Postcards from Mexico: Travel

Saying Goodbye

Sun, 08 Apr 2007 23:40:03 GMT

On Tuesday morning, David, our new friends from the Czech Republic and I, realized that we had to say goodbye to Miramar and continue on with the rest of our adventures. The thought of getting back on the horse truck didn´t particulary appeal to any of us, so we inquired about another method of transportation. In David´s words- if I hear ¨BAG¨ once more...! One option was a plane, which would have been $200 to split between us, or a boat, $70 to split. We settled on the boat, which was nice, except after having sat on trucks, horses, and canoes for three days, I had really bruised my backside and wished I could take this leg standing up.

An hour and a quarter later, the boat guide dropped us on the lush banks of a hill. We climbed up, and found to our surprise that we were not in civilization as we had planned, but on yet another dirt road with shacks and livestock. Furthermore, it started to rain hard. A man came and met us on the road, leading us to his house so that we could take refuge. It was actually lovely, sitting amongst the turkeys and a baby pig that liked to have its tummy scratched.

Two hours later, a combi (a public transit van) came by our section of the road, and we climbed in, travelling for another three hours to get to the city of Comitán, which hadn´t even been on my itinerary.

We hit a military check point, and were asked to get out of the van. The group and I were surrounded by soldiers with machine guns as they searched our bags for weapons and drugs. Satisfied that we weren´t criminals, we were allowed to return to the van and continue the adventure.

Laguna Miramar, The Lake

Sun, 08 Apr 2007 23:17:13 GMT

The President got right down to business and took us to where we could stay. It seemed he liked us and our reasons for arriving on his doorstep. As we slowly walked along dirt paths, every person that we passed looked at us and politely greeted us with ¨Buenas Tardes¨. Actually, that´s understating it. Old men stopped their horses, women poked their heads out their doors, and children came right up to us to unabashedly gawk at us. I tried to be subtle about looking at people and their customs, but they didn´t take their eyes off of me.

We stopped at a series of bright yellow cabañas. The dwellings were immaculately clean inside, with a single electric bulb attached to the roof, a small porch, and a bathroom across the path. We could stay there for $10 a night, or sleep in hammocks underneath a palapa (open structure with a roof). We chose the cabañas for that night, hammocks for the next night, arranged a guide, a canoe, and then paid up.

I said goodnight to the scorpion in the bathroom, buenas noches to all of the moths in my room (they were attracted to that blissful light bulb) and fell into a deep sleep at 8pm...

My body behaved in the most annoying way, daring to wake up at 6 o´clock in the morning. Our guide wasn´t scheduled to come until 8. I got up anyway, bathed in the river (there was no running water) and found that David had also woken up early. This was convenient, because our guide set his own timeline and was waiting for us at 6:45.

We had asked the locals what it was like to take the 7km hike to the lake, and they said it would be great. David asked if it was difficult, and I elaborated, asking if the walk was flat or hilly. Oh no, they said, it´s fast and pretty flat.

The moral of that story is that you should not ask people who have lived in a jungle all of their lives, if a hike will be easy or difficult. We didn´t have to cut a path with a machete, which would make it easy, but on a scale of 1-10, I would rate the trail at a 7, and I jog a fair amount.

The most surprising part of that hike was running into men from another village who were returning from the lake. They had a band of cloth cutting across their foreheads, which was attached to something black and boxy on their backs. They were dragging these boxes up an extremely steep hill. Where they coffins? No, they were speakers and subwoofers from their party the night before.

When we arrived to the lake, I was in awe, and from the pictures I posted you can see why. The canoe was waiting for us, and our guide slowly cut his paddle through the crystal clear water. The guide tried to teach me some words in the Chol dialect, but even the simplest words were too complicated for me.

We went to visit a cave full of bats in the ceiling and giant tortoises under the water. We came to ancient Mayan petraglyphs of a hand and jaguar, saw a Mayan rock carving, and hiked to a bay full of crocodiles.

I asked our guide why the crocodiles came to this section and not the main lake.

¨Oh¨, he replied, ¨there are crocodiles in the main lake too.¨

¨And you let me swim in there?¨ I squeaked.

¨Nah, it was ok, they like it there more in the night¨.

One of the things I wanted to do the most, which was visit the island with the ruins, was not possible, because the neighbouring village was in charge of that area and had closed it to tourists.

I was prepared to see a lot of wildlife, but it turns out that the savage animals were going to bed at 8am. I could hear the howler monkeys (like lions) and saw a lot of fish, birds, and crocs. The only mammal that I saw was a poor little spider monkey, dead on the jungle floor.

The day was deliriously beautiful, and it had been worth traveling almost 8 hours to get to see the area. Some of the village leaders told David and I that when they were making council decisions, they had to think hard about what kind of legacy they wanted to leave for their children, and then decided to get advice on a 100% protection and anti-pollution policy, along with a real eco-tourism project. It seems that the most poor, simple people on our planet can have the wisest visions on how we need to take care of our earth.

Laguna Miramar, The Journey

Thu, 05 Apr 2007 16:09:57 GMT

On Saturday night, I was relaxing at my hotel in the pretty little city of Ocosingo. As I was walking past the foyer, I heard a voice speaking Spanish with an American accent, talking about going into the jungle. Curious, I wandered over and joined the conversation. The voice belonged to David, a 45 year old elementary teacher in Mexico City, and he was going to the very remote Laguna/Lagoon of Miramar. I had done a lot of research about this trip about two years ago, but didn`t think it would be possible to do by myself. The idea now bounced wildly around my brain, and I felt that even though I had no idea what I was doing, and would be cancelling my previous plans, that I would just get my things together and do it. We planned to leave at 8am the next morning.

When we got to the transportation area the following day, we were direcoted to a truck, which is a loose interpretation, because what we found was a cross between a modified horse carriage and a giant grocery crate with wheels. The groceries received first priority, and then women and children, for seats. I sat down on a wooden plank, while the men stood or perched themselves on a metal frame. I wedged my body between a crate of avocados and an indigenous woman and her 3 year old daughter. The young girl threw up as soon as we hit the rougher road, and her mother kept yelling at the dozing men, ¨bag... BAG!¨.

The pavement turned to dirt, and we weaved around the side of mountains, sometimes tipping precariously or slowing to a crawl where the road had fallen off the side of a cliff. I didn`t look.

We dipped into valleys, avoiding all of the livestock that had congregated on the sides. At first the trip seemed wild, savage and romantic. Then it almost seemed boring (after hour 5), and after the 6th hour, I was becoming a little desperate to get off the truck and into the village, any village.

As we passed the tiny hamlets, I realized that no particular stereotype could be made. Some places were so poor that the houses were made of old wooden planks and loosely thatched roofs, with no running water or electricity. Some places announced that they had one public phone. Throughout, many women wore traditional costumes, bright and immaculately clean. I saw that they wore these not for tourism, but for themselves. The final observation? Coca Cola can be found on the most remote parts of earth.

Rambling inside of the truck for 6.5 hours, we got to know a little more about our companions. Most were from Ocosingo and were going to visit family in the jungle town of San Quentin, which David and I called the Metropolis of the Jungle, due to the fact that it had a well formed road.

We arrived to San Quentin and gently lowered our weary bodies from the truck. We walked past a military base and down a long dirt road, until we got to the village of Emilio Zapata (named after the hero). We asked for the President of Tourism, and were directed to the last house on the road. He was there and warmly led us into the village, promising that we were welcome and would love the Laguna Miramar...