should get a visa, or even that I might need one. Good thing I knew to ask. There was no cost for the visa (surprise!). The immigration guy asked for my driver’s license, which I had left behind in my wallet at Larry’s house. I certainly won’t be driving in the next month but in retrospect that was probably not the brightest idea I’ve had lately. Now I’ll have to take my passport everywhere with me.

The tiny Rio Grande in Juarez, from the top of the bridge.

Two very poor looking fellows walking along the sidewalk got very excited when I said I needed a taxi. They waved one over and insisted on putting my bags into the cab. I tipped with the four quarters I had in my pocket and they seemed happy even though it wasn’t immediately spendable.

The cabbie was a cute round faced fellow who didn’t speak any English at all, so we had an entertainingly stilted conversation about all the American companies like Wendy’s, Auto Zone, WalMart, Sally’s Beauty Supply, and Lucerne (Leche Lucerna) that permeate Ciudad Juarez. I told him there weren’t as many of those in the south and he seemed surprised.

The tiny, four gate airport was almost deserted. I suppose there are many planes that leave early, then another glut towards mid-day when mine takes off. With three hours to wait, I think my desire to have plenty of time might have been overkill.  But I learned a few things. My visa was not free and in fact I need to go to some/any bank and pay for it, then turn it back in before I leave the country. The man who explained the rules to me was about the fourth person to handle it, and he noticed the slip of paper attached that is apparently the bill, M$250.  He said “You don’t forget to pay now ok?” What a laid back system!

The flight into Mexico City was long but sitting next to me was a lovely young lady whose Mexican parents had raised her in Las Vegas, Nevada. We had a great chat about her recent trip to Argentina, plans for the future, and her desire to get dual citizenship. There are a lot of advantages to being Mexican. For one thing you don’t have to pay huge “retaliation” fees to South American countries when you visit them.  Mexico doesn’t charge an arm and a leg for a visa, so they don’t over-charge the Mexicans in return.

Mexico City's odd concrete airport.

Mexico City literally stinks, and from three or four thousand feet up. My nose and throat were burning before we touched down, there’s so much pollution and smog. We descended thru the brownest cloud I’ve ever seen, and I’ve landed in Los Angeles in the wintertime!! Being inside the terminal didn’t help in the least. To top off the gross air, I kept looking around and seeing concrete. Concrete walls, ceiling, floors….all monstrous thick spans of concrete. I just kept telling myself, the chances of a massive earthquake right now is pretty slim, but I was incredibly grateful to be back up in the air.

I keep meeting people who want to put me in touch with other people. It seems to be a Mexican ‘thing’. The fellow sitting next to me was the Minister in charge of Ecology and ensuring the survival of the wonderfully varied ecosystems throughout the country. He wrote down his name and the names of the directors of Palenque and some river preserve I hadn’t heard about. I’m to look them up and tell them he sent me. I’m not sure what that will ‘get’ me, but heck, it can’t hurt. An insider’s look at Palenque would be incredible.  Just meeting interesting people is fun by itself.

It felt good to be in Tuxtla-Guitierrez. It felt like central Mexico, moist, humid, warm but not sweltering, the buildings looked familiar in their bright turquoise, orange, pink, green and electric blue colors. By the time I got on the last leg of transport, a Mercedes van, it was night. A shame. I would have enjoyed seeing the scenery whiz past, but alas, I took a much-needed nap and woke up in San Cristobal.

A taxi to the Posada, owned by my landlady, to pick up the key, and then another short ride to the apartment, and I will be ‘home’. Could the day possibly go any smoother? Well, yes it could. And it could have, but it didn’t.

Typical room at the Posada, note the sexy photos!

I am now writing this sitting on the lumpiest bed I’ve ever known, in a $6.50 a night room, because the landlady was gone and none of the people working at the Posada knew anything about me, or a key, or an apartment, nada, nada, nothing. I had her cell phone, could they call her for me? My phone was dead. Nope. No telephone.

However, there was a room available. And Wi-Fi. The fastest Wi-Fi I’ve ever seen. Either they have some exquisite new technology down here in Mexico, or I’m the only person using it.So how is it that a hotel has NO phone but super fast Internet?

Bring your own towel to the Posada with its shared bathroom.

The bathroom is down the hall, and the young kid who brought up my bags was very proud of the fact that the shower has hot water 24/7. I sort of assumed it would have hot water, but I guess that’s a recent addition/improvement. Maybe they should think about adding a phone line, it might improve their business.  I may be sharing the bathroom with other people, but I haven’t seen another soul. I haven’t seen the landlady either, and she supposedly lives here.

So I traipsed off down the street to seek out some sustenance since all I’d eaten was a bag of airline peanuts, apple juice, and a couple of beef jerky sticks since breakfast. Several streets appear to be traffic-free, are lined with restaurants and packed with people. Music blared from each open doorway and some customers sat outside on little metal tables.  In the Centro were more restaurants, and an open-air market. Probably fifty vendors sat around on blankets, wrapped up in rebosos and warm sweaters with their handmade linens, hats, scarves, blankets, shoes, handbags, and jewelry spread out in front. I wandered by after 11:00. It was DARK. If a customer showed some interest, the vendors would enhance streetlight illumination with a strong flashlight. And there was no shortage of customers. Mexico never ceases to amaze me….what people will do to earn a living! And how late everyone stays up. Back in bed after midnight, a live band, distant blaring TVs, and the occasional siren serenaded me to sleep.

View from the Posada's roof of San Cristobal.