The Mexican Pacific- A Rabbit Hole in Time

I’m sitting here on the balcony of my hostel in San Cristobal de Las Casas, drinking the english breakfast tea that I’ve been carefully saving in my backpack since I took it from the airport hotel in Atlanta. “You never know,” I thought. I don’t know about you, but traveling turns me into the strangest combination of nomad and packrat.
Sitting in the late sun with a mexican blanket wrapped around my shoulders to ward off the crisp mountain breeze, and the sound of marimbas floating over the rooftop, I have to admit it feels good to be writing. I returned to it grudgingly- its so easy to become lazy when you’re traveling. It becomes easier and easier to get sucked into that paradisiacal void of freedom. Its strange to sit down and focus on something in this way, after weeks of what felt like free-falling. Anyway, this is my explanation of where I’ve been for a month. And if you want the truth, I actually wrote this 1 1/2 weeks ago. We’re back logging.
So where have I been besides Wonderland, attending tea parties, and getting steadily crazier with every passing day? Lets start where we left off- Mexico City, where the birth and death rate of dreams manages to balance the scale.
Being in a city, its so easy to start to think its no different from any other city. There are the billboards- which flaunt both beautiful people sensually drinking milk, and sandals. There are the bright lights, the highways, the traffic, the bars. There are the butchers, the bakers, and candlestick makers. The millions and millions of people. And thats when I start to realize, of course its not the same. How could it possibly be? To begin with, its literally 55x bigger than my sweet Halifax. In Halifax, corner stores that are kitty corner to each other have a famous rivalry. In Mexico, it seems that the idea of competition barely exists, besides that of who has the loudest voice to promote their products- from sunglasses to coffee to cars. Because what is competition in a city of 27 million?
When I arrived, the vast and somehow perfectly organized chaos of the city tok me aback. Orienting myself was impossible. Everywhere I went I felt as if it could be the city centre. After three weeks I started to understand it a little better- but just slightly. The thousands of side streets look exactly the same, and they transform before your eyes. They turn from clean and white to crowded and grey with the rounding of a corner. They are adventures awaiting the unawares. Walking from one block to another takes you through multiple eras and classes. These side streets are the real city, which I rode down on the back of Miguel’s moto, avoiding boxes and people as they appeared. Here, the stores all mimic each other, filled from top to bottom with absolutely anything you could want- if you know where to look. I call these forays “adventures”, because if I said “getting lost” I would have to tell people “I got lost for six months.” Maybe thats more accurate than I’d like to admit. But being lost and confused has its own special magic.
Finding my way out of D.F. was strangely difficult- figuratively speaking. I woke up one morning to find I had been there for three weeks. Literally, getting out was easier than I expected- if you discount the mad rush through the streets that took place when Miguel and I thought we were going to miss our bus to Oaxaca. That day, with my back pack weighing me down, I understood fully why turtles move so slowly. Besides that, our trip to the beaches of Oaxaca was perfectly uneventful. We found a cheap bus mostly for locals- specifically targeted at teachers going to D.F. for protests. When I took the bus I didn’t know what to make of that, but with the recent atrocities in Guerrero over the student teacher protests (http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/worldviews/wp/2014/10/11/in-mexico-mass-kidnapping-and-slaying-of-students-in-iguala-brings-outrage-and-protests-against-gangs-and-government/) it hits home a little harder.
Arriving at the beach was like arriving in paradise. Green cliffs, crystal blue water, rough waves, and luxurious beaches stretched for miles. I couldn’t imagine how the first explorers felt arriving in a place like that. Camping right on the beach was nothing but a dream- how could it have been real? Waking up and falling asleep to the symphony of the waves, with nothing but a sleeping bag and the sand as my bed lulled me into the rabbit hole, and I stayed there spinning. I had to keep pinching myself, but there was a hazy magic in that place that was hard to wake up from. The week passed with us playing in the waves, in the sand, eating fruit for breakfast and washing it down with an unidentified “100% agave” liquor (sorry mom and dad- when in Mexico..).
The rocky green cliffs of the pacific that fall straight into the water block the real world from getting in, but eventually I had to move on. I feared becoming another one of the many hostel-owning expats, who appeared as if they had arrived years ago on vacation, and somehow never left.

Excuse Me, Which Way To Mexico?

I’ve had to ask this a couple times now, and each time its just as hilarious. The thing is, when in Mexico do as Mexicans do… to a point. At least in this case its safe- saying “Mexico” when not in the Districto Federal or Mexico State always signifies one of these options. Maybe selling CD’s or cookies in between five lanes of traffic would be more difficult.

I awoke on my first morning in D.F. to a (comparatively) chilly and drizzly day. This has proven to be the pattern- we are, after all, in the rainy season. The fog and rain was like a clean breath of familiarity after weeks of heat that blurred the line between sweating and swimming. The church bells were ringing loudly for what must have been 7:30 am mass, but when I looked out the window there was no sign of the church. It was hidden by a mish mash of building typical to Mexico, and a line of trees that must border the nearby park. The apartments here are so piled on top of one another that from where I stand I have no idea where the street could possibly be. Somehow though, it doesn’t look messy. Chaotic, definitely, but not messy. The mass of low apartments are all built of the same creamy-grey cement, but it’s the tradition of painting just one or two of the outside walls that make them stand out. Over here is a bright wall of pink, and over here sunset orange, over there turquoise, and in the distance stands a wall painted fuschia- loud and proud. I think Canada need to adopt this practice. It turns ramshackle towns that might otherwise look desperate, and poor into spots of colour and interest nestled amont the mountains beside the Mexican highway. It turns the towns from sores into beauty marks, and every time they take my breath away.

Now, let’s talk about some Mexican stereotypes. Colours up the wazoo- check. Noise- relentless. Tequila-check. Mezcal- also check. Hospitality- double check. Danger- probably check, but I’m happy to say in my experience, this column has to be left blank. Every single person I’ve encountered- from the very first couple I met at the Veracruz airport down to the people who couldn’t host me for couch surfing but offered me their time and telephones anyway- have been beyond kind. Maybe the most common refrain is “Aquí es mi numero de telefono. Call me if you need anything, ok?” And they’re all completely serious. Strangers! Its such a nice way to be proven wrong. The first people to offer their endless hospitality in D.F. were Ann’s friends, Carlos and Marilou. In their small, two room apartment they offered us their very own bed, tequila, and a place to stay for a week. As well as delicious breakfasts a few times in their little restaurant called Pimienta Negra. Both their home and their restaurant are completely adorable, and true to Mexico, they lack no colour. Bright orange and blue, they welcome you in. The great thing about Mexico- one of many- is that anyone can do anything here. The smallest hole in the wall, in their case, was turned into a delicious Mexican-Quebecois fusion hide-away, and in a matter of months it had regular clients. So, if you have dreams, consider Mexico. Or, you know, even if you don’t.

The second case of hospitality came from couchsurfing. We didn’t want to overstay our welcome with Carlos and Marilou (four people in two tiny rooms can be a bit much after a few days) so we reached out to the interwebs. Many people answered back telling us we were welcome, and one in particular, Miguel, gave us in the very same message his phone number and address. No hesitation. He turned out to be a really great person, a designer and engineer. His job is buying apartments, fixing them up, and renting them. Because of this, he has an excess of space, and he gave us an empty room in one of his apartments, where three students live. On top of that, he took us to the pyramids of Teotihucan. These are ruins of the Teotihuacan people, a people very close to the Mayans and Aztecs. Everyone was joking that since I had seen Machu Picchu, these pyramids would be nothing. They couldn’t have been more wrong. They were stunning. The architecture was different from the Incans, but just as beautiful. The rocks were smaller, held together with a type of cement, and inlayed around the bigger stones were smaller, black, stones that showed beautiful geometric patterns from farther away. Only 2 km have been uncovered, but they tell us there’s much more. It was a city, after all. The Temple of the Sun and the Temple of the Moon are the main attractions, set just off of the Road of the Dead. This part of the city wasn’t used by commoners, only priests lived there. Processions would take place on the Road of the Dead, and the only activity taking place at the top of the pyramids were spiritual rituals. This part was difficult for me, because I kept trying to imagine the city, teeming with people as it used to be. I imagined the Teotihucan people washing their clothes in the aqueducts, and selling their wares on the side of the road, not so different from the Mexican people there today, selling bracelets and necklaces made of shells and onyx. Every time, I had to remind myself that no, in this part of the city I would have only seen priests with their long robes of feathers and animal skins. But their energy was there! The city wasn’t empty of the first people who lived there, there was something that had stayed. Maybe they’re guards, maybe it’s less intentional than that. In Spanish, the same word means both to wait and to hope. Maybe that’s what was there. An energy that was both watching, and waiting. They say that if you put a coin down at the very centre and top of the sun temple, it fills with energy and guards you for a year. Maybe one day we’ll find out what that energy is, but I think it’s ok if we don’t.

Mexican Culinary School

Today, we learned to make “empanadas con pollo”. We couldn’t have had a better teacher than Telvy, the giggling wife of Camilo.
Whenever I mention wanting to cook, there are two ways Camilo will respond: either by giving me a detailed description of what I want to make, and an even more detailed description of how- twice; or by urging me- “Pregunta Telvy! Se puede. She knows.”
So, taking his advice, we did. Telvy willingly agreed, and our request was immediately followed by a long and confusing conversation to determine what we would make. What didn’t get lost in translation mostly consisted of multiple back and forths along the lines of:
-“What should we make?”
-“What do you want to eat?”
-“What do you want to teach us?”
-“What do you like?”
-“What is there?”
-“What do you want to eat?”
…we decided on empanadas today, tamales tomorrow. In the weekly market in Carranza- in which the majority of the stalls vend underwear, socks, and bras, and the large minority sell vegetables and mountains of dried chilies- we bought the vegetables and “chilies secos” required for the day’s cooking lesson. We returned to her house, where the watch duck greeted us with a friendly hiss.
“Buenas!” We called into the yard, and after a preliminary chat, we wandered into the kitchen and the lesson began. To be honest, it took me a minute or two to realize we had started, because there was no real teaching. “Pay attention and you’ll get it”, was the essence of her teaching style- but in the most friendly way you can think of. She set us to work chopping tomatoes and onions, while her neighbour Christie- a younger mother with a quick and easy grin- shredded the chicken. All of a sudden:
“Tomale!” Christie offered Ann a small chunk of meat, with mischief playing all over her face. Ann took it doubtingly.
“El corazon!” They crowed, laughing as we realized what Ann was holding was the heart of the chicken. “Try it!” With some encouragement she did, a small bite and then a slightly bigger one. She offered it to me, warning “Don’t look! Just eat!” I did look, and it didn’t look like the heart at all. Just a softer, darker piece of meat. I took a bite, fearing both the flavour and the texture, but if I hadn’t known then I doubt I would have been able to tell. Because here’s the thing: it tastes like chicken.
We kept on making the emapanadas, throwing:

3 tomatoes
1/2 spanish onion
1/2 cup of oregano
1 large clove of garlic
and
shredded chicken into the pot with some oil. As it cooked together, we learned to make tortillas pequenas. Its difficult at first, hitting the little balls of corn dough just right to flatten, but not tear. When the mix is done- when theres just a pit of tomato juice left in the bottom- we added a small forkful and pinched the empanadas tightly closed. In another frying pan, a much more gratuitous amount of oil was heating up. Into the oil bath we threw the little half moons, and they sizzled deliciously. After a minute out they came, and onto the plates to be eaten with chopped lettuce, fresh pico de gallo, and a little bit of new cheese. Que delicioso!! Sizzling hot, the juice dripped out and ran down my arms, but there was no way I was going to stop eating for something as trivial as a napkin. Not when there was more empanadas to eat.
Camilo came home, and proudly I made another empanada. Much easier at this point, and they looked a lot better too.
After we were full of empanadas and boiled bananas, we sat in front of the house chatting and playing with the puppies. They showed us the piece of driftwood Telvy had found and attached glass eyes to, that looked from one direction exactly like a turtle, and from another a very slightly deformed koala.
As the sun went down, and the hot and humid night approached, it was time to go. Camilo drove us home through the village, past the colourful houses, the soccer field, and the Heart of Jesus church, back to the farm. The salsa music from the radio played loudly, and it danced away into the shadows and papaya trees on the side of the road.

No Points to anyone who can guess which empanada is mine.

Lions in the Sky: It’s Rainy Season in Veracruz

For the past two nights, early morning storms have tumbled in on top of us. Or, more accurately, charged, with flags raised and hoofs pounding. The first roll of thunder is the battle cry. The temperature drops, the wind begins to howl, and buckets upon buckets of (thankfully not boiling) water is dropped upon us from the battlements in the sky. Within seconds the battle is raging. The armies must have lions, because the only sound I hear is their roars, being ripped from their throats and falling down onto the house in great sheaths of lightening. The lightening here doesn’t come down in strikes, like it does at home. That’s far too tame. The lightening here lights up the whole sky and reveals, for a few seconds, the world as its shaken.
Our house only has part of a roof. The other part, above the stairs, is nothing more than tarps and tin, where one day there will be huge windows to let in the afternoon sun. A nice idea, but problematic at times. The night of the first storm, I got up and couldn’t go back to bed. Not with that kind of thunder! So I walked out into the centre of the house, and was surprised to find myself standing in the middle of a lake. The lake was being plentifully fed by blowing rain and forbidden waterfalls running down the walls and stairs. The tarps had decided that there was no point in fighting the storm, and had joined it instead.
Watching the storm from the top of the stairs was electrifying. It took all the self-restraint I had to force myself not to go on the roof. “Lightening. Death. Lightening! Death!” I had to keep repeating inside my head. But I could only imagine the feeling of the wind and rain whipping around my body, trying to pull me along into their world like they were to the trees outside. The lightening, so persistent that there were more moments of light than dark, also wanted to play. But a storm is a dangerous playmate- this I had to remember. So instead, I watched from the window until I remembered I was wearing only shorts and a t-shirt. I crawled back into bed with cold feet, a wet head, and a happy heart, and I curled up to wait for the song of the storm to pull me back to sleep.

Now, I have an admission to make. I did something silly. Maybe it was the storm that charmed me or maybe it was something else entirely, but I decided that I had skin of steel, impervious to the sun. “Nah, there was a storm. It won’t be too hot… I don’t need sunscreen,” I thought, standing beneath the burning sun, it beating down on me stronger than ever as I leaned down to hoe the ground. Somehow, I still managed to convince myself that “I’ll just sweat it off anyway. I’ll be fine!” The end of this story hardly needs to be told. A angry red back that I don’t dare to sleep on, and an embarrassment at my own folly thats almost as fiery. I’ll tell myself it could have been a lot worse. It could have been charbroiled, and ready to serve. And also, hey- its tradition to get one sunburn at the beginning of a trip… right? But in reality- well, its a good reminder that I’m not, in fact, impervious to anything.

Another outcome of the tempest over our house was that the seeds from the Neem trees were shaken loose. The ranch sells Neem products internationally- pills, dried leaves for tea, soap, shampoo, oil, even seeds. It has numerous healing benefits- from helping head and stomach aches to regulating blood pressure. So, with the seeds covering the ground, we set to work picking them up. I have to admit that I like planting seeds infinitely more than I like collecting them. Planting seeds is like tucking in thousands of potential wishes. They can be wishes that are huge- like the hope for a world where food shortages barely exist, urban gardens are more common than basketball hoops, and imports and exports of food hardly even remain necessary because people have remembered the joy of waiting on the tips of their toes for the first taste of raspberries in the summer. They can also be little wishes- a wish to your seeds goodnight, assuring them you’ll see them in the morning when they wake up, fresh and delicate and green.
Collecting seeds, on the other hand, conjures for me no thoughts of a better world. Crawling down the rows of trees, my hands got more and more coated in the sticky, sour juice. The juice made sure to remind me where each and every one of my little cuts and scrapes was. Every time I walked to the bucket and let fall my grudgingly won handful, I looked back to see an endless amount still there, waiting innocently. Working in the shade we could look up and see the thousands more seeds hanging above us, waiting to join their brothers and sisters that had hidden themselves among the decomposing leaves. The fallen seeds, however, weren’t the only things that had hidden themselves there. The leaves make a perfect home for the ‘picas’- mosquitoes, midges, and any other biting bug. As I moved through, they come out in swarms to feast upon the meal that I had unwittingly presented them.
“Come on!” They must have called to each other, as they made a beeline for my ankles and knees, “Fresh meat, and its on our doorstep!”
On top of your house, in fact. And so, go ahead. Dig in girls, because I’ve heard revenge is sweet. And I can tell you agree.
Of course, there would be no wishes without something to wish for. And crawling down the rows of Neem trees definitely made me want to wish. Just, you know, not for exactly the same things as when I’m happily watering my newly planted seeds

P.S. Below we have complementary photos of me, completely unimpressed, and of Camilo. Camilo is the wonderful teacher who tells us what do to, how to do it, and, unless asked, rarely why.

Stingers In The Shower, Stingers In The Bed

Not THOSE kind of stingers, jeez. Y’all had better get your dirty minds out of the filthy gutters. I’m talking about those characterized within the class Arachnida– tarantulas and scorpions, specifically. Just today, I was taking a much appreciated shower, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a little fuzzy black ball run along the floor.

“Oh, no” I thought, when it scuttled under the chair.

The shower on the farm isn’t separated from the rest of the bathroom at all, its all one. So luckily my glasses were just a reach away. I say luckily, because if I had been blind to what was running around my feet much longer I may have freaked out and pulled the classic “Flipping Shit and Running Out Of The Shower Naked” stunt. As it was, I grabbed my glasses and saw that as tarantulas go, it wasn’t actually that big. Nah, just a friendly fuzz ball. We had been looking for tarantulas earlier as we were digging up the garden (they like hiding under the rocks) so I wrapped myself in a towel and called everyone in anyway. Nobody was very impressed at my find.

“Chicitito!” They crowed. Whatever, I say. A tarantula is a tarantula is a tarantula.

On crutches, Rogelio bent down and plucked it up by the back.

“No puede hacer nada, como esto.” He explained. “He freezes.”

He offered him to me, but wrapped only in my Adventure Towel ™, I felt a little vulnerable. One day.

“We’ll find you a bigger one.” Ann assured me.

What I definitely don’t need bigger of is the scorpion the we caught perusing our room yesterday night. Just wandering around like it owned the place. Luckily it was also a little one. After admiring it for a few minutes (it threatened us with its tail), we trapped it in a glass and threw it outside. As if it was a little tiny spider! I felt like a boss. Being a scorpio myself, a little part of me felt like he had just came over to say hi.

The moral of these stories is to watch where you step. And that having your shower be your bathroom is awesome. But here’s a secret I’ll let you in on- the tarantulas and scorpions aren’t actually as dangerous as we make them out to be. At least, not the ones here. Pain, and nothing more. “Like a bee sting,” Rogelio said of being stung by a scorpion. Maybe in Canada its the excitement caused by anything even slightly poisonous that causes every 5 year old around to tout the dangers of “The Tarantula- one of the most dangerous spiders in the world. One bite kills you in under a minute!” And then to be inevitably corrected by the older sibling. “Uhh noo. Actually its the Black Widow spiders.” …That wasn’t just me, right?

Anyway, as crazy as it is to see these creatures I’ve heard so much about, its not dangerous. Not lethal, at least. Entonces, Vive Mexico! Cause you’re in less danger than previously thought!