A Final Week in Paradise

Our last day in Central America is bittersweet. Bitter because we're forced to spend it in Cancun (aside from partying twentysomethings, who comes here?!). Sweet because we have fallen in love with Mexico, Guatemala, and Belize.

After the surprising sophistication of southern Mexico and the indefatigable hospitality of Guatemala, we thought Belize would be a bit of a let down. We were delightfully mistaken. Belize is paradise! A funky, Creole-speaking paradise where dreadlocked ice cream vendors greet you with an "Aight sistah" each morning and where, even in the smallest of villages, young men sport their big ol' NBA jerseys. Western Belize was a cultivated jungle; the past British presence is obvious in how tamed the ceiba and palm trees are. But that past of pirate logging (yup, Belize was colonized by British pirates) means it is now quite easy to traverse the jungle in a few hours. We did just that, chasing waterfalls and toucans the whole way.

But the highlights of Belize are its coastal towns. Everything you've heard about the Belizean Caribbean is true: the water is incredible translucent shades of aquamarine and teal and azure. It is crystal clear, lapping warmly against your feet on the beach, even when it's pounding your boat as you head out to the reef. And oh, the reef. Despite Ross's initial protests ("Are you sure there aren't sharks in these waters?" and "My skin can't handle a day in the ocean!"), we went snorkeling. Many times. And the rewards of reef life quickly won out over Ross's practical concerns. In the span of a few days, we snorkeled with manatees, nurse sharks (who swim right up to you, even playing with you, if you're lucky), all kinds of eels, electric colored fish, sting rays. The highlight, however, was the ten-foot ray (spotted, light in color, and round...can anyone name that species?) who glided past our boat. Luckily, I was one of the last snorkelers aboard. So while everyone else watched his ginormous shadow from above, I stared dumbfoundedly as this creature—twice my size—glided directly under me, making eye contact the whole way.Caye Caulker, in the Northern Cayes, is a funky little mangrove island inhabited by laid-back locals, shy iguanas, backpackers, and attacking blue crabs. A great base for marine adventures. But our favorite town—in Belize, and in our whole trip—was Hopkins. In Southern Belize, Hopkins is a one-street town right on the Gulf of Honduras. Streets are lined with coconut palms and chickens, and the dirt road is more of a beach cruiser bike highway than an actual vehicle thoroughfare. In Hopkins, everybody knows who you are within 24 hours. It is home to the Garifuna, a people descended from African slaves and the Arawak Indians of St. Vincent island. They speak a language that is a mix of French, Arawak, Spanish, English, and Swahili. They play amazing drums, make delicious lobster, and host their guests graciously. We were lucky to spend many an evening just hanging with local Garifuna Hopkins residents, even dining at the home of Therese and Shirlette, who worked for our guesthouse. Needless to say, we plan on returning to Hopkins.

What more can be said? I love Mexico, Guatemala, Belize. But the real world calls, and so homeward bound I am.

The Butterfly Jungle

Imagine this: Thousands of butterflies—orange, white, blue, brown, red, and yellow—flitting around you as you cruise down a swift river in a kayak-like wooden boat. Beyond the palm roof of your lancha, you can see jungle, thick, sweaty, and alive. There are vines, palms, banana trees, and giant tree trunks oozing ancient Mayan bubble gum. Monkeys lounging in trees, monkeys howling and grunting in the distance. Bromeliads hang in fuschia splendor from a towering ceiba tree; yellow and purple orchids float on a draft of wind down to the river. And as a soundtrack to it all, birds twitter and sing while cicadas and tree frogs add an incessant bass rhythm.

This is the Central American jungle, and we've been immersed in it for over a week now. After two weeks in the temperate highlands of central Mexico, we made the plunge into jungle humidity. Despite a sweaty first day where glasses fogged so much it was futile to wear them, I've been surprised and delighted by the treasures this jungle (the largest contiguous rainforest in North and Central America) holds.

In Mexico, the jungle is a shelter. It hides ancient Mayan ruins, Zapatista rebels, even jaguars. We've been fortunate enough to see many of the first, but the latter two have eluded us. That's okay, though, because other hidden treasures have been quick in coming. In Palenque, the real treasure was the jungle hamlet of El Panchan, a backpacker's haunt. We stayed in a palapa-thatched hut and spent our non-tourist hours relaxing at Don Mucho's. Don Mucho appears to be a transplanted Florida biker dude who has set up a dining and drinking establishment that would do Cocktail proud. Beers are cheap, pizza satisfies the tortilla-weary, and nightly entertainment includes live Latin bands and fire dancers. What's more, two hundred some travelers—otherwise lost in the jungle—congregate there each night to meet kindred spirits. Imagine a dinner conversation haltingly jumping from French to Spanish to German to English...and everybody leaves thinking they just met the coolest people on Earth. That's Don Mucho's for you.

There have been other jungle treasures. In the heart of Chiapas, we stayed with a Lacondon Maya family, teaching their son to play frisbee, entertaining their toddler with Spanglish games of make-believe, and partaking in home-cooked feasts with international guests. As we moved on from Mexico, the border with Guatemala was itself a surprise. The Usumacinta River forms the border between the two countries in the rainforest, and to cross it you must board a tiny wooden boat that dodges currents and crocodiles to reach the muddy border town of Bethel, Guatemala. In Bethel you find an immigration office, french fries, money changers, and a rickety old bus that will cart you down four hours of unpaved roads to get you to the next jungle destination: Tikal. Although this largest of ancient Mayan cities is indeed amazing (we spent over an hour sitting atop a 200-foot temple, just soaking in the jungle, the very same spot where George Lucas filmed the skyscape of the rebel planet in the original Star Wars), it's the tiny town of El Remate that has really won us over. El Remate sits on a spring-fed lake, crystalline and aqua in color, and is surrounded by densely green hills. In the forest, spider monkeys will inquisitively seek you out (although it's the howler monkeys that sound like Godzilla); in the lake, you can test your birding knowledge identifying kingfishers, orioles, egrets, even parrots. In town, Don David—another Florida transplant, although this one is nearly 80 years old—has set up a deceptively bug-free oasis where we've been hanging our hats. An eager guide to all things Remate, he took us on a moonlight tour of his gardens last night. It included night-blooming cactus flowers and a fist-size resident tarantula, who Don David lets roam all over himself. Good thing the rooms are well-screened.

But then again, what would a jungle sojourn be without a little adrenalized fun? As if climbing moss-covered, mountain-sized temples weren't enough, we've gone on zip-line canopy tours, sought out crocodiles in local swamps, and tried a rainforest hike in the rain. The adventuresome spirit has been well-rewarded, mostly with wildlife. The highlights: a toucan, a few feet below me, feasting on little jungle berries; a tiny little mouse that hops; a lizard with a foot-long tail that runs on it´s back two legs only; and kippimundis, racoon-like critters that look straight out of a Dr. Seuss book. We must be on to a good thing: CBS's Survivor has set up shop just a few miles away.

This jungle of butterflies and orchids, palms and full-moon nights, is delightful. We'll say goodbye to it in Belize, where we head tomorrow.

¡Viva la Revolucion!

Greetings from Chiapas! Yes, Chiapas...home of the infamous 1994 Zapatista uprising. Sounds scarier than it is, though: Today, Chiapas (or at least San Cristobal de las Casas, the cultural capital of Chiapas) is more of a gringo-filled tourist pit stop than any place yet that we have been in Mexico. This town is seething with Brits, Aussies, Frenchies, Danes, Americans, Canadians, even Israelis. All are in town ostensibly to take in the colonial architecture, the surrounding indigenous villages, the Mayan textiles, and the cool mountain air. But I think that the Zapatistas are the real draw. They're everywhere! On t-shirts, on windows, on little woven horse tchatchkes. Even in bars...

Take last night. After 10 days in Mexico, Ross and I decided it was finally time to give up sleep and give in to tequila; we went out in search of a good local pub. What we found was Cafe Bar Zapatista, complete with images of banditos and a security pat down at the outside door. The inside, however, was a wholly different story. Chic Mexicans drinking two-for-one Dos Equis, a laser and dry ice light show, techno salsa and the latest J. Lo video, and plenty of Chiapans getting down in their tight jeans to a thumping DJ. After a few hours and a few beers, you could almost think you were in some Ibiza club. And then it hit Ross: He stared dumbfoundedly at the writhing techno party in front of us as the DJ announced, "¡Bienvenidos a Cafe Bar Zapata!" Ross's eyes popped open and he declared, "We're in Chiapas! This is in Chiapas!" Not quite the dangerous revolutionary state we'd been warned about.

Indeed, Chiapas—and really the whole of Mexico—has been nothing like we expected. In San Cristobal, there is a highly visible middle class that frequents hip clubs, fancy spas (ahhh, the hot stone massages I've been dreaming about), and drinks organic coffee. Even the indigenous villages, which are supposedly the hotbeds of the fomenting and anti-foreigner Zapatista revolution, have been quite welcoming. Well, I should say tolerating. Today, we visited two traditional Mayan villages in the San Cristobal highlands. The locals (who mostly speak Tzotzil, a descendent of ancient Mayan) have worked out deals with the city tour guides so the gringos can get a taste of Mayan culture. We wandered around the village, watching family farming and house-building, even witnessing a chicken sacrifice and other pre-Hispanic rituals in the town's church (where really only the facade is Catholic, and even that is a stretch...it's covered in bright blue Mayan crosses, which represent a sacred tree and pre-date the Christian cross in Mexico). We were then invited into the home and kitchen of a women's weaving cooperative, where we watched the meditative hand-weaving of shawls and ate the most delicious, freshly made blue-corn tortillas I've ever had. We even got to taste posh, an addictively delicious (and 40% alcohol!) home-made liquor of sugar cane and cinnamon.

It seems that the most of the Zapatistas we may see here in Chiapas are the ubiquitous t-shirts with a masked bandito on them. That, and the little stuffed Zapatista couple riding horeseback that Ross bought. Brilliant propaganda, if you think about it: as long as the Zapatistas remain "hip," they may continue to drum up both tourist dollars and foreign sympathies. Let's just hope that this is really all we see of them, as I am sure that the political reality is far more serious than San Cristobal would have the tourists believe.

The good thing about traveling in tourist-frequented locales is that you meet plenty of characters. There is Harry, the Irishman working on Oaxaca's first bio-diesel plant who we met doing shots in a Mezcal shop; Maritska, the nomadic Dutch woman who was deported from Australia and is now moving to rural Mexico; Jeff, the mysterious fiftysomething at our Oaxaca hostel who took a bus all the way from the States and has been playing guitar on the roofdeck for well over a month, with no plans to leave anytime soon; the Fischers, a friendly doctor couple from DC who spend their vacations working with Operation Smile and who shared an animated taxi ride with us back from the rug-weaving village; even an anonymous basketball-playing linguist who's been living in Chiapas for 39 years.

But the most memorable meetings were with a few local Oaxaquenos (Oaxaca was our stop prior to Chiapas), who were gracious enough to share their lives and customs with us. Rolfino was our wizened Zapotec guide through a 14km hike in the alpine jungles of Oaxaca (think pines, bromeliads, and agaves, all sharing a 11,000ft hillside). Rolfino, as translated by our feisty Swiss guide, showed us natural cures for prostate cancer, stomach aches, sore throats, even unwanted babies; he then made us a tea out of freshly picked wild mint while mocking our distaste for papaya. Between Rolfino's explanations of agricultural practices, our Swiss guide (who has made Oaxaca his home for the past six years) interjected with his own explanations, although these were explanations of the "campaigning" practices of the PRI, Mexico's corrupt ruling party. For eleven months of the year, there is no political presence. Then, during the election month, all of sudden the villages get new houses, good water, and new bikes for their kids. Rolfino just shook his head knowingly as Swissy lambasted the political malfeasance of Mexico's leaders—and the resignation of its citizens.

But our most memorable afternoon yet was spent in a rug market in a tiny town in the Central Valley of Oaxaca. After being barraged by the waiting salespeople ("Almost free! I give you a price you like. My friend, the time is now for my rugs!"), we were enticed into a shady and quiet tent by a young Zapotec woman, who ordered us to forget the rugs, to sit and relax and chat with her. For over thirty minutes, she patiently explained the intricacies of hand-weaving and vegetable dyes. She told us about her grandfather, a master weaver, and her culture's reverence for the elders. She told us about how her and her brother were studying history and marketing at the local university, in order to better learn how to keep their village's customs alive through tourism and the education of young Zapotecs. She told us about the organic cooperative she works with, who are trying to create a sustainable garden for the source of their natural dyes. She applauded us for our long stay in Mexico, introduced us to some American teachers staying at her home, and told us about her boyfriend. Perhaps it was an elaborate sales ploy (we did, in fact, buy one of her rugs), but she graciously gave us respite from attacking vendors with engaging and patient conversation, and she just smiled when we left the first time without buying. Most remarkably, she spoke in perfect and simple Spanish, slow enough so I could translate for Ross. Turns out she also speaks perfect English, but as long as I was willing to converse in Spanish, she would happily stick with that. I think we met the future mayor of Teotitlan del Valle. Lord knows they need a wise leader...

I've rambled enough. A few more days in Mexico's monsooning mountains (enjoying hot rock massages, of course), and then we're off to the lowland jungles to sweat out a few temple visits.

Hola de Mexico

Buenos tardes from the tropics! Or the rainy tropics, I should say. At over 7000ft, in July Mexico City is a rainy, thunderstorming megalopolis. Like clockwork, at 8pm the drizzle, then the thunder, then the downpour arrives. It miraculously misses rush hour every day, although it tends to interrupt the nightly excursion for dinner and cerveza. Our best Mexican purchase so far—a ginormous paragua, an umbrella perfect for protecting both of us from the rain, but also sending little old ladies off the sidewalk in fear of its stadium shadow.

I am astounded at how little Mexico City is what I expected. A city of over 18 million (the third largest in the world, I think), Mexico City is not the seething, crowded version of North Clark St. I was expecting. Although the metro is shoulder-to-shoulder in rush hour, the rest of the city is, well, relaxed. Everyone but the hawkers meanders slowly through Spanish-era streets, and there always seems to be room on the sidewalk. Traffic is calm, smog is not too bad, and most street noise is the latest dance or son music blaring from a stereo shop. Much of the central city is a fusion of American, European, and indigenous influences—the clothing stores and architecture are Spanish, the cars and t-shirts American, and the music and dancers decidedly Mexican.

I had heard horror stories about Mexico City before coming here. I heard about poverty, pollution, and crime. So far I have seen little of that myself. Most notably missing is the abject poverty I had been warned about. Perhaps I am jaded from travel in India and South Africa, but even the slums on the outskirts of the city are not that bad—families have houses! with walls and ceilings! garbage is actually collected! sewage is properly drained! What's more, the city center seems to evenly and fairly mix with everyone who lives in the city. The grand Catholic (and therefore Spanish) Catedral Metropolitan is built atop the ruins of the Templo Mayor, the site where the Aztecs saw the eagle noting the center of the universe. The Palacio National (where President Vicente Fox reports to work every day) rubs shoulders with a miles-long market, where street vendors sell freshly made tacos and young men peddle underwear and sunglasses. The fancy Gran Hotel de Mexico looks out across the Zocalo, where protestors and proteges of Zapata demonstrate for their cause du jour.

Mexico City is downright fabulous! The mole verde lures me in for dinner, the mothers and daughters out for evening strolls make me giggle, and the ease of haggling makes it nigh impossible to stick to a budget. Although I think Ross and I are safe from spending our precious pesos in bars. Our first night, we ventured into the bar beneath our hotel, lured by friendly locals and an accordian player. We were greeted by a voluptuous girl insisting that Ross and I chug our cervezas (she force-fed him), then insisting that I was Spring Break and must therefore go topless. After numerous denials of her request, she then proceeded to sidle herself between Ross and I, and began asking me if there were programas infideles in Chicago like there are in Mexico. Thinking she meant that people cheat, I said yes to infideles, no to programas. What do you know, that wasn't what she meant. Apparently, this girl (and her older male friends periodically declaring their love for me) wanted to swing. Once her intentions were made clear by her groping (of me and Ross), we got the hell out of there.

Bienvenidos a Mexico!