Ballin´outta control

I really hope I can keep this fairly brief, though it has been a while since my last entry...and my last shower...That's right! I'm finally getting a little dirt on my body after all-too-clean Mexico City and the polished colonial gem of Oaxaca.

I had only wanted to stay one night in Oaxaca, but agreed with Maya and Shlomo to stay two nights and then move on. Well, when I heard that Maya didn't want to leave yet and wanted to stay an extra day, I was like, balls no to that, I'm movin on and on. I figured since I had given into every compromise thus far, it was my turn and they would eventually follow me. Saturday morning came though, and Shlomo actually wanted to come along, but Maya basically controls things. So after bringing them the traditional bread for Three Kings Day to munch on for breakfast (which neither of them touched, but the hippies back at my hostel were all too happy to dig into).

I couldn't tell exactly why I wasn't feeling Oaxaca, until after I left I read what Anthony Bordain said about it in A Cook's Tour, (which is a great book that I just finished...thanks ma!) Here's what he said:

"I hit the city of Oaxaca next, a place justifiably famous for its food. It's a beautiful town: lovely hacienda-style hotels exquisite Spanish churches and cathedrals, a picturesque zocalo where you can sit at a cafe table and watch the world go by, a fabulous mercado, nice people. It is also, unfortunately for the world's ugliest tourists. Herds of squinting, sun-blotched fanny packers in black socks and sandals shuffled by, snapping pictures. Extravagantly pierced backpackers, filthy from the road, satin the park, ineptly strumming old Dylan tunes on clapped-out guitars. Thick-ankled German women looking for love, and hordes of doddering tour groupers and serial shoppers, fanned out to buy the inevitable tonnage of papier-mache figurines, hammered tin, cheap silver, ponchos, serapes, funny hats, T-shirts and pottery. College kids, fresh from the donkey show in Tijuana, sulked noisily on benches, broke and frustrated, waiting for a Western Union money order from mom and dad."

So I try not to be as cynical as Bourdain, but...he basically said what I was feeling about the place.

So I packed my stuff up and hit the road again. Walked about a kilometer to the bus station (where the dirt begins to accumulate as this second class bus station is an absolute zoo, and like one zookeeper.)

Luckily the second class buses are much more reasonable, making me opt out of hitching to the next town. They are aged, and a fine layer of dust covers the seats, about half of which are broken in some way or another. This is what I like. I don't want to pay twice as much for a tv screen that may or may not work and slightly more comfortable seats. I mean the person in front of you is still going to lean back until he collides with your face, so what's the difference.

The road was once again beautiful, especially as we ascended into the mountains where heavy mist obscured the view of rich temperate forests. Most of the people getting on and off the bus were indigenous, mostly Zapotec I believe, going to and from towns to sell their wares.

The town I stayed in, which came highly recommended by Lisa Custer, was San Jose del Pacifico, a quiet little mountain town (hey, not unlike south park). Pop. 500. I got off the bus and waited for the enthusiastic kids to take me to whatever place they earned commission. Lisa had said that's how she checked in to her place up on some hill. I waited for a few seconds, but nobody seemed interested. So I saw one of like two roads in town and it went up...so maybe this is the place she was talking about on a hill. Every couple hundred meters I would ask if there was a hotel, hostal, posada, casa de huespedes, or simply "lugar a dormir". My inquiries brought me mixed results, but I had already come this far. One person said, "oh you need marijuana? yes, that way." No I want a place to stay...Oh yes, he responds, but it is expensive...I didn't care at this point. I had walked at least half a kilometer up this steep dirt road, and he told me that it was another half a kilo. Eventually I was greeted by three barking dogs, two of which scampered away as I bent down as if to pick up a rock. The third, a massively terrifying rottweiler, held his ground and started to approach me. The pretend rock pick up just made him angry and his bark got more terrifying. Suddenly going back down and looking for another place didn't sound so bad. After a couple of minutes of me slowly backing down the road, not losing eye contact with the beast, a long haired kid, probably 8 years old, came shoo'd the dogs away and brought me down the road to where his parent's guesthouse is. I waited and watched the sunset over the Pacific Ocean while they made my cabana for me. The father, Mercaillo, had long dreadlocks, and a weathered almost leathery face, though he could not have been more than 40. He told me he's from Mexico City, and it has been difficult living in a community where he is the only non-indigenous person and the only one not from San Jose del Pacifico. He tells me stories of them doing stuff to his water supply, which sounded like witchcraft, not just dropping a deuce in his well, which he said he counteracted with his own sort of spells. I was just annoyed because I had heard that the water here is pure spring water, but he said it is still not safe. I was not too sure what I was here for, but Mercaillo told me that Sunday is the day they do Temezcal, an ancient traditional steambath. He says he practices a lot of native culture, but the people in his town don't even know their own culture.

I go into my cabin. It is all wood, no electricity, a small fireplace, candles, a single (is that the smallest) bed and a bathroom. The walls are decorated in a mix of indigenous and drug-inspired art. A mural of an eagle on one wall, a painting of a colorful mushroom on another. Dreamcatchers and feathers hung, as did a couple small paintings of incomprehensible blurs of color, most likely made during an intense psychoactive trip. Benja (I know its not a real name, but come on, he's a hippie), a guy at my hostel in Oaxaca, said he was writing a book about the mushroom culture in Mexico. It seems this is quite the region for it. Benja, so surprisingly, attended Evergreen State College, and between his major and minor was basically studying psychoactive drugs.

Sunday morning I get up and help Mercaillo with the temezcal. We move rocks into a fire pit, then cut up trees for the fire. The fire burns for a couple of hours, while I go nap, and around noon or one (I haven't had a watch the whole time) we move the hot rocks into a tiny room dug into the side of the hill, supported by boards. There is a pit on one end that we drop the rocks into. When it is ready Mercaillo, his wife, their son, Quetzal (yeah, think of it is a hippie name for Mexicans, like flower-children here named eagle or something), their other child who is probably 2, and I cram into the tiny room sitting in a crouched position. Their one employee, Veronica, a young indigenous girl from town, closes us in, seals the door and covers it with a tarp. All light is gone it it is boiling hot in here. I start to get a little nervous with one less sense for this new experience. Mercaillo sprinkles a few drops of water on the rocks and I feel steam gently on my skin. He slowly pours more, pushing the hot steam throughout the space. Another pitcher over the rocks, and it starts to get suffocatingly hot and humid. My entire body is dripping sweat. The youngest child starts to cry, and I want to do the same. I hold strong, but in the dark, my mind runs wild with paranoia. Can you die from over-steamage? Did I inadvertently walk into an Aztec sacrifice...or a mass suicide? I mean, it felt good, but it was hard to enjoy as the child's wailing grew more intense and more and more water was poured over the rocks. I was getting close to my limit, and wanted out desperately. All of a sudden I saw a point of light in the wall. Veronica opened the door and one by one we crawled out, as she gave as a shower of luke warm water. It was such an intense experience. I wish I could do it again knowing that it is safe.

Next morning I got up early and trekked back down to town. It felt great to be in such a rural area. It gave me slight nostalgia for Nepal. Just little things, mostly walking through a tiny village with my backpack on early in the morning as people were just starting their day. I swear there were similar smells though.

I tried hitching, but after 20 minutes a shared van came through and picked me up. It was more expensive than the bus, and much more crowded, but a lot easier than potentially waiting for hours. The road going down to Pochutla brought me closer to vomiting than any other. It was cramped and a baby was sobbing the entire way. Well, I didn't mind at first, but then I saw that this baby was about 4 years old. She eventually puked, which made me smile.

Pochutla, a small but bustling transit town that I wish was a destination. The fast pace and crowds made me reminisce on India. Food was super cheap too. Barbecued chicken, rice and ten tortillas with salsa for a buck fitty. I needed beach though.

Zipolite

"...a sort of Last Stop for well-toasted surfers, backpackers, beach bums, fugitive dope pilots from the seventies, the itinerant jewelry/handicraft set. It's the sort of place you wake up in -- after dropping one hit of acid too many at your 112th Grateful Dead concert -- not having any idea how you got there, and far from caring. "
-Anthony Bourdain on Zipolite

I liked this town from the get-go. Totally relaxed atmosphere. An amazing beach at the perfect temperature and supreme bodysurfing. People actually practice siesta here, as several of the hostels I went to were closed until four. I eventually went to a little trinket shop on the beach and they told me I could camp in the sand behind their shop for 30 pesos. This town felt more Caribbean than Mexican, as the music turned from mariachi to reggae. Beto, the owner, had long, thin dreads and he and his buddies sat around in hammocks all day drinking corona and smoking either in front of the shop or on top of it. Beto never seemed too interested in selling his jewelry, t-shirts or hammocks. It seemed pretty much like a half-hearted attempt of a front for his marijuana-dealing business, which became more apparent over the couple days that I stayed there as he had so many friends that would stop by and visit for just a few minutes.

I had been told that this was only partially a nude beach. I thought that meant it was segregated. Nope, that means something more like clothing optional. And as expected the large old lobstery men are out strutting there stuff, as are the aging, but free-spirited vegan hippy women. I don't even know how to act in this environment. I mean, I'll glance at the person next to me and, whoa! no clothes! do I apologize? I can't tell if these people are making the statement that they're proud of their bodies and want to show them off or they just simply don't like clothes. I guess I felt alright as long as I wasn't that old guy with the binoculars. I mean, come on man.

Very little happened in Zipolite. I ate some mediocre food (no good street food in this beach town.) And layed on the beach and bodysurfed. I almost stayed three nights, but two things made me leave. The first was guilt. Why do I deserve to be lounging, doing literally nothing, while my friends and family back home are working, going back to school and all that stuff? Also, in my second night in Zipolite, in my attempt to see the bit of nightlife I confirmed what was a growing suspicion of this town. It is all European owned. I mean, the guide book mentioned an Italian restaurant and a vegan restaurant, Shambala guesthouse is quite obviously not Mexican-owned as it has a meditation room. But the more and more restaurants I wandered into and through talking to people, it seemed that the majority of the people making money off tourism here were Europeans and Canadians. I can see wanting to move here and everything, but to come here and start a restaurant or hotel in such a prime area where the indigenous people are trying to do the same thing seems fairly unethical to me. What made me the most annoyed was seeing a white girl selling jewelry on the side of the street, while indigenous women were trying to do the same not one hundred feet from her. Are you really that selfish that you will compete with impoverished people for money when you come from a country that probably has a very stable economy and plenty of jobs. Just so you can live the hippie dream. I dunno, maybe the restaurants aren't so bad, as they do provide jobs for locals, but I am still not sure. Anyone else have any opinions?

So I bounced out of there the next morning, back to Pochutla, where I found the next bus to Tehuantepec does not leave for 4 hours and its $12.50. Well back to the highway, arming myself with my thumb. First truck I see stops, and Garcia takes me 45 minutes to Bahia de something, where I wait one minute and catch a bus for Salina Cruz for $5.50. From there I catch a bus to Tehuantepec for a dollar, saving myself 4 hours and $6. Who's the bomb traveler now? Whoops, missed my stop, and now I'm headed toward Juchitan...Guess I'm not spending a night on Mexico's isthmus. I get to Juchitan, and decide to look at the schedules. I have several options, stay in this town for the night and head toward Guatemala via the souther route close to the Pacific, or catch the midnight bus to San Cristobal, the backpacker hub of Chiapas. Well, the night bus would save me money on accomodation, so I decide on that.

Went outside, grabbed some food from a mother-daughter food stall. It was decent, but the last several towns have only had salsa verde...I NEED SALSA ROJA! Anyways, the daughter was insanely cute, and the boisterous woman in the next food stall said something to us that I did not understand, but I just laughed along with her. The daughter looked very embarrassed. I really wished I could have understood what she had said.

It was only eight 30. I had been waiting hours for my midnight departure. wandered into a convenient no-frills watering hold...no, not rustic by any means. White-washed cinder-block walls and harsh fluorescent lighting where the fan created a mild strobe-effect sure to bring anyone to seizures after consuming one too many. Not quite relaxing, but it felt more Mexican than Mexican, if that makes any sense. A modern-day male Mexican drinking place, miles away from the charming pulquerias, yet even farther away from the flashy bars and discoteques serving margaritas and cupa libres. At this joing, it was caguamas of Corona for all. Groups of men sat around bantering about who-knows-what, munching snacks from crinkly bags of Mexican versions of cheetos and lays, barely paying attention to the subtitled TNT movie on the television. Some smoked, yet there were no ashtrays here. That's right, drop that ash right to the blue and white tiled floor where it may or may not get swept up later. After a caguama (while literally a turtle, a caguama is the larger of the two sizes of bottled beer) I went back to the bus station, made friends with a fellow Jose and chatted with him until my bus came.

Now I am in San Cristobal, a ridiculously quaint colonial town in the mountains of Chiapas, that has a very strong indigenous population despite the large number of expatriates and travelers. Guatemala t-minuse...well we'll see.