Fish Tacos in Paradise

The laguna our buddy Pete took us to on our epic Yucatan road trip. Glory be...

Last camp of the trip. Please note our cinderblock table and improvised tree-shelf in the upper- right hand corner.

He´s a man of many talents...

If you´re going to quit eating all animals for a few months, a Mexican fish taco is a great way to break the fast. Eat them at your campsite´s thatched hut beach joint, where the staff is always sleeping and everything, but everything comes with a lime. Delicious little cubes of fried fish and corn tortilla and salsa and FOUR alternative condiments on the table to speed your way... now this, this is living. Thank you Tulum, your grub is awesome.

I wish I could say the same about the Yucatan Peninsula in general.

This being the bell lap of the Latin American adventure, I am more broke with more miles between me and gainful employment than ere before in the life of Caitlin. We had carefully crafted a budget a few weeks ago that would get us to that June 19th flight outta Cancun without resorting to illegal vending or straying too far south of that line between backpacker and hobo.

And then we got out here, to the ¨Maya Riviera.¨ And we realized our backpacking trip had ended earlier than we anticipated. Cuz there´s no ¨budget travel¨ here.

An old man who called himself ¨Tasso Picasso¨ and sold his dubious oil pastel portraits of jungle lesbians on the beach told me the saga of Tulum. How once, long, long ago, hippies ruled this land and there was free camping on the beach and ¨lots of grass and naked girls.¨ Oh, the glory. And then the landowners got wise to the scene, and realized that while hippies had very little disposable income, yuppies had bunches. So they razed the camp grounds, put in concrete cabanas at prices the poi set could not afford and generally deprioritized public transportation.

And Tulum is still considered ¨earthy¨ by Yucatan Peninsula standards. Venture north and you hit Playa del Carmen, where Lacoste stores and your overweight uncle from upstate New York have taken the place of taquerias and fishermen. The beach is parceled out into ownerships by massive, all inclusive resorts who seem to be in a competition for who can build the most monolithic security gate. Venture further north and you hit Cancun. ´Nuff said. ¿Donde estas, Mexico? Sooo a bit of an odd place to spend the last weeks of a trip characterized for the most part by places where the McDonalds´arches don´t shine.

But don´t feel too bad for me. We went swimming in one of the cenotes that dot the Peninsula other day, the natural sinkholes that one person told me were the result of a meteroid impact on the area. We´ve managed to snag a pay-to-camp spot under some mangrove trees a few meters from the beach, where on most days the most taxing activity is stringing my hammock between the right palm trees. Yesterday we went snorkeling off a reef in our front yard and I communed with purple, orange and green parrot fish.

Oh, and did I mention that the real Tulum is right down the beach? The Mayan city, built from white stone on a sea cliff where craaaazy happenings are rumored to go down at night? Did I mention we snuck in for a midnight commune with the cosmological ancestors themselves? How did it go you ask?

I mean, I have to save some stories to tell for when I get back, guys. Buy me a beer in a few weeks and I´ll weave you the tale. ´Cause God knows I won´t be able to afford my own.

Love,
CD

Palenque

Chiapas, once you descend from the mountains where San Cristobol sits in it´s chic urbane sachet, is hot. Very hot. And humidity that likes to melt ladies of Celtic-Euro ancestry like yours truly.

But it´s a pretty, if moist, descent into the jungles. Your colectivo passes you through the heart of tierra zapatista, past the community-run schools and the caracoles, the seats of pueblo power that strike fear into the heart of Mexico City bureaucrats. There are homemade signs that tell you not to litter and federal government erected signs that tell you not to make your own speed bumps (why haven´t US neighborhood activists just done and made their own speed bumps?). We changed vans in Ocosingo, a tiny town where bloody shoot-outs went down between campesinos and their government´s army, all over the right to use the land their ancestors are from as they saw fit. From the road, I saw nary a plaque in commemeration. I was silently impressed.

And then we swam through the heat waves to the ruins of the Mayan city Palenque.

Like the lands of the Zapatista struggle, I was struck surprised by how much awe Palenque generated in me. It was like standing and looking at the Parthenon, so epic were it´s proportions. There are some sites that strike a chord somewhere deep in your soul, like touching on a treasured human archetype. This is one.

I liked the Temples of the Cross the best, which were constructed by some long-ago Mayan king each to honor a god, the glyphs on the walls designed to bridge god-time and Maya-time, looping them into the same continuum with the temple at it´s focus. I stared at one elaborate stelae for a long time in the blessed shade of one of the smaller temples and suddenly it´s meaning of sun worship became clear to me, sans explicatory map, sans bi-lingual sign. These Mayans, man, masters of disseminating information.

Plus, it´s deep in the jungle. The buggy, sweaty jungle. We emerged after our day at the ruins exhausted and gratified and ready for our jungle cabana.

Oh yeah, those. So Mom says I think everywhere I stay is ´super great!´ and I guess up to this point that´s been true but El Panchan, the hostel-jungle path-campout where the backpackers hang, was by far the most depressing place I´ve hung my hat in awhile. There was this elaborate hippie camp, Rakshita, that we´d heard about all the way down in Guatemala and when we got there it was deserted and run down and under construction and rainy and unloved... a jungle palace gone from it´s glory days.

I think I see a theme here. On to the Yucatan!

Love,

CD

San Marcos La Laguna

After four countries in a week, it was time for some R & R.

I´d heard about the yoga schools of Lake Atitlan, up in the western highlands of Guatemala, way back in November, and promised myself that if I stopped this way, I´d partake. Actually, the school my friend had told me about was Las Piramides, a residencial complex on the lake which offered ¨metaphysics¨classes and a ¨Lunar Course¨ending in a week-long fast. I believe there´s also a vow of silence involved. And you know how I fall for that crunchy, baggy-pantsed hippy wisdom.


Lake Atitlan itself is shockingly beautiful, clear and blue and unspoilt like any mountain lake worth it´s salt.

But San Marcos La Laguna, the town where Las Piramides lives, has turned out to be a destination in and of itself. It kind of reminds me of Oregon Country Fair... or maybe a gnome community. The lake-side center of town doesn´t have a single road that is passable by car. People run about their Guatemalan adventure on dirt and cobble-stone paths and we´re in the jungle, so everything is completly overrun by colorfully-flowered vines and massive tropical trees.

And there´s hippies running every which way, a total Veneta vibe. Vegetarian options on every menu, more massage and reiki studios than corner stores. Though the ´spiritual reawakening´school proved a bit heavy, even for me, I´m back doing yoga classes after a five month break and am getting back my limber glow.

But running all this tree hugging and fire dancing, it´s the Guatemalans themselves that are the most amazing part of this place. They are nice, first of all. Not a single man, woman, child or household pet has passed me on the path without a friendly ´Hola!´ (shockingly image-oriented remark to follow) And their clothes! The women, from ages 8 to t0, wear traditional Mayan outfits, all made from the colorful woven patterns this region is famous for. Short sleeved blouses tucked into floor length skirts, bound up by a sash is the standard look, each with it´s own rainbow of colors in flower and animal designs and complicated geometric shapes. It´s the most glorious clashing of hues and patterns I´ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing.

In contrast, the men and boys are in T-shirts and jeans. Sadly, the cost of a male costume- around $200 according to some sources- is prohibitively expensive for the guys to be ´fitted in traditional clothes. But culture is preserved in different ways. Families live in the same town for hundreds of years. And every local I´ve met so far still speaks the traditional Mayan language, a ¨ch¨-heavy tounge I am butchering with a meat cleaver as I try to pick up it´s ¨Thank You¨´s and ¨How Are You¨´s.

And of course, I´m already scheming on an outfit of my own. I swear, along with the other ´garb´I´ve bought, I´m going to be one of those poor souls who cross over from Tijuana sporting head-to-toe ¨I´ve been in Central America¨wear and dreadlocks. But whatever, so be it. Okay, maybe not the dreadlocks...

***

Oh and! You know how movie stars and politicians get interviewed? Well apparently dirty backpacking hippies get interviewed too! Super stoked that Chelsea Smith, who runs the Hostelling International website, thought it´d be cool to ask me questions about stuff. Hell yeah! Check it out... and this crazy Guatemalan bell flower...

http://hipostcards.wordpress.com/


Peace and Love,
CD