riches to ruins (quite literally)

[one of the more tame beaches]

Puerto Escondido was packed to the gills with tourists. Unfortunately, they weren't even the good kind. Neither good mannered nor good intentioned, the types that swarmed our hostel were the shirtless, surfboard-toting, one-bottle-of-tequila-per-night crowd. As one might guess from my last entry, it seemed as if the locals and tourists coexisted in perfect harmony when they both ignored the presence of the other. The tourists had staked out their beach -- by far the largest in the area, complete with a world-class break for surfers -- and the locals theirs. As you also might guess, the locals' beach was on an entirely different par. Where the Zicatela spanned on for 4 kilometers, enough for one to find some honest elbow room in between the other groups of vacationing white folks, the places where locals swam were swamped. Locals and vacationing Mexicans found no solitude at their beaches, which were shared not only with crowds of other people, but also the many fishing boats that brought in the day's catch (and the occasional blistered group of young foreigners who payed to go reel in a few minutes of fame). We enjoyed ourselves -- the beach and the waves, surely -- but we couldn't help but be bothered by the reality of the situation. In the hostel, we were stuck with them.

[the best part of our PE hostal: empty, sedated, with a view]

Oaxaca city is beautiful, passionate, and alive. It is, quite definitely, the opposite of Puerto Escondido. At least as far as fellow travelers. At Hostal Pochón we found solitude in others with a passion for improving something other than their tan. Immediately surround by a (much smaller) crowd of cool cats, we were welcomed with open arms into a city of progress, revolt, and solidarity.

Our stay coincided with the visit of the rather unwelcomed President Calderón, as well as the public backlash that resulted from his arrival. If we wouldn't have waltzed through the center of town, or have been surrounded by fellow concerned and active young folks, we wouldn't have even known that a riot took place. Alas, word travels fast, and it's difficult to imagine anything less than a riot ensuing from numerous bus loads of National Police (in riot gear) being deployed upon crowds of local teachers and protesters. The city center was completely quarantined off with metal barricades, which rippled outward throughout all the neighboring streets in order to protect his holiness the President from harm. One couldn't enter the Zócalo without passing countless heavily armed Police, as well as airport-grade metal detectors.

[Locals watching the protesters from safer ground]

It was another world, but we didn't see any violence. The riots didn't start until later on. Walking back from a nearby market, a bag full of fresh produce, we couldn't help but notice a large, black plume of smoke rising from the center of town. Why we decided not to investigate, I can't remember, though it may have had something to do with our rumbling bellies, which seemed much more pertinent at the time. We later learned that a riot had, in fact, ensued upon the collective arrival of the President, his fully armed conglomerates, and the thousands of protesters who were armed with enough low wages to fuel their anger. Protesters threw rocks; police threw tear gas. Luckily, few were injured. Unfortunately, some were actually injured -- a number of people having been shot. This story only notes one reporter being shot, but I heard otherwise from people the day of: check it. A couple friends of ours in the hostal (who went to Skidmore and have a mutual friend from Ithaca - hey!) wandered out that night and stumbled upon quite a find on their way back. Apparently the smoke we saw earlier rose from the burning remains of an 18-wheeler which was hauling a bunch of Police gear, including the hundreds of metal barricades used to section off the downtown. Their photos were incredible (wish I had one), depicting what was left of the truck after being set on fire or bombed, though I rather expect the latter considering the lack of truck left.

[the pretty stuff]

Oaxaca wasn't all protests and explosions, though. It really was an amazing city to stay in, if only for a week, for all of the art, music, and happenings of the many young people that seem to run the town. We had the joy of meeting up with my friend Moravia, who I had met on a trip to Ghana a few years ago. She had us over to her apartment and we made sushi with her room mates. They all work at Witness for Peace in Oaxaca and gave us an inside perspective on the local activism, social organizations, and night life. The sushi was great, the company was better, and we can't thank them enough for entertaining us, filling our bellies with fresh non-Mexican food, and filling our notebooks with contacts and organizations throughout the Southern continent.



Before leaving Oaxaca we made a necessary trek to Hierve el Agua, an environmental monument within a couple hours of the city. Thousands of feet above sea level, the rocks emerge from the mountain with a delicate force to project a site that was once lively; now still and silent. With miles of foreign mountains and villages in view, the fossilized waterfalls of Hierve el Agua seem dwarfed in comparison. But their grandeur is not lost. We enjoyed the spectacular view for a few hours, soaked ourselves in the bubbling water from which the site gets its name, as cold as it is, and sat perched thousands of feet above the rest of the world.

[mountains, hidden highways, frozen waterfalls]

[Gabby+mountains+frigid boiling water=smiles]

Oh yeah, then at Tuxtla Guitierrez we took a little boat ride through Cañon del Sumidero. With walls over a thousand feet tall, marginal rainforest filled with howler monkeys , crocodiles, and buzzards alike, who can help but be impressed?

[during the time of Spanish conquest,
Mayans would hurl themselves
off this highest precipice,
over 1000 feet high.]


[she's smiling because we escaped the crocodiles unscathed]

Onward to San Cristobal de las Casas, we rode. Beautiful Chipas, wonderful city, too many tourists. If we didn't know any better, we could have thought we were in Ithaca or New Paltz, judging by the countless organic shops, cafes plastered with images of Che, and dirty dreadlocked hippies. We happened to bunk up with a few of these types in a little hidden hostel for a few days. The simplicity of accomodation was overpowered by the collective aesthetic within the walls -- we ate, read, explored, and relaxed together. We also had our first pasta in a month. It made our night. Within the first 20 seconds of arriving we both recognized a familiar face -- Giordanno, a friend of Gabi's sister whom she befriended in the desert of Nevada during the Burn of 2009. An artisan from Italy, not only does he make cool shiny stuff for the wrists and ears of many, but also some tasty fare. We hit the street looking for groceries and found a hefty block of locally-made Roquefort. Not bad for the highlands of Mexico, eh? Giordanno made the most incredible mac n' cheese we could have asked for so far from home.

[San Cris from a Christly hill]

[Chiapas-style gym: body weight, open air, free, atop a mountain]


[Gabby during/after a cheap feast]
What we had:
beef broth soup,
bottomless bowl of homemade chips,
plate of peanuts,
2 beers each,
fish filet with veggies (wren),
garlic shrimp (gabi),
sides of creepy tiny red shrimp,
chicken salad,
bbq pork and cheese on sizzling coals.
What we paid: $4 each. Crazy? Yes.

We explored the city and the surrounding area on foot and by bus, both alone and with company. We quickly made friends with most of the folks who stayed in our hostel, though got to be good buddies with Nico, a Swiss, and Marc, from Catalonia (NOT Spain, as he will gladly assert quite frequently). Together we set off for the ancient ruins of Palenque. After riding a jittery bus all night, we expected little but exhaustion upon arrival, though our curiousity soon took presedence when we saw the jungle that loomed ahead of us. We set up in a cabana at the jungle's edge and hiked up toward the ruins. Like all ruins these days, they were crawling with other interested tourists, but failed to lose their awe-inspiring charm nonetheless.

[cabana+Nico]

[road to ruins]

We spent nearly the entire day there, sitting sometimes for a while atop a ruin to admire the view and breathe in the history emanating from the ancient soil. What a place. Well after noon we got a guide to give us a tour of the jungle. Monkeys, serpents, birds, and enormous trees lay ahead, but nothing compared to the piles and piles of ruins that had yet to be reconstructed. See, an ancient ruin site is nothing without the investment of countless time and money. Most of the ruins in the main part of the site, which only account for 2% of the ruins in total, have been reconstructed by the cautious hands of professionals. The rest still lie in ruins, so to speak, but are marvelously beautiful anyway.

[big tree and friends]

The next day our crew set off for Agua Azul, which is quite exactly what it sounds like. We spent the day at the waterfalls, enjoying their refreshingly blue water and basking in the sun like beached seals with our buddies. We had such a blast with them in Palenque and the waterfalls; it was a sad fairwell, and far too soon, when they headed back for San Cristobal and us onward to Merida. Both so positive, lively, and adventurous, they unknowingly pushed us gently to do the same. And it worked -- we loved every minute of their company and what we had the opportunity to experience at their side. Hoping to catch them again sometime in the future. Buen viaje, compañeros.

[Catalonians love waterfalls]